Page 8

Quinn drove on auto-pilot it seemed to the house of his childhood, trying to think of his time just now at the bar rather than the task that lay directly ahead.

He came to a smooth stop, parking on the street outside the house, but he hadn't allowed himself to look up just yet.

He stared at his hand still on the steering wheel which was now beginning to shake with nerves, thinking maybe he should've had a second drink.

Taking a deep breath in, holding it for a few seconds, and then slowly letting it out he steadied his nerves.

He removed his sunglasses, placing them on top of his head and willed himself to look up at the house.

The bungalow sat back in a small yard, still looking old, but not run down and haunted like it did the last time he had seen it.

The battered chain link fence had been replaced by a short white picket one and there was a garden with actual flowers in bloom on either side of the stairs leading up to the front porch.

The house had been repainted, and was no longer a dirty yellow, but a calming blue.

Quinn stared at the house for several moments wondering if this really was the right place.

He knew it had to be; the neighboring homes didn't look that different.

The structure and design were the same, the size of the yard, the sidewalk out front, the front window where his mom used to sit were all the same but had simply been upgraded.

He looked through the front window expecting to see his mom still there, staring out into the street.

He didn't get a chance to see if she was there because a middle-aged woman with curly brown hair and glasses opened the front door to wave.

Quinn noted the light purple scrubs and knew this must be Sandra Burke, his mom's nurse.

Quinn never really knew what kind of work Sandra had been doing with his mom; she was still an addict when he left the house all those years ago.

As much as he had wanted to just leave everything behind, he knew she needed someone to look out for her, or at the very least, to check in and make sure she didn't kill herself, whether through overdose or forgetting to eat.

Quinn realized he was just staring back at the woman, these thoughts and a million other questions running through his head.

He lifted up his one good hand in a feeble wave, then got out of the Bronco and made his way toward Sandra, taking in all the small changes on his way up to the house.

He noticed solar lights lining the walkway, a small stone frog statue in the garden, and- he had to do a double take- another small statue of a little boy sitting on a bench with a blue baseball hat, a bat swung over his shoulder, a glove and ball on the seat next to him.

"Hi, Mr. Casey," Sandra's voice was just as soothing and friendly in person. “Molly is really excited to see you."

Quinn shook Sandra's hand but didn't know how to respond to this so he simply nodded.

Sandra and her mention of Quinn's mother's name seemed to be the only indication that the same woman still lived here.

He was looking around at every little piece of the house, trying to find things that were the same and things that were new.

The front window looked like it had been washed, so that was new.

The screen on the storm door had been fixed, or maybe it was a new door all together.

He could feel Sandra watching him and decided it was best to just go in and get the hard part over with.

He looked back at Sandra and let out a sigh, then gestured for her to lead the way inside.

If the outside appearance of this house was disorienting, the inside was flat out unrecognizable.

The carpet had been removed and hard flooring had been put in.

It was the kind that gave the appearance of wood floors without the expense, but the light gray wood texture was clean and refreshing.

There was a blue farmhouse patterned area rug in the living room with a coffee table.

There was no ratty green chair, and all the furniture looked clean, or at least like she hadn't dragged it inside after it sat out in someone's yard with a 'Free' sign on it, like all the furniture that had previously occupied this space.

There was a television mounted to the wall above the small fireplace.

Quinn turned around to look at all the other new changes that had been made but stopped when he saw his mom standing in the kitchen.

She was looking at him with tears welling in her eyes, but when they made eye contact the tears overflowed, spilling out onto her cheeks.

She was wringing her hands nervously as she stared at him through the tears.

She looked younger than he had expected, but then again she really wasn't old at all.

He remembered suddenly that she was only just into her fifties, which seemed way too young to be setting up end-of-life care with doctors and nurses.

His mother had always been thin as a side effect of all the drug use.

Her hair was once the same color as Quinn's but was now a mousy brown.

She was wearing a floral patterned t-shirt and blue jeans.

His eyes took in every detail of his mom's appearance, and he had the sudden pang of sorrow in his chest that this wasn't fair, that she was too young to be dying.

Then his eyes traced from her nervously wringing hands and up to the track marks covering her arms. Painful memories resurfaced: Locking himself in his bedroom and climbing out the window just in time because one of her boyfriends suddenly felt violent and would rather take it out on him.

Keeping latex gloves in the bathroom cupboard so he could safely clean the needles out of the sink before he brushed his teeth.

His mother selling the baseball jersey Mr. DeRose had bought him for his birthday to get money for a fix.

Quinn looked up from the track marks, the reminders of the childhood that was stolen from him, and back up to her face.

He knew the look he gave her was not friendly, it was not a look most mothers would receive from their son after a long absence, but he remembered too well all the pain he had been through.

He remembered, and that's why he wouldn't return her smile.

The pity and sorrow were gone as the realization hit him hard; she had done this to herself .

"Quinn…" his mother's voice was an airy squeak, as though she hadn't spoken in quite some time.

He stared back at her waiting for her to say something else, explain everything she had put him through because there must be some reason for it.

She took a few steps toward him and he felt himself tense when she was just out of reach.

She started to put her arms out for an embrace, but he really needed her to stay back.

Finally he broke his eyes away from hers and found his voice, though it came out hoarse and shaky, "The place looks nice, Mom." He suddenly wanted to focus on something tangible, rather than messy things like feelings and bad memories.

His mom let out a small sob and attempted to smile, and he was sure she could sense by his tone and posture that he wanted her to keep her distance.

She looked around the room where the living room, the small kitchen, and the hallway leading back to the two tiny bedrooms were all visible in one sweep. "It took some time."

He didn't know if she was referring to the house or herself but sticking with his plan to focus on the tangible he said, "I'll bet," but before he could help himself, "It can't be easy to paint and put down new floors when you're so juiced you can't see half a foot in front of your own face."

To his surprise, his mother simply nodded and looked down at her feet, then looked back up at him and said, "I deserved that."

Quinn let out a low, humorless laugh, "I don't think you want to talk to me about what we do and don't deserve , Mom." His mom winced as if the words were a physical stab.

He had almost forgotten the nurse was still in the room watching the exchange until she stepped up next to his mother and put an encouraging hand on her back, which seemed to pull the woman back together.

Molly looked back up into her son's face again and said in a shaky voice, scratchy from long term cigarette use, "I know this is going to be hard.

I know it wasn't easy for you to come back here.

" At this, Quinn let out a derisive snort, but let her continue, "I'm sure you've got a lot of anger and hurt that you're holding in and I think the faster you just let me have it, the faster we can maybe begin to. ..heal this."

He couldn't help the humorless laugh that escaped him once again.

"Is this a fucking joke? We're supposed to heal twenty-nine years- oh wait, let's make it twenty-six since I can't remember the first three damn years of neglect, and thank fucking God for that!

" The anger that had been sitting stagnant somewhere inside for so many years was boiling right at the surface now.

His mom stood there quietly for a moment, then walked into the living room and took a seat on the cream-colored sofa.

She waved her hand in front of herself as if to say "please continue.

" Something about this calm, accepting response to his hurtful words made his anger feel hotter in his chest until it was just an eruption and he couldn't hold back.

"Okay, Mom , let's do this then. Let's talk about all the ways you've failed me. Let's bring up every little detail of the past so I can remind myself how you were NEVER THERE FOR ME and then sure, maybe I'll want to be friends. That makes a lot of fucking sense."