Just Jack

Part One: Chapter One: Just A Figment (Kindle Version)

Chapter One

Just a Figment

      Anorexia: a lack or loss of appetite for food.

      So I guess there are three things I am almost certain about, which is good. I mean most people go their whole lives without being certain about anything. So this is me, being all indisputable and stuff. (1) I have awesome teeth, and not just straight-and-white awesome teeth, I'm talking Hollywood-actor awesome teeth. (2) There is a part of me, and I'm not sure yet how big that part may be (but that doesn't invalidate the existence of said part) that reacts to grief, very, very badly. And (3) I think my mother hates me. Actually scratch that. I am about one-hundred and eight percent sure she hates me, and if I was ever unconfident about my conviction, I would just have to use this moment in time as reference.

      She drives at a speed that is just about on the brink of the line that separates steadiness from hastiness. Bridge Bay, my hometown for seven-teen years now, is looking typically gloomy on this rather mundane Monday morning. The weather is so predictably miserable and I guarantee rainfall by lunch – it's almost like clockwork. It seems that my parents chose the only town in like, the world that is under a constant cloud of rain, yet part of me loves the rain, the dreariness.

      It still feels weird thinking of parents in a plural way. Parent, just one, I remind myself. She is sitting quietly in the driver’s seat next to me. She being the non-plural parent, the only one I have left. She is too quiet but it's a silence I have begun to bask in lately. Some would say, without knowledge of our background, that she is too quiet – even on a Monday morning in Seattle. But if they knew. If only they knew. So, to say that it deeply surprises me when she turns down the radio, as if to instigate a conversation, is the understatement of the century. I shift uncomfortably in my chair and suddenly I feel very aware of my throat and how dry it is.

      She stays silent until we make it out of town as if, somehow, talking about it while we are driving through the heart of our community is a bad idea – like people could hear us or something. No wonder she hasn't got many, if any, friends. Then again, she could say the exact same thing about me. Except there's a difference, a big one. My friend(s), if you can consider your father a friend, just keep dying. She once had friends though. I remember when they would come over every Thursday night for poker and wine, which technically was just a group of middle-aged, married women gossiping and complaining about their respective others. Mom never complained though. How could she?

      “How are you,” she begins, glancing at me briefly. “- feeling. How're you feeling?” She turns away to look out the window. She is sporting her favorite business suit. I vaguely remember her saying something about a meeting to me, or to the air, this morning which probably means I have to collect Sammy from after-school care – again. This is not just a once-off thing; it's becoming an annoying habit of hers. Casually slacking off on her motherly duties and letting them fall upon me. I trail my eyes along one of the white lines that are stitched on her suit, and finally my eyes meet her cold face. For the first time this morning, heck for the first time in the last few days we make eye contact. Direct turn-to-stone eye contact.

      “Seriously?” I reply, not angry, nor upset. Just curious. She doesn't answer of course. I kind of meant it in the way a full stop means to end a sentence. I do not need an argument today of all days: my first day back in school since his disappearance, or death as everyone seems to be treating it. I roll down my window and take a breath of fresh air. I can almost taste the salt in the air as we drive by the coast. Looking down to the beach, I cannot help but remember that summer’s day, our last together. Chris’ laughter echoes in my ears, or in my mind. Karen does this weird thing where she manages to both sigh and laugh simultaneously in one exhalation.