irrevocable

{Twenty-One}

Bags // Clairo

Holly

Hours later, Mom is finally discharged with strict orders regarding rest and healthy eating. I've always fed her meals I've made at home, but apparently budget friendly meals aren't exactly teaming with nutrition. Mom needs all of the immune support she can get. I'm doing the best I can but all of a sudden, I feel completely inadequate.

Jackson insists on driving us to Julia's in his truck. We'll come back later tonight to pick up my mom's car. The ride is quiet, Mom settled between Jackson and I, leaning against me for support the entire way. I can't bring myself to look at him, not after everything that's happened today, everything he saw. I know he saw me wince when he touched my face, but he hasn't asked about it, yet. The bruise is still well covered with concealer. I made sure of that. The conversation is coming, but I don't know if I'm ready to have it.

"Here we are," he says pulling into the driveway of a two-story suburban home. It's all I can do to keep my jaw from dropping as I take it in.

My house is a shack compared to this. A beautifully manicured lawn lined with blooming foliage stretches across the front of the house. A porch, complete with a swing, wraps around the side. Topiaries are placed artfully on either side of the front door. Walls a rich brown with deep black trim, the exterior looks freshly painted. It's like looking at a magazine cover of the perfect family home.

I pull myself together long enough to help my mom out of the truck with support from Jackson. We get her to the door, Julia already waiting at the threshold to grab what little we brought with us. She smiles as she shows us inside her home.

There I'm greeted with more disarming beauty. The inside is even better than the outside. Each step we take into the home confirms my original thought: I live in squalor. I knew this. I was fully aware. And yet, this jarring difference between my daily experience and Julia's has me speechless.

"Now, we have a guest room right here on the first floor, so you won't need to worry about the stairs." Julia leads us to a room at the back of the house. A large fluffy bed with white linens and plenty of pillows takes up one wall. It would engulf my entire room at home, but here it's the perfect fit.

"I'll let you get settled. Let me know if you need anything," Julia says as she retreats to another part of her home. I say little as we move around the room, Jackson and my mom doing most of the talking.

After Jackson and I get my mom situated with Julia, he drives me to my house to pack some necessities. My mouth is dry, worrying that Dad will be waiting for us there. Jackson told me we'd check it out first, but the thought of another confrontation has me sick to my stomach.

He pulls onto my street, my eyes roaming for any evidence that my dad is still around.

"His red cab is gone," Jacksons says.

"You saw it?"

He nods. "I came here first, looking for you. He wasn't here. At least, he didn't answer the door during the ten minutes I was banging on it. I noticed the cab parked a few houses down, so I peeked inside."

"He uses his motorcycle when he's in town." Dad keeps his hog, as he calls it, in the back garage covered with a tarp while he's on the road.

"Figures. I didn't see any sign of him, but maybe he was already out looking for you."

"Maybe." I'm exhausted. Physically bone tired. But it's not just physical, it's emotional, too. I'm not sure how much more of this I can take. There's always a level of psychotic drama when Dad's in town but this—it's too much.