Slow Twitch

Before anything else happened to make me want to take a swing at Saxon, Aunt Helene bustled out of the kitchen to tell us the food was ready.

Bre

“It’s so wonderful to have you all.” She had a strange accent, sort of Polish or Russian or something.

“It’s so nice of you to have us.” Bre

Aunt Helene dismissed Bre

Aunt Helene’s spread was the best I’d ever tasted.

It was a feast. Saxon looked happy. He laughed and was really attentive to Aunt Helene. It was a little weird seeing him like that. He was usually pretty disrespectful or really phony. But not now: now he seemed genuine and relaxed.

“Jake, I have such pictures to show you after di

“I’d love to see them,” Bre

“Oh, yes.” Aunt Helene scooped all three of us extra helpings without asking if we wanted any more, and we all dug in. “When their mothers went out dancing and having fun, they would drop the boys here with me. I loved watching them. Then Jake’s poor mama--” Aunt Helene stopped and pressed a hand up by her eyes.

My mother.

Aunt Helene was crying over my mother.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” She looked straight at me, wiping her cheeks off roughly with her gold-ringed fingers. “Your mother was so sweet. I miss her very much.”

And then I felt a little weirdly choked up. “Thanks,” I managed. Aunt Helene reached her little paw of a hand across the table and patted my hand.

“Poor baby.” She pressed her other hand hard against her mouth

She was referring to me.

Poor baby.

I didn’t know if anyone had ever said anything like that to me.

Once my mom died, life had been pretty adult. No more poor baby. It felt kind of good to be treated a little like a kid here.

We helped Aunt Helene clean up. Bre

Bre

“What’s so fu

“It’s just fu

Saxon shrugged. “She’s like a damn genius. She knows a good thing when she sees it, you know?”

Bre

It was his face that made me want to punch something, preferably him.

He looked…in love.

He looked at Bren like he wanted to get himself wrapped around her and never let go.

“We done?” My voice whipped out sharper than I meant it to.

I realized my tone was probably borderline murderous. The kitchen got quiet, Saxon stepped away from Bren, and she pressed closer to me.

“Done,” she said softly.

I put the dishtowel on the edge of the sink. “Cool,” I said. Though it was all about as far from cool as I could imagine.

We filed into the living room, and Aunt Helene patted the couch so we could come and sit. She opened a big photo album.

And then it felt like the whole room closed in and got really quiet.

I didn’t have many things from my childhood.

But here were tons of pictures.

Me, as a baby, wrinkled and pink like any baby. A younger Aunt Helene held me as proudly as if I were her own. Me and Saxon as fat little toddlers, playing with Matchboxes on the floor of Aunt Helene’s living room. There were pictures of me and Saxon splashing in a baby pool, taking a bath together, ru

It was like someone was showing me evidence of a childhood I had no idea ever existed. I had no memories of this stuff, or if I did, they were dim and really far away.

And there was my mother. Pretty, with long brown hair and light eyes, lots of makeup and small, tight outfits. But really beautiful.

And the red high heels. The long hair draped partially over me. I traced a finger over the picture. I hadn’t imagined it. That was a real memory, a solid picture in my mind of the mother who loved me.

She was holding me in most of the pictures, and the look on her face was the same look I saw on Bre

It was love. She loved me.

Because I always wanted to know she had, but sometimes I doubted it, much as that hurt. I just didn’t get her for long enough to make memories that were undisputable. And growing up, Lylee was the closest mother figure I came in regular contact with, and she didn’t exactly help paint a mental picture of maternal goodness.

I was glad there was no reason to talk, because my throat felt tight, and I didn’t know what to say anyway. Aunt Helene watched me closely.

“I have so many.” She traced her fingers over the stiff, shiny pictures. “I’m going to make you an album. You would like that?”

I took out a stiff, brittle picture of my mother and held it in my big, clumsy hand, half afraid I’d break it somehow. “I would really like that.” My voice was embarrassingly croaky.

Bre

Aunt Helene put the books away, and she and Bre

I felt a deep, cold well of hatred for him, and just as much hot, fierce love.

“What the fuck, man?” I said harshly.

“What are you talking about?” He narrowed his eyes at me.

“You feel pretty fucking free to talk shit about my mom, and you better cut it the fuck out. She made a lot of mistakes, but she’s my fucking mom. Talk about yours all you want. If you ever talk about mine again, I’ll knock the rest of your teeth out.” My fists were already balled up.