The Wendigo

3

"What do you even know about this boy?"

They both sipped on coffee even though it was 85 degrees and sunny. Her judgmental tone made the air seem cooler.

"Mom, it's not like I'm eight years old anymore. I'm not just chatting with some random stranger on the Internet."

"I've seen that Catfish show," she said with indignation, "You'd be surprised by what people can do on the Internet."

"Trust me," Clay said. At twenty-four years old, he was a true child of the Internet. "I wouldn't be surprised."

Clay and his mother sat on the back patio of the small house she rented in town. Rusted chainlink surrounded the yard. Tall and unwieldy grass poked through the holes, invaders from the neighbors' unkempt yards. What belonged to her was manicured and groomed. She liked yard work and always had. She liked doing things the hard way.

"What does his family think?"

"He doesn't really have family out there," said Clay, "That's one of the reasons why—"

"I understand visiting," she said, although Clay was sure she wouldn't even understand that, "But... moving in together?"

"Mom—"

"This isn't the kind of commitment you can just walk away from when it gets too hard, honey. I mean, college was one thing, but this..."

"I didn't walk away from college!" he blurted. Then, he took a breath and started again, although he only a bit calmer, "You know... It's not like I had a choice, Mom."

His mother put up a placating hand. It was a gesture he knew well from years of abrupt endings to important conversations. It often came when he was on the verge of making a decisive blow in an argument.

"Okay, I'm sorry," she said, "Do you need money?"

"No," he lied. He did need money, but not desperately enough to humble himself anymore.

"You sure?"

"Yes," he lied again, "The classes actually pay well. Enough to keep up with bills. And I still make money on commissions."

"That's good," she said, "I'm glad you have that."

Then, without provocation: "I just meant that living with someone is a big step and you haven't even met yet."

"Can't I just be happy?"

It embarrassed Clay, as a 24-year-old man, to say those words to his mother. There were certain things he hated himself for not having outgrown. The need for her approval was one of them.

She leaned forward, put her hand on his, and said: "There's nothing in the world I've ever wanted more."

Perhaps he was projecting a hint of disappointment onto her voice, but Clay couldn't help but feel his mother was accusing him of something.

Through the shades drawn over the window, Clay could make out two white shapes. The first was the nurse, reaching up to adjust the IV. The second was the doctor, standing firm and gesticulating as she explained the diagnosis, the prognosis, the shape of things that could only be read from X-rays and MRIs.

"He seems sweet," Clay's mother said as they sat on the bench in the corridor together, "I mean, he looks like he's sweet."

In truth, he was still unconscious when they went into the room together, but he appreciated her for recognizing he needed compliments

"Good."

"He's handsome," she said with a crushing note of surprise, "I'm just so glad he's..."

"Me too."