Chapter 3
Roderick was staying in a storage room on the first floor.
There were no windows, just a folding cot.
At midnight, I got up to get some water. As I passed through the living room, I noticed the ember of a cigarette flickering out on the balcony.
It was Roderick.
He was only wearing a pair of shorts, sitting by the railing with a cigarette between his fingers.
Moonlight spilled over him, and I could see his back glistening with sweat.
He had a kind of hopeless, worn-out vibe about him.
He tried to hold back his coughs, quietly blowing smoke rings out into the night air.
I walked over and pushed open the sliding glass door a crack.
Roderick jumped, scrambling to stub out his cigarette against the railing.
"Hey Jenna, what are you doing so late?" Roderick asked, sounding a bit startled.
He grabbed the shirt nearby and threw it on, trying to cover himself up.
"I just wanted some water," I replied, clutching my little cup.
He quickly got up, poured me some water, tested the temperature with a sip, then handed it over.
"Dad, why aren't you sleeping?" I asked.
"This bed's so hard, it makes my bones ache," Roderick replied.
He let out a bitter smile and rubbed his lower back.
"Back when I was starting my business, I used to sleep on cardboard in the warehouse to save money," Roderick said.
Roderick gazed at the moon outside.
"I used to think, 'Once I make it, I'm gonna sleep on the softest bed money can buy,'" he added.
"And then you did," I said softly.
"Yeah, I did," Roderick replied.
He let out a self-mocking laugh.
"But after I finally got the softest bed, I hardly ever came home to sleep on it. I was always out at business dinners and social events, never really home," he said.
He turned to look at me, reaching out as if he wanted to pat my head.
But halfway there, he hesitated and pulled his hand back.
"Jenna, am I a bastard?" Roderick asked.
I thought about it for a second, then gave a truthful nod.
"That's what Mom says," I said.
"She's right. I'm to blame," Roderick muttered.
Suddenly, the master bedroom door upstairs swung open, and Mom's icy voice sliced through the quiet.
"Roderick, smoking out on the balcony at this hour? That'll cost you seven dollars," she said.
Roderick flinched, snapping to attention like a soldier caught red-handed.
"Okay, I'm going to bed right now," he said.
The door upstairs shut again.
Roderick turned to me and made a goofy face, but I could see his eyes were a little misty.
"If your mom really hated me, she would've kicked me out ages ago," he said.
*****
Roderick got sick.
Probably from that cold shower and crashing in the storage room, he didn't get up to make breakfast like he usually did.
Mom came downstairs and saw the kitchen was cold and nothing was cooking. Her face turned stormy.
"Roderick, are you trying to get your allowance docked?" Mom snapped.
No one answered.
Mom pushed open the door to the storage room.
Roderick was curled up tight on the narrow cot, his face red as a tomato, but his lips were white as a sheet.
He was shivering, his teeth chattering.
"Roderick," Mom called out, her voice suddenly changing. It was shaky and worried.
She walked over, reached out to touch his forehead, and yanked her hand back like she had been burned.
"Why are you burning up like this?" Mom said.
Mom bit her lip, then turned and called out to me.
"Jenna, go get the first aid kit," she said.
Mom didn't go to work at all that day.
She had Roderick lie down on the big couch in the living room.
Roderick was feverish and out of it, rambling nonsense while his hands clawed at the air.
"Don't throw it. It's a trap," he babbled.
"Leila, I'm back," he called out, voice weak.
Mom's hand holding the towel froze mid-air, and her eyes were a little glassy.
She smacked the cold towel down on Roderick's forehead, a little harder than she meant to.
"Don't get all sentimental now," Mom muttered.
But even as she grumbled, her touch was gentle as she wiped his face.
Her fingers traced lightly over Roderick's strong brow.
That night, Roderick woke up.
He opened his eyes, saw the crystal chandelier overhead, and then noticed Mom sitting on the carpet, leaning against the couch, fast asleep.
He stared for a long time.
"You're awake," Mom said.
She snapped awake at the sound, her gaze turning frosty in an instant.
"Did I die?" Roderick asked.
His voice sounded like sandpaper, rough and scratchy.
"In your dreams. If you die, who's gonna pay me back?" Mom shot back.
Mom stood up.
"Since you're awake, have some oatmeal," she said.
On the coffee table, there was a bowl of oatmeal and a small dish of thinly sliced black olives.
Roderick struggled to sit up and grabbed the bowl, his hand still a bit shaky.
"Did you make this?" he asked, sounding a little surprised.
"It's takeout," Mom replied, her voice flat.
She turned away.
But I saw bags of grains in the kitchen trash can, and that clay pot with a bit of scorch mark on it
Roderick took a sip, and his tears dropped right into the oatmeal.
"Why are you crying? Is it that bad?" Mom asked.
Mom frowned.
"N-No, it's just so good," Roderick replied, choked up.
He gulped down the oatmeal, tears streaming down his face.
"Back when my stomach used to hurt, you'd make this for me too, Leila," Roderick said, his voice thick with emotion.
"Shut up and eat your oatmeal," Mom snapped, cutting him off.
"And when you're done, wash the bowl. Don't even think about leaving it for someone else," she added.
Roderick nodded eagerly, looking like a kid who got a piece of candy.