I shrug, like it makes absolutely no difference to me, then resume sipping my margarita.
21
“Mom?” I call out, shutting the door behind me.
Her muffled reply comes a minute later. “In here!”
I follow her voice down the hallway and into the bedroom that used to belong to my parents’. I avoid entering it. Last time I did, it looked the same as always.
Now? It’s unrecognizable. All of the furniture—queen-size bed, dresser, and a rocking chair that Mom’s dad carved himself—has been pushed to the center of the room and covered with clear plastic. Mom is crouching in one corner, a roll of blue tape on either wrist, measuring the baseboard.
“Uh, what’s going on?” I ask.
“Write down sixty-four inches,” she instructs.
“Write? Where?”
“There’s a notepad over there.” She nods to the other corner.
I walk over, picking up the pad of paper and pencil, and write downthe measurement. I drop both and glance around again. “You’re … renovating?”
“Only painting for now. We can paint yours too, if you want. No dorm room to decorate.”
“No one paints their dorm room, Mom.”
“I know that because I went to college. How do you know that?”
I sigh. “Can we not do this tonight? Please? I had a long day.”
“It’s not too late for second semester, Sawyer. Or for next year.”
I hold her gaze, saying nothing, and she exhales.
“Fine. You know how I feel about it.”
“Do you have the paint already?”
She nods. “It’s in the closet. I needed it out of the way while I moved the furniture around.”
I walk over to the closet and open the door, bending down to look at the cans. Spin one to see the sample smeared on the side. “Pink?”
“It’s my favorite color.”
“It is?” I straighten, surprised, as I glance over one shoulder.
Mom’s nod is decisive.
Pink is not a color I associate with my mom. She’s more of a deep green or a vibrant blue. A bold shade that camouflages bruises and shadows grief. Not quite black. Not too dark, but close.
I glance at the nearest wall. I always thought the paint in here was white, but it isn’t really. More of a very light gray, like some of my athletic socks that I’ve accidentally washed with darker clothing a few times.
“Pink it is,” I say. “Dad would hate it.”
“He would.” Mom’s tone is vehement. A little gleeful too.
My father had very traditional views when it came to gender roles. He hated Mom’s job—resented how people thanked her for her service, same as they thanked him—and I think the only reason he never insistedon her changing careers was her deployments. When she was gone, there was no interference with me practicing pitching for hours. With him spoiling Skylar, ensuring he was her favorite parent.
It was also one of the reasons Mom never left him, I think. Dad would have fought for sole custody, and there’s a decent chance he would have gotten it.
