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Lorraine sighed, glancing up at the clock in the kitchen once more. 10:15. Her youngest was officially worrying her again. Marty should have been home by now.
She tried to remember what he’d said he was doing this week. It was a Thursday, during the school year, so there were only so many places he could be. One of his bandmates’ houses, maybe, or possibly Doctor Brown’s place, since for some strange reason Marty spent a lot of time around the old scientist these days. She still didn’t understand why – Marty didn’t even care that much about science, that was clear enough from his grades in school – but Marty wasn’t exactly like other kids his age, was he?
Frowning, Lorraine was considering pouring herself another drink when she finally heard the telltale creak of the back door. A moment later, her son slipped quietly inside, clearly hoping he wouldn’t be noticed.
Well. He should have considered that before keeping her up like this. Honestly.
“Ahem.”
Marty froze, his eyes darting around the room wildly until they settled on her, sitting at the table. She did her best to fix him with a disapproving stare.
“...Hi, Mom,” he said with an awkward wave.
“Martin Seamus McFly, do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Um–”
“--Don’t answer that. Honestly, what were you thinking–?”
Lorraine cut herself off as Marty stepped into the light a little more. There was a sluggishly bleeding cut across his right cheek, not to mention the beginnings of a spectacularly colorful black eye.
“Marty!” she exclaimed, standing up to get a better look at him. “What happened to you?”
“I…uh. Nothing. Nothing happened.”
“Young man, if you think I’m stupid enough to fall for that…”
“I slipped and fell, alright, Mom? It’s not that big a deal.”
“You got into another fight, didn’t you?” she said. “That’s why you’re slinking in here so late.”
“I didn’t get into a fight!”
“Well then how do you explain this?”
Lorraine reached up to wipe some of the blood from Marty’s cheek. He winced, pulling his head away from her hand.
“Ow! I didn’t… I didn’t get into a fight, okay?”
When she’d been younger, Lorraine had lied to her parents about a lot of things. What had happened to the last bottle of rum in the liquor cabinet. Going over to Babs’ house to work on a “geography project” while the other girl’s parents were out of town. What had happened to her sophomore year report card. She’d even lied to them about going steady with George for a while. But the thing was, she’d been good at lying. Her parents had rarely suspected a thing.
Marty had not inherited her talent.
“You’re only digging yourself a deeper hole, mister,” she said, fixing him with a disapproving stare.
“Alright, maybe I got into a little bit of a scrape. It wasn’t that big a deal.”
“Marty, that’s the third time you’ve done this! What has gotten into you lately? You didn’t used to get into fights, not back when you were–”
Abruptly, she cut herself off. She was worried, obviously but that was no reason to go crossing lines she and Marty had both agreed were off-limits.
Unfortunately, it was all too easy to guess what she’d almost said.
“Back when I was a what, Mom?” said Marty.
“Back when… back when you were younger,” she replied, wincing even as she said it.
“Uh-huh.”
Marty wiped at his cheek, only succeeding in smearing blood from the cut there across his palm. There was a hurt look in his eyes, and Lorraine didn’t blame him. They both knew Marty didn’t like to talk about having ever been a girl – or at least, everyone thinking he’d been a girl. And she really was alright going along with all this, if it made him happier. It was just… they didn’t teach you about these things, before you became a mother – the boy thing or the getting into fights – and Dave and Linda had both been so easy …
…Well, that wasn’t fair to Marty. Dave had a sarcastic streak a mile wide, and Linda could be very obstinate when she put her mind to it, which was often.
Marty was just… well. He was so different. From them. From other kids, too.
“Oh, come here, baby,” she sighed, pulling a chair from the table and gesturing for him to sit down. “Let’s get you cleaned up, alright?”
Eyeing her warily, Marty, settled himself on the chair. Lorraine grabbed some paper towels, wondering idly if she ought to pull out the first aid kid or if simply mopping up the blood would be enough. Deciding to err on the side of caution, she opened the cupboard under the sink and retrieved it.
“Come on, Mom, it’s really not that bad,” Marty protested when he saw her open up the kit.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she said, pulling out a tube of Neosporin.
Despite his protests, he let her work in silence, though he did wince a few times as she attempted to disinfect the cut and get a bandage on it. It wasn’t until she’d nearly finished that he spoke again.
“It was Kevin Daniels, okay? I got into a fight with Kevin Daniels.”
Lorraine clicked her tongue. She really didn’t like that boy. Kevin was a year older than Marty, but her son had been trying to befriend him for years. Something to do with Kevin’s band getting “real” gigs even though he was still in high school. She didn’t think he was a very good influence.
“I warned you about him, Marty, I don’t think you should be spending time–”
“--Just listen! I got into a fight because he wouldn’t stop calling me… calling me my old name.”
That stopped Lorraine in her tracks.
“I thought you said the teasing wasn’t as bad anymore,” she said.
Marty shrugged.
“Marty…”
“It’s not as bad,” he said. “Are you done?”
She was, practically speaking. Marty was going to have an impressive shiner for a while, but his cut was cleaned and bandaged. And it was a school night; she should really be urging him to go to bed. But her hand hovered a few inches away from his cheek all the same, not quite ready to let him slink to his bedroom.
What did it say that her youngest--her baby--was being tormented by other kids at school, and the first she was hearing about it was because he'd come to blows with one of them? Marty had been trying to sneak to his room without anyone noticing him. She would have picked up on the black eye eventually, but had he succeeded, she might not have gotten the real story out of him. There would have been no one there to clean him up. To ask if he was okay.
“Mom?”
“...You know you can always talk to me, right Marty?” she said.
He gave her an odd look. “Yeah, sure.”
“I mean it. I know your father and I, we don't completely understand all this, but..”
“I know, Mom. Uh, thanks.”
With that pronouncement, Marty yawned. He looked tired. She shouldn't keep him any longer.
“You… you get some rest,” she said, wishing she was better with words. The older Marty got, the more it felt like there was a gap between them, like there were things bothering him he didn't feel like he could bring to her.
“Yeah, okay,” said Marty, turning towards the hallway.
“I mean it, Marty. Everything I said, alright?”
He looked back to face her, the bandage under his eye standing out clearly against the forming bruises. She was struck by how small he looked—small for his age, but especially small for a teenage boy—and for a moment, she saw red thinking about Kevin goddamn Daniels, who was nearly a foot taller than Marty, picking on her baby.
“Uh-huh,” Marty said with another yawn. “G’night Mom.”
With that, he turned around again, headed in the direction of his room.
Lorraine stood in the kitchen a moment, fiddling with the tube of Neosporin in her hands, not quite ready to return it to the first aid kit. She ought to get to bed herself. It was late, and all her kids were finally home. Safe, too, if you didn’t count some scrapes and bruises. She’d done her job as a mother, making sure Marty got home and cleaning him up. Telling him he could talk to her, if he needed to.
But something still told her she wasn’t going to sleep easily tonight.