The Moment Read Online Free Page A

Monday?”
“We’ll see,” she said.
“What are you writing?” I asked.
“A novel.”
“You write novels, Mom?” I asked, really impressed.
“I’m trying to,” she said and continued tapping away. I adjourned to the sofa and read one of my Hardy Boys books. Half an hour later Mom stopped writing and told me that she was going to have a bath. I heard her pull paper out from the typewriter. As she disappeared into the bathroom and turned on the taps, I approached the dining table. She had left two manuscript pages facedown next to the typewriter. I picked them up. The first page just contained the title of the book and her name:
    THE DEATH OF A MARRIAGE
A Novel
by
Alice Nesbitt
I picked up the next page. The opening sentence read:
The day I discovered that my husband didn’t love me anymore was the day that my eight-year-old son ran away from home.
Suddenly I heard my mother shout:
“How dare you!”
She came racing toward me, tight with rage. She pulled the pages out of my hand and slapped my face.
“You must never, never read my work.”
I burst into tears and ran into my room. I grabbed a pillow off my bed and did what I often did when things got out of hand at home: I hid in the closet, locking the door behind me. With the pillow clutched tight, I sobbed into it, overwhelmed by the feeling that I was all alone in a very difficult world. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes passed. Then there was a knock on the closet door.
“I’ve made you chocolate milk, Thomas.”
I said nothing.
“I’m sorry I slapped you.”
I said nothing.
“Thomas, please . . . I was wrong.”
I said nothing.
“You can’t stay in there all day, you know.”
She tried opening the door.
“Thomas, this is not funny.”
I said nothing.
“Your father will be very cross . . .”
Finally, I spoke:
“My father will understand. He hates you, too.”
This last comment provoked a terrible sob from my mother. I heard her stumble away from the door and head out of my room. Her crying escalated. It became so loud that, even from within my self-incarcerated lair, I could hear her weeping. I stood up and unlocked the door and opened it. Immediately I had to readjust to all the afternoon light cascading through the windows of my room. I followed the sound of Mom’s lament. She was lying facedown on her bed.
“I don’t hate you,” I said.
She continued crying.
“I just wanted to read your book.”
She continued crying.
“I’m going out to the library again.”
The crying instantly stopped. She sat up.
“Are you planning to run away?” she asked.
“Like the boy in your book?”
“That was make-believe.”
“I don’t want to run away,” I lied. “I just want to go back to the library.”
“You promise you’ll come home?”
I nodded.
“Be careful on the street.”
As I turned to leave, Mom said:
“Writers are very private about what they do. That’s why I got angry . . .”
She let the sentence die.
And I headed for the door.
Decades later, during our third date, I remember recounting this story to Jan.
“Did your mom ever finish the book?” she asked.
“I never saw her typing again. But perhaps she worked on it while I was at school.”
“Maybe’s there a manuscript hidden in some attic box somewhere.”
“I found nothing when Dad asked me to clear out all her stuff after she died.”
“And it was lung cancer that got her . . . ?”
“At the age of forty-six. Mom and Dad never stopped fighting and they never stopped smoking. Cause and effect.”
“But your father is still with us?”
“Yeah, Dad’s on his fifth girlfriend since Mom’s death and still puffing twenty a day.”
“And meanwhile, you’ve never stopped escaping.”
“More cause and effect.”
“Maybe you’ve just never found a good reason for staying put,” she said, covering my hand.
I just shrugged and didn’t reply.
“Now you have me interested,” she said.
“Everyone has an old ache or two.”
“True. But there are aches you can live with, and ones