Finding Home. Marie Ferrarella

in jeopardy of being “asked” to leave the university. Whenever that happened, he’d study enough to get his grades back up. And then backed off again.

      Somehow, he had managed to graduate this June. But he still seemed destined to infuriate his father at every turn and raise his blood pressure by ten points with no effort at all.

      The problem was, his inherent aptitude for science notwithstanding, Jim had the soul of a poet. A poet who wanted nothing more—and nothing less—than to make music. Brilliant to a fault, with an IQ that was almost off the charts, he had no use for the academic world. As a matter of fact, he had gotten his degree not to please his father but as a grudging tribute to her. Because she’d begged him to give working in a different field a try, “on the slim chance” that he changed his mind later on in life.

      She poured a glass of orange juice for Jim and set it down next to his plate. “I’ll call the plumber from work today.”

      He shook his head, his hair falling into his eyes. He left it hanging there. She resisted the temptation to push back his hair, knowing that would somehow only lead to accusations that she was “inflicting her judgments” on him. Meaning that while her generation liked to see a person’s eyes, his didn’t see a reason for it.

      “Doesn’t need a plumber, it needs last rites,” he informed her glibly. He raised accusing eyes to her face. “Bathroom’s ancient, Mom. Why don’t you do what you’ve been talking about and finally get the damn thing renovated?”

      “Don’t curse at the table,” she told him.

      Jim pushed his chair back from the table roughly a foot. “Why don’t you get the damn thing renovated?” he repeated.

      She sighed, giving up the argument. Someone had told her that all sons went through a phase like this and that he would eventually turn around and be, if not the loving boy she remembered, at least civil.

      “Your father—”

      The sneer on Jim’s lips leaked into his voice. “Right, God says no.”

      There were times when she could put up with it, and times like now, when her patience was in short supply, that she could feel her temper threatening to flare. “Jim, a little respect—”

      He lowered his eyes to the plate, as if the French toast suddenly had all of his attention. “As little as I can muster, Mom. As little as I can muster.”

      It was an old familiar dance and she had no time to go through the steps today, or to point out in how many ways Brad had been so much of a better father to him than her own had been to her. It only fell on deaf ears, anyway. Besides, she’d promised to go in to work early today to start implementing the new software program.

      Stacey had worked at the Newport Pediatric Medical Group for the past fifteen years as their office manager, beginning as their all-around girl Friday—she really preferred the term “girl” to “woman” as she got older. All seven doctors associated with the group depended on her to keep things running smoothly. That included making sure that the new software package helped rather than hindered.

      Still, she couldn’t just leave the house on this note. Brad might drive her crazy at times, but that had no bearing on his relationship with his son. “He’s your father—”

      Jim shrugged as he continued communing with his breakfast. “Not my fault.”

      “No,” she said sharply, “but your attitude certainly is.”

      Jim raised his head. He smiled at her with Brad’s smile, tugging at her heart even as he infuriated her. “Tell him to change his toward you and maybe we’ll see.”

      This, too, was familiar ground. Jim claimed he didn’t like the way his father treated her. “Your father’s attitude is fine, Jim.”

      The smile became a sneer. “Yeah, for someone out of the Dark Ages.”

      “Last time you said he was like someone out of the fifties.”

      The look he gave her said he knew so much more than she did. “Same thing. This is a partnership, Mom. Seems to me he treats you like a junior apprentice.”

      Come back after you’ve been married awhile and then we’ll talk. Out loud, she said, “Marriage is more like a work in progress—”

      “So,” Jim cut in, “where’s the progress?”

      He made her tired. Arguing with Jim always made her tired. It was like boxing with a shadow and trying to knock it out. “I’ll talk to you later.”

      She was at the back door when he said, “I’ve got a possible gig.”

      Stacey swung around. She knew he practiced with a band, had even heard them rehearse a few times. In her opinion, they had potential, even though they weren’t playing anything she could remotely hum to. “That’s wonderful. Where?”

      He gave her a serene smile and offered her back her own words. “We’ll talk later,” he said before disappearing from the kitchen with the last of the French toast.

      CHAPTER 3

      Stacey glanced at her watch. Okay, so she was going to be a little late. What was more important, getting to the office or having a few more words with her son?

      Jim won, hands down.

      It was no contest, even if there was a sliver of guilt attached. But then, she was raised Catholic and the blood of both Italians and Jews flowed through her veins. There was always a sliver of guilt attached. To everything.

      Crossing to the threshold that led out into the hallway, she called after Jim. “You’re going to miss these long, lengthy talks when you move out.”

      Jim had just gotten to the foot of the stairs and he turned to look at her. He knew what she was really saying, no matter how much humor she laced around her tone. She didn’t want him moving out. He’d come home every weekend while attending UCLA. And only gotten more estranged from the rest of the family during those years.

      It was time for him to fly the coop for good. Way past time.

      “Forget it, Mom.” He grinned as he proclaimed, “I’m not staying. The end of the week, I’m gone.” And then, because at bottom he didn’t like being the source of hurt for her, he added, “There’s always the telephone.”

      She looked at him knowingly. “Which you won’t use.”

      He shrugged. “You never know, maybe I don’t have any of Dad in me at all.” He stuffed the remainder of the French toast piece into his mouth. Powdered sugar rained from both corners of his lips.

      His comment was a not-too-veiled remark about all the times she’d waited in vain for a call from Brad, telling her he was delayed, or had an emergency surgery. All the times dinner got cold and carefully made plans got canceled.

      It was all true, but she still didn’t like the stance Jim had taken against his father. Despite all his rhetoric explaining his attitude, she still didn’t understand, still couldn’t reconcile the loving boy she’d known to the cynically combative one she found herself confronting over and over again.

      “Jim—”

      Jim held up hands that were dusty with sugar, stopping her before she went any further. “I can’t stay here. He hates me.”

      “He doesn’t hate you,” she insisted with feeling. “He’s your father, he loves you.”

      Standing on the second step of the staircase, he towered over her. And used the image to his advantage as he looked down at her with a masterful sneer. “The two aren’t a set.”

      A part of her wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him. “In this case, they are. He does love you, Jim, he just doesn’t understand you.” And neither do I, she added silently.

      The look in Jim’s eyes had a hint of contempt in it.