After mom leaves, I turn to Oscar. “When it comes to my mom, she’s on the need-to-know list. Less is more.”
He narrows his eyes at me, then turns his back and walks inside.
The next morning I wake up early, feeling the ebb and flow of panic. I lay in bed for a moment catching my breath as I think of Henri. She’s with Eight. She’s with a Hell’s Jury gang member. And it was my fucking idea. What kind of a mother am I?
And then to assuage my guilt a little, I ask myself what kind of a mother is my mother? She barely batted an eyelash when I explained the Henri/Oscar trade. It’s clear she doesn’t understand the difference between right and wrong. Why didn’t she insist I return Oscar immediately and get Henri back?
I groan as I bury my head in my pillow. I have to give Oscar back to Eight today. Exchange him for Henri.
Do it now, Selkie! I say sternly to myself as I start to get up.
Why the rush, Selkie?
I lay back down. If something happened to Henri yesterday, Eight would have called. And neither Eight nor Henri will be up at this time of the morning. Why shouldn’t I get a couple of hours more sleep so I’m clearheaded when I talk to Eight? That way, I won’t hurt his feelings when I explain why she has to come home.
Hahaha, Selkie. You’re so funny. Like Eight’s going to object to getting rid of Henri.
Yeah, well. Then I drift off.
The next time I open my eyes, mom is looming over me. “I’ve been thinking,” she says.
I stretch as I squint at her. “Good morning to you too.”
She ignores my sarcasm. “I think you should get Henri back.”
“I’ve already decided to.” I cup my hand over my mouth to see how bad my breath is.
Mom carries on as if I hadn’t spoken. “It’s not good having her exposed to Hell’s Jury. They’re a terrible influence. Who knows what could happen?”
I sit up. “I already decided to,” I repeat. “And where was the concerned grandma yesterday when I brought Oscar home?”
She ignores me again. “I thought you had better judgement! You take Oscar home and get Henri.”
I stretch my back. “I was already gonna do that.”
“And now! I don’t know where you got your mothering skills from, but not from me.”
“I’m going,” I reply to the woman I got my mothering skills from.
“Good,” she says emphatically, then looks around. “And clean your room when you get back.”
Oscar’s sitting on the couch watching TV when I stagger down the stairs desperately needing a caffeine hit. His blankets are neatly folded with his pillow sitting on top of them.
“I’m hungry,” he says as I hit the landing. “It’s practically 10 o’clock.”
“Good morning to you too,” I reply.
“Good morning,” he mumbles as his face flushes.
I plop down next to him on the couch and he edges away. I so want to reach out and ruffle his hair, then give him a noogie, but I remind myself that he isn’t Henri. She’d get annoyed, wrestle with me, then we’d settle down and watch TV together for an hour.
I sigh as I think of her. She’s never really hungry on a weekend morning. It’s one of the things I like about her.
“Don’t be offended,” I say. “But l’ve decided that I have to get Henri back and give you back to your dad. It’s nothing you did, it’s just that…” I trail off because I think anything else will sound insulting.
“Good,” Oscar replies. “I was thinking that myself.” He punches the couch. “It’s too lumpy to sleep on and there’s nothing to do here.”
“Don’t worry,” I say sarcastically. “I’m not offended.”
