*****************************************************************
Chapter 9: If You Give a Boy Some Hate, And Maybe A Girl Some Love . . .
~Jacob~
Yeah, I couldn’t help it. I was a little worried about Jemma.
But that didn’t mean I wasn’t concerned with how things were going in my own home-life, because, my mother’s car was in the driveway, and I remembered the letter I wrote to her sitting on my desk in my room. I would keep it for a while, maybe, give it to her the next time she left and came back.
Except, I never did know if she was going to come back. Our relationship was pure faith and trust, and I just didn’t invest a lot of that in her.
Reluctantly I opened our front door and stepped inside, hearing my mother clanking dishes around in the sink. Of course. Every time she came home from a business trip she went right to dishwashing, and then mopping, and if it was really bad she would dust. There wasn’t a lot of time for her to spend with us, but I didn’t care. I spent most of my own time skirting around her pretending not to hear when she called me.
If she called me.
Which sometimes she never even uttered my name. Not even a syllable.
Tony clung to Belinda like Mom was some stranger, and I knew it broke Mom’s heart, but that’s what happens when you’re never home. Reality hurts, Mother. Get used to it.
I walked right into the kitchen and stood in the doorway. I would do this now, and do it fast.
“Hi, Mom,” I said quietly, and she whirled around, hands dripping with dish soap.
“Jacob!” She exclaimed. “My, you’re so handsome!” She wiped her hands on a dish rag. “I wondered when you’d be home.”
“I’m home,” I said emotionlessly.
Something in her eyes told me she caught my tone and she stared at me for a moment. “Jakey? Is something wrong?”
I smirked. I couldn’t help it. The sheer irony of it all was too much. My problem was standing right in front of me and she was asking if something was the matter.
“No, Mom, I’m just fine.” I muttered, wanting to move but not being able to. So I shoved my hands in my pockets and made myself comfortable leaning against the door jam. “You only left three years ago and left us alone without a warning. Why would anything be wrong?” I felt the anger and the venom dripping from my words.
“Jacob, please, don’t do this with me right now. I’m tired . . .”
“Goddammit, Mom, like I’m not tired too!” I screamed before I could stop myself. Her eyes widened and she looked taken aback. That’s right. It doesn’t feel too good to be on the receiving end of all the surprises.
“What did you say to me, Jacob Ethan Hall?”
I curled and uncurled my hands. “It’s always about you, isn’t it?” I hissed. “Don’t mind me, don’t mind Tony, your little son that you forgot to raise. Don’t mind Dad, who forever stays locked up in his study. God, I don’t even know if he’s alive! Now, do I care? Not really. Why? Because you guys haven’t done a freaking thing for me!”
My mother threw the dish towel in the sink and took a step forward. “Now, wait a second. I’ve done plenty for you . . .”
“Really? Plenty? Alright, you know? Let’s just say---figuratively---that you have done enough for me. What about Tony? You are never here for him. He doesn’t even know you. He doesn’t even know he has a father who’s in the same house as him, but never walks out to acknowledge his kids’ existence. How is that fair? How is that plenty?”
Her hands were shaking. Good. “Jacob, I . . . I never wanted . . . Tony was just . . .”
“An afterthought, I know. Right before you and Dad stopped talking, before Dad cut off all connections with himself to the outside world, before you got a job and left us all here.”
“Jacob, I had no choice.”
“You did, Mom! You could have stayed here. You could have raised Tony, and maybe we’d be as decent as we are now with Belinda’s help. There are always options, Mom. I didn’t think I---you’re seventeen-year-old son---would be the one to tell you that. You’re never down to only one choice because there’s always another.”
She stared at me with wide, surprised eyes. Hm. I didn’t exactly mean to turn all Belinda on her and spout philosophical, mind-inspiring phrases, but, you are affected by who you hang around, so . . .
There you go.
“I’m done with you, Mom,” I whispered furiously. “I hate to say it, but I am. You can come back every five years, every ten years---oh, fuck it all. Never come back again. You know why? Because we will still be the same scarred children you left, but we will be educated, prosperous scarred children because, ironically, of the decision you made to hire Belinda. Yes, the nannie. Who is and will always be more of a mother than you.”
I pulled tears from my mother’s eyes. I did, and I truly felt no regret for them. I stormed out of the kitchen and up to my room. My eyes found the letter, but it suddenly didn't seem all that important anymore. My mother was no longer a part of my life. She was insignificant. Nothing.
Because as far as she was concerned, Tony and I were nothing to her.
*****
~Jemma~
Okay, so I did feel a little rotten for slamming the door in Jacob’s face and crying uncontrollably and refusing to tell him anything.
It wasn't like I could help it, though. All means of self-control or sane thinking just . . . left me. I was powerless to the demons inside my head. And they were restless.
I was calm---okay, calmer---than earlier today and boy was it a long day. A movie with Jacob, running away, a sane conversation on a tree, running away . . .
God, I really did run away a lot.
I was still on the floor, though, with my back against the door and my knees pulled up to my chest. My arms were wrapped around them and my head was bowed. I could think about nothing except Jacob and my mother and my life and how much everything just sucked so much.
I didn’t bother to turn on a light, even when it was pitch black outside so therefore pitch black in my room. Aunt Clara knocked on my door a few times, but the last time she did I answered with a moan. I heard her sigh in relief and twisted the door knob. She thrust the door open and I fell over to my side, my face planting on the wood floor. I managed a strangled, “Ouch.”
“Oh! Sorry,” She apologized, grabbing my shoulders and helping me sit up. But I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay in the disgust and sorrow that was the cold, chipped wood floor, because right then it was my best friend. And I was way too tired to even consider standing. I went limp in Aunt Clara’s arms like a ragdoll, and she gurgled in frustration.
“Work with me here!” She cried out in exasperation. “I can’t do this alone!”
“Bleh!” I sputtered, and she finally dropped me, putting her hands up.
“Fine. You know what? Fine. If you want to be all stubborn like that, don’t let me deprive you from a long, miserable night on the floor.” She turned to walk out, but I reached a hand up and tried to tell her to stop, but it might have been a rather incoherent slew of words strung together.
“Why?” She asked defensively.
“Because I need you,” I admitted. “Because I have no one else.”
Was I drunk? No, I didn't remember drinking. I felt drunk . . . not that I’d ever been drunk before. I
just . . . felt what it must feel like. Totally not in control of what you say and greatly lacking in the common sense and judgment areas.
I opened my eyes to look at Aunt Clara, and her features were sad, sorry. I realized then what I must look like. A troubled teen without parents who hated herself and hated life and knew no love. Well, what a depressing girl I’d grown up to be. My parents would be so proud . . .
Well I mean, that is, if they cared.
Which they didn't.
I mean, which he didn't, seeing as I had no Mom.
Aunt Clara somehow got me into bed but before she could walk away I grabbed her hand and pulled her into a hug. I leaned my head against her shoulder and shed the remaining tears all over her night gown. She held me delicately, while my tears were in no way delicate. “I miss her,” I choked between sobbing. “I miss . . . I miss her . . . a lot . . .” I was gasping, hic-upping. Aunt Clara patted my back and whispered soothing words in my ear, but all I heard was my conscience saying, you sorry pathetic loser, stop being such a cry-baby. Toughen up and move on. They didn’t want you. Nobody wants you. Just get on with life and except that.
But I didn’t want to except that. More than anything, I wanted to deny it.
Somebody out there wanted me. Right? Wanted me for me and not because I was forced on them. Wanted me because they truly loved me and saw something worth anything inside my heart? Maybe it’ll happen.
Maybe it won’t.
Maybe I’ll die just like this.
Trapped in a cage I built myself.