Breakfast

Dad left the jeep running in the morning for us. We had problems with the car before, but I don't think he ever knew how much mom stressed over it. Antifreeze frequently leaked, leaving behind liquid lime-green puddles on the pavement; the sweet-burning smell was overwhelming. The hood didn't trap the odor. Mom warned dad about it, but he didn't really care; it wasn't his car. She already had a headache.
“Your jeans are dragging,” she said, tossing her tote up and around her shoulder.
“It's not a big deal. I'll just pick em' up.”
“You're gonna drag them all over in the subway. There's shit and piss on the floor. Look at that. You're stepping on them too.”
I looked down. I was stepping on them. The frayed edges were snagged. I pulled the jeans up a bit, and mom measured the length with her eyes.
“It's fine.”
“Go put on a belt. I'll wait for you,” she said, jingling her keys.
“No, I'm already late.”
“What, did I buy you a belt for nothing?”
“It's fine. I'll just pick em' up.”
“Yeah, it's fine when it's not your money. Those jeans were expensive,” Mom said.
“You didn't even buy them.”
“Que jodes, get in the car.” Mom pointed to the jeep with her coffee mug.
She clenched her teeth, jerked her head and squinted. I pulled my backpack in front of me. The sweet-burning smell of antifreeze surrounded us.
I forgot that it was Friday. It was her Friday, the last day she would work at First Rehab Life Insurance before leaving for Zurich. She spent twelve years in an office with Pattie, a harlot, Cathleen, the woman who wore brown everyday, and Carom, a not-so-charming wife who painted her nails at work and made disturbing phone calls to an agency about her husband's greencard. Mom came home everyday at four o'clock and washed dishes in front of a kitchen window that framed a green bird-feeder and our neighbor's house. The feeder was always empty. The birds never came. She watched our neighbors drink mojitos.
“Last day at work, huh?” I said, facing the glaring windshield.
“Yeah.”
“How do you feel?” I wished that I had never asked the question, remembering that I asked her the same thing the night before. Mom didn't look at me. She rubbed her forehead with her left hand and closed her eyes briefly.
“Indifferent,” she replied. It was the same answer. She drove past Cunningham Park. The trees, on both sides of the road, outlined the asphalt border; they formed Corinthian columns. Leaves became natural pediments, branches made lintels and bark created an artistic frieze. I wanted her to see it. I wanted the car to stop. But before we could halt, Mom floored it, escaping a flashing yellow light. Cunningham was behind us, and the seat belt kneaded the skin around my collarbone.
“Have any regrets?” I said.
“No.”
“Really?”
“No,” she answered, slurping drops of coffee on the edge of the mug.
We heard everything in the car. Rubber wheels slapped the asphalt, noisy vents whistled and metal rattled. My brother's graduation tassel swayed listlessly, hanging from the rear-view mirror, between us. Thin strands of orange and blue blew in the opposite direction; I tugged on the tassel. She looked at me. I let go. And when I watched her painfully clench her teeth again, she focused on the cars in front of us and gripped the steering wheel with both hands; the sleeves of her blazer pulled back, exposing her bare-white wrists. Mom exhaled. I rested my face against the window and exhaled too. I watched her glass reflection, and I waited for her to say something. She kneaded the tough leather wrapped around the wheel. We felt that invisible momentum die down around the car; we halted. The car rested.
“I'm sorry about the jeans,” I said.
“Not now.”“Mom.”
“What?” she asked.
“Forget it.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Really, it's nothing.”
“What?! What is it? Something wrong with David?”
“Nothing Mom. No es importante,” I said, tugging the seat belt.
Whenever we fought, she brought up David. My brother lived his life in a fantasy world, filled with first shooters, aliens and dead space mysteries. At one time he thought his name was Gordon Freeman, a science fiction character who reminded me of Stephen King, only Freeman was better looking than King. He was designed that way. Everything close to fiction resembled David's life, and he loved it. I wouldn't blame him. The vicarious David was the brother I always knew—not the chubby kid I grew up with, playing basketball at St. Luke's and sharing buggy punches with in the car.
We passed all the colonials, capes and Obama-Biden signs down Midland Avenue. She stopped the car.
“Did you eat? Did you have breakfast?” she questioned, without looking at me. She curled her back and faced the rubber floor mats.
“I'll get something in school.”
She exhaled.
“What?” What's the matter? I'll get something in school. It's not a big deal.”
“It's never a big deal. It's the last day, and it's never a big deal.”
I faced the window, watching her glass reflection, hoping it would do something different. She reached inside her bag and pulled out a granola bar. She held it out, and I reached for it. The plastic casing crinkled; her fingers barely touched mine.
“Adios,” Mom said.
“Yeah.”
I stepped out and slid my saddle bag behind me, pulling the strap around my shoulder. The car turned the corner. The blue jeans sank below my waist. I forgot it was a Friday. It was her last day, and it smelled of antifreeze.