SAM.
Sam didn’t know why he called. Only that he wanted to talk to her, like, actually talk to her, and more importantly, he wanted to hear her.
He hadn’t planned on bringing up his mom. He certainly hadn’t intended to divulge the story of the Worst Night and Morning of His Life. That night was about as country song as things got. In the fateful collection of hours, he’d lost his girl, his home, and his family. But Penny asked and he wanted to answer.
“What about Brandi Rose? Any cute-sads to share?”
Sam loved hearing Penny’s voice and the deep scratchy way she laughed. But, man, he should’ve peed before he called. Instead he settled onto his side and drew the comforter up. He felt as if he were at a sleepover.
“Well, Brandi Rose had this thing where she loved nothing more than watching the Home Shopping Network.”
It was true. It didn’t matter if it was a collapsible cross-country ski machine, an oil-free deep fryer, or a unisex sweater that also turned into a staircase for your dog. If it was peddled on the TV, Sam’s mom wanted it. The habit worsened after Mr. Lange divorced her, but everyone has hobbies and window-shopping through the one-eyed babysitter was hers. The trouble was that his mom was addicted to ordering it. The lot of it. Late at night.
That night—the Worst Night and Morning of Sam’s Life—Sam and Lorraine were torched on gin martinis. He’d suspected she was cheating on him, only he didn’t have proof past a gut feeling. He figured, stupidly, that a night on the town would be romantic, but then he ran out of cash. Sam headed home to pick up a few things, prize among them a small, stemmy stash of weed he’d left in his sock drawer, figuring he’d crash at Lorraine’s after, as he always did.
When Sam opened the door to his mom’s, he was taken aback by the smell, the way garbage stinks of rotting orange peels no matter what’s in it. He didn’t want to bring Lorraine in except that she needed to pee.
“Heya, Brandiiiiiii,” sang Lorraine, peeking from behind the door as she walked in. She burst out laughing when his mother glared at them from her chair in the front room. It had been weeks since Sam was home, and he was startled by the squalor. Without him to tidy, dirty dishes had stacked up. There were empty take-out boxes on every surface, and there was mail strewn on the floor that nobody had bothered to pick up.
Coming home after a night out had been a bad idea. Lorr was wearing a bra as a shirt, and Sam’s embarrassment for everyone ignited into a bright white rage. When he slid on a collection of crinkly envelopes, which made Lorraine cackle again, he snatched them up to discover they were addressed to him. Slender white envelopes stamped with angry red threats.
“She’d been opening up these credit cards in my name and running up thousands of dollars on junk,” he said.
“Jesus.”
“How white trash is that?” He cringed as he said it. He hated that term.
Penny didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
“My mom lives in a trailer,” he said. “I lived in a trailer.”
“People live in trailers.”
Sam wished he could see Penny’s face. Though if it had registered pity or . . . disgust . . . it would’ve destroyed some part of him. Lorraine dumped him the morning after.
“There wasn’t enough space to keep the boxes inside,” he continued. “She’d stacked some outside under a tarp. It was demented. I couldn’t stop yelling. I wanted to shake her or push her. I was so drunk and so mad. . . .” Tears dampened his pillow.
“Did you shake her?”
“No.”
“Did you push her?”
Sam wiped his nose on his shirt.
“No. I thought for a second I was going to hurt her though. It’s why I left. I haven’t spoken to her since. Also, it’s why I don’t drink anymore. I don’t drink anymore, at least not really,” he added, thinking about Lorraine and their last hurrah.
Sam sat up, his nose was blocked. Shit.
He’d called her to cheer her up and now he was crying. Penny was like Sodium Pentothal to the jugular. He couldn’t stop telling her his worst truths. It was horrifying.
Penny was silent.
“I’m sorry,” he said. Sam felt depleted. Ragged.
“Why?”
“I don’t know where that came from. I called to see if you were okay.” He laughed dryly. “I genuinely thought I was going to tell you something profound and reassuring about the human condition or something. What a spaz, right?”
“We’re all spazzes.”
Sam nodded glumly. Uuuuuuuugh. He wanted to die of embarrassment.
“You probably needed to tell someone for a while, and I’m glad it was me. And, whatever, maybe you were right.”
“About what?”
“This is probably how emergency contacts work. You say something to your person before you go nuts and blow a gasket.”
“God forbid anyone has a panic attack,” he said.
She laughed. “Exactly.”
“So . . .”
“So.”
“As I was saying . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Are you okay?”
She laughed again. “Yes. Thank you for asking. Are you okay?”
“Me? I’m fucking fantastic.”
“You win, you know.”
“At being fantastic?”
“No. You won the mom-off this round.”
Sam laughed.