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He is aware in some regard of the fact that Tracy Otto is dying. In that same distant way, one is aware that a bald sickly-looking child in a hospital bed is probably not going to make it. Or in the way a horse on its side too long is likely speaking with death.
But in the same regard, Troy is most certainly refusing to accept that she is dying, that his mother is dying.
People say he looks like Tracy all the time, and if she dies he will look like no one. He has her eyes, and his hair looks blonde in the bright sun of a hot California day. She is smaller than him, though he is tall. But they have the same nose, the same top lip, the same need to slowly kill themselves in the hopes of something better.
For Tracy, it is liquor and cigarettes. For Troy, it is staying with his family. Both these things will result in their deaths -- eventually.
Just not yet, or so he tells himself as he stands in the fresh produce section of their local grocery store trying to decide if she will want corn or asparagus with the chicken he already has in the cart.
Her appetite wanes on each given day. Some days the only thing she wants to stomach is vodka, other days she’ll eat everything in the fridge minus the ketchup. And some days, she will launch whatever he has cooked in his general direction with a scream that he pretends means that she is grateful he stays anyway.
She isn’t.
His mother could not have made that more clear. It is in everything that she says. In every action, every sideways look, every abrupt sudden physical onslaught.
Two weeks ago she broke his nose, a month before that three fingers in the front door. His only solace is the silent fact that once they've healed he’ll still be able to make a fist. And if he can make a fist, then he is not useless.
He decides on the asparagus, because if she pisses herself in her sleep again he will know faster. Resting his good unsplinted hand on the bar of the cart he pushes toward check out. It’s a small enough town that he's garnered a reputation here.
The women think he’s sweet for taking care of his sick mother. They do not know that she is sick because no matter how many spots he checks she somehow finds ways to smuggle her libations into the house. The white lie makes things a little easier for him, because they give him coupons.
Big Otto won’t fund Tracy’s existence, not since they separated. Troy works part-time to get enough to support them, and sometimes he crawls back to his father and asks for handouts under the guise that it’s for himself.
Usually after a long-winded drunken rant about responsibility he gets it, and if Otto loses his temper and smacks him around first he gives him more money. Sometimes when they’re really strapped Troy will rile him up on purpose in subtle ways so he gets the bigger sum. It’s worth the bruises.
His mom always laughs when she sees them.
“Got a coupon for apple juice today, buy one get one free.” The cashier says, “You want to go grab some?”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He takes off abandoning his cart as he finds the juice aisle and grabs what he needs, cradling them under his arm to deposit on the belt when he returns.
She scans everything and insists on bagging it because of his fingers. He lets her mostly because he’s fairly certain he hasn’t slept in two days, and he doesn’t want to lift his arms. Big Otto paid the larger sum two days ago, and he might have fractured a rib this time.
He pays in cash, counting his pennies, and gathers the bags up in his good hand. “You have a good day now.” She says with a smile, that Troy thinks might be genuine.
A terrible, selfish part of him wishes for a fraction of a second she was his mother, but she has dark hair and they look nothing alike.
He heads back to his truck with his eyes on the pavement.
When he returns the weather is cooling, it’s late autumn and near the start of winter. It’s already almost dark. He hustles inside to start cooking and finds her in the living room.
Jeopardy plays a hair too loud on the television. She’s watching it cross-legged in her pajamas, the same ones he helped her put on last night. But mostly he sees the bottle cradled in her lap.
Clear, blue label, almost empty.
He is bigger than her, he has been for years now. Yet, Troy is seven, maybe eight. Troy is seven and screaming in a closet. Troy is seven rubbing his raw throat. Troy is seven watching the rabbit scream like he screamed. Troy is seven and Jake is eleven when he starts shouting because of the rabbits, there were only three.
He blinks, pushes the thoughts away, and continues to the kitchen. Setting the bags lightly onto the counter, he grabs a pan from the counter and gets to work. He breaks it down into steps: remove the packaging, cut the chicken, season, butter pan, place chicken in pan, get pot, cut asparagus, season, put lid on pot, stir, flip, open juice, pour two glasses, put juice in fridge, try not to cry, plate food, set food on table, speak.
“Dinner’s ready.”
From this distance he can see the way her light hair needs to be brushed, it’s becoming matted again in the back. It’s not the same color he knows it to be either, it’s lost its sheen.
People always used to tell Big Otto that he did good regarding Tracy, like she was a mare won at an auction. And maybe that’s a little of why she drinks, he’s made sure never to compare a woman to a horse.
He thinks that if he were to compare her to a horse now it would be the old, stick-thin, scarred work horses being sold for meat.
She doesn’t turn, only continues to look toward the TV. Biting his tongue he walks toward her, resting a tentative hand on her shoulder. “Mom, dinner’s done.”
“You think I can’t fucking hear no more or something?”
He sucks in a breath too fast and she smells the blood in the water. Her head swivels to look at him, blue eyes narrowed into a glare.
“You stop and consider, I don’t want your shitty ass cooking.” She snaps and pulls the bottle from her lap.
And though he cannot seem to stop her from drinking all the time, he will not let her kill herself while he can do something about it. Troy accepts the consequences, plucks the bottle from her weak grip, and walks toward the sink.
“Don’t you fucking dare!” She shouts, and raises to a wobbly stand.
Troy doesn’t look at her as he pours it down the drain and tosses the bottle into the recycling.
“Oh, you really are such a judgemental piece of shit.” Tracy grouses, “You know this is my house, why don’t you get the hell out? No one wants you here, I do not want you. I’ve never wanted you but Jesus you stay anyway. It’s pathetic.”
He has heard all of this before, and he suspects this will not be the last time. It still gets filed into his memory though, with all the others. Turning he walks to the table, pulls out her chair for her before sitting in his own and begins to eat.
She stares at him from her uncertain spot in the living room, like a foal wiggling in spot. “There’s got to be some old hag somewhere you can project your issues on that isn’t me. Might even let you crawl up in their cunt, since you’re so eager to shove yourself back in the womb, ya’ fucking baby.”
All of this from a woman he knows can barely walk. Her legs are thin, muscle almost gone. There is so little of her left. And it hurts him to see it. It aches to see it.
He stands, walking over to her, and offers a hand, “Let me help you to the table.”
“I don’t want your help.” Tracy moves to walk on her own, and he knows before she does that she will fall.
He catches her, knocking the breath from her lungs with a rattling wheeze that makes him wince. She takes a moment to catch her breath, hanging in his arms. He can smell the vodka clearly enough, it stains the front of her shirt.
“Easy, easy, easy, easy.” He whispers and straightens her.
And when she looks up at him, he swears it’s hate in her eyes. Cold, angry, desolate rage and hate. It’s consuming, it’s over her entire face. It’s in her voice, “I don’t want your help.”
Troy blinks, tries to wrap his head around her hatred. And then he hides it away. “I’m always going to help you, you’re my mom.”
She scoffs, “I wish I wasn’t.”
That night she vomits into her plate of chicken and all over herself.
By the time he gets her into bed he stinks, and she is comatose and wrapped in a freshly washed duvet. He hates himself a little more.
He showers, tosses his soiled clothing into his laundry basket, and sits in his boxers on the edge of his bed.
This really will kill him.
Glancing toward his watch he reads the time, twenty three minutes past eleven. In the faint light of his lamp, he pulls his journal from the end table and begins to write, he describes his day, the recipe he used, the smile that the cashier had given him.
He writes about how he misses the simplicity of Broke Jaw, and the scent of gunpowder in the air. Halfway through describing the sensation of desert grass beneath his palms, he gets so homesick he worries he will actually be sick.
Troy closes it, sets it to the side, and pulls up his phone instead. Battery at thirty seven percent. No missed calls, no texts.
As he does most days when he feels the loneliness is making a meal of him he pulls up his contacts and scrolls down to the J section. There’s only one name, because he has his dad as Big Otto -- Jakey.
It’s a Friday, he’s likely in his dorm studying, preparing to be big and important. Dad is so proud of him. Troy is proud too, but he doesn’t know how to put it in words past the agonizing question of ‘why did you leave me?’
Unlike most days, he hits the call button and brings it to his ear. It rings four times before it’s answered, “Hello?”
Troy’s voice is a whisper, not wanting to risk waking his mother, “Hey, Jakey.”
There’s noise in the back of the call, so much static and volume he can’t entirely make out if it’s gunfire or music.
“What do you want Troy?” Jake’s voice is unemotional, he doesn’t seem particularly interested in talking. And that makes everything worse instead of better. They haven’t spoken since he came back for summer break, and even then that was brief.
“How’s - how’s college?”
The call goes muffled like he’s covering the phone but Troy makes out ‘little brother’ and ‘one sec’.
“It’s good, uh do you need something?”
Troy looks down at the broken fingers resting on his thigh. And he wants to ask for help, because he thinks he’s dying, he thinks this is killing him.
Instead, he asks, “What’s the difference between women and rabbits?”
Jake goes quiet, and then the heavy background noise fades. There’s a shuffle, and then his brother speaks again and his voice is a little softer, “What did you do?”
“I worked on the lawn, the lawnmower was broken so I had to fix it, then I went to the grocery store, and - “
“I’m not asking for the list of your day, Troy, what did you do? Did you hurt someone?” Jake’s voice is higher, that little sound he makes when he’s uncomfortable.
Troy doesn’t understand when his big brother started being afraid of him, “I’m not a bad person. I didn’t do anything. I - I made chicken. I gave mom a bath. I didn’t do anything.” He lets out a choked sob and leans in on himself. “I want to go home.”
“Alright, alright.” Jake sighs, “Hey, what’s dad always say?”
“He says a lot of things.”
“True, well he says, keep your chin up or - “
“The worms will think you’re ready.” Troy had never understood that one. At least he hadn’t as a kid, but he understands now. Looking down, wasn’t looking to the future, it was waiting to die. To be consumed by the earth. To be mulched down for the plants that would benefit from him.
He’s glad that at least he will be of some use -- eventually.
“Right.” Jake clears his throat. “So well, what’s the difference?”
Troy glances out the window, looking toward the starry sky. It’s not as pretty here as it is on the ranch, but there are still some stars.
“One has fur.” Troy replies, and Jake awkwardly laughs.
“Well, I guess you’re right. I gotta go okay? I don’t know write in your journal or something.” The background sound comes back and he’s sure he hears music this time, and a woman’s voice saying Jake’s name.
He hangs up without saying goodbye.
Troy pulls his journal back into his lap and writes:
What is the difference between a woman and a rabbit?
He is allowed to hurt one of them.
Soon, he thinks he may forget which one.