Of all the punishments I could give Keith, I believe he found grounding the hardest. He was a naturally active young man with boundless energy. I thought about all the restrictions I had put on him and knew how suffocating it must be for him. So far, he had spent time grudgingly refreshing his resume and writing application letters for those job postings I had had him marked out. And he was truly frustrated!
‘I don’t feel good. In fact, I feel lousy….’ he complained, curled up against me on the sofa as we watched TV in the living room, his fingers pulling strands out of the sofa cushions.
I touched his face gently. He did not feel hot, nor was he flushed. ‘Does anything hurt?’
He shrugged. ‘No, not really.’ Nuzzling closer, he said. ‘Let’s go out, Dusty. Maybe have a drink somewhere?’ He looked up at me hopefully, like a puppy expecting to get a treat.
‘Sorry darling,’ I said, kissing his forehead. ‘You’re grounded still, and it’s a work night for me. Maybe this weekend?’
He flung away from me, irritable and grouchy. He had been vacillating between moods the last few days and I suspected he was reacting to the lack of stimulus his system had got used to in the past few months, and the last thing I wanted was for him to visit his old haunts. That was one habit I was determined to break.
‘I know it’s hard, darling,’ I said, drawing him tightly against me. ‘And I appreciate that you are trying. It’ll get better, I promise.’
He hunched his shoulder, and I could just picture him holding his hands to his ears trying to block out my words. I gave his hair a tousle and stood up. ‘Why don’t I make you a nice cup of tea, hmm?’
‘No thanks,’ he said ungraciously, flopping down onto the sofa and burying his face into the cushions. Some rude opinions on the value of tea came out muffled and I grinned as I headed towards the kitchen.
As I passed the hallway, I spotted a half crumpled sheet of paper on the table by the stairs where we kept our keys, the phone and other knick-knacks.
‘What’s this?’ I asked, recognizing Keith’s neat handwriting.
The face in question lifted out of the cushions and peered over the back of the couch.
‘Oh that!’ Keith said disinterestedly. ‘That’s my interview schedule.’
‘You got an interview?’ I asked, coming back into the living room, delighted.
‘Yeah.’ Keith immediately burrowed his face back into the pillows. I pulled him up and sank down beside him.
‘Tell me!’ I demanded.
Like pulling teeth, I wormed the information out from him. 2.00pm tomorrow, at the Albertson Hall down town, 5th floor, ask for Ms Jones. He told me no more than what was written on the paper.
Refusing to let him ruffle my temper, I chirpily wished him luck.
‘I don’t feel good. In fact, I feel lousy….’ he complained, curled up against me on the sofa as we watched TV in the living room, his fingers pulling strands out of the sofa cushions.
I touched his face gently. He did not feel hot, nor was he flushed. ‘Does anything hurt?’
He shrugged. ‘No, not really.’ Nuzzling closer, he said. ‘Let’s go out, Dusty. Maybe have a drink somewhere?’ He looked up at me hopefully, like a puppy expecting to get a treat.
‘Sorry darling,’ I said, kissing his forehead. ‘You’re grounded still, and it’s a work night for me. Maybe this weekend?’
He flung away from me, irritable and grouchy. He had been vacillating between moods the last few days and I suspected he was reacting to the lack of stimulus his system had got used to in the past few months, and the last thing I wanted was for him to visit his old haunts. That was one habit I was determined to break.
‘I know it’s hard, darling,’ I said, drawing him tightly against me. ‘And I appreciate that you are trying. It’ll get better, I promise.’
He hunched his shoulder, and I could just picture him holding his hands to his ears trying to block out my words. I gave his hair a tousle and stood up. ‘Why don’t I make you a nice cup of tea, hmm?’
‘No thanks,’ he said ungraciously, flopping down onto the sofa and burying his face into the cushions. Some rude opinions on the value of tea came out muffled and I grinned as I headed towards the kitchen.
As I passed the hallway, I spotted a half crumpled sheet of paper on the table by the stairs where we kept our keys, the phone and other knick-knacks.
‘What’s this?’ I asked, recognizing Keith’s neat handwriting.
The face in question lifted out of the cushions and peered over the back of the couch.
‘Oh that!’ Keith said disinterestedly. ‘That’s my interview schedule.’
‘You got an interview?’ I asked, coming back into the living room, delighted.
‘Yeah.’ Keith immediately burrowed his face back into the pillows. I pulled him up and sank down beside him.
‘Tell me!’ I demanded.
Like pulling teeth, I wormed the information out from him. 2.00pm tomorrow, at the Albertson Hall down town, 5th floor, ask for Ms Jones. He told me no more than what was written on the paper.
Refusing to let him ruffle my temper, I chirpily wished him luck.