Figure Eight

by Calia Read

  Some good. And some… indescribable.

  If I have to persuade you to take them like I did in the beginning, I will. But something tells me that you’ve fallen so deep I have to do nothing but snap my fingers and I have your attention.

  You’ll take my presents whether you like them or not.

  LIFE WITH MOM hasn’t always been easy.

  To the outside world she was the sweet teacher Susie who loved and nurtured their children’s ravenous minds. And at home her ravenous depression came out to play. She wasn’t exactly a monster to live with but she did have really bad days. We never ever, ever talked about her bad moments. To talk about them would shed light on them and to shed light on them would make them real.

  Yet there was one time—one single time—when Mom drank too much pinot grigio and told me in a voice so quiet I had to lean in to hear it, ‘I hope you never have to deal with a mind like mine.’ The next morning it was like the conversation never happened.

  It took me years to adjust to her mood swings. She could be calm and soft-spoken one moment, and unhinged and mercurial the next. With eyes that never stopped moving she’d ramble about nonsensical things. You could tell she had a point at the beginning of her tangents, but by the end of the conversation she’d be ranting about how they only had two lanes open at the grocery store—or some other random thing.

  Who she was at home was contradictory to the person everyone knew and loved, but she was my mother. I couldn’t just stop taking care of her because she had some good and bad days. There was no set schedule to them, just hints here and there to let me know that atrocious days were on their way and they’d be here to stay. It’s kind of like squatters: they have no title or lease, and certainly make no payments to take occupancy in your life… but dammit, when they come they’re here for the long haul.

  The only difference between now and then is that the squatters come more often than they used to.

  February has faded into March and those bad days refuse to leave. Snow is starting to slowly melt, revealing the muddy, patchy grass underneath. Parking lots still have giant mounds of snow pushed off to the side from snowplows. It’ll be a good week until they completely thaw out.

  The temperature sometimes reaches the high forties, which is enough for some kids to run outside without coats, like it’s in the mid-sixties or something. But like everyone else, they’re just so tired of winter, and desperate to hold onto any vestiges of spring, no matter how fleeting.

  Today is going to be in the forties again. I change out of my typical sweats and slip on some black slacks and a white blouse. Before I go downstairs I run a brush through my hair, put some makeup on and brush my teeth. And then I do something unexpected. Something I haven’t done in weeks. I sit down at the dining room table and start to attack the pile of bills. There are a few pre-approved credit card offers, one automated mail from a local insurance agency, and a postcard from Mom’s dentist with a ‘friendly reminder’ that she’s due for a cleaning.

  “Yeah right,” I snort.

  I can just imagine the dentist sticking his hands in Mom’s mouth and her flying off the wall. Besides, money is dwindling. Fast. At this point I don’t think we could afford even a simple teeth cleaning.

  But I got a substitute-teaching job today (thank you, God, for the random flu bug going around!) so there will be the smallest bit of money coming in soon. But I’m going to be honest: I don’t know if it’s going to be enough; it is brutal. Late notices here. Late notices there. After a while I give up and start writing down all the bills that have late notices and all the ones that don’t.

  And then there are Jackson’s problems. I’ve been taking his issues on as my own and now they’re piling up on my shoulders like the bills in front of me. The weight is starting to become unbearable and I don’t know how much more I can take. Emotionally, I’m running on empty.

  “Good morning,” she says.

  I’m trying to keep a good attitude around her but it is damn near impossible; we live in a 1,900 square-foot home. For two people that should be an ample amount of room. But add in our combined 13,000 square feet of personality and the house suddenly feels like an incubator. It’s like trying to fit eight pounds of sausage into a five-pound bag.

  It’s starting to drive me crazy.

  Suffice it to say, I was more than relieved to get the call informing me that a local school needed a substitute teacher. I have to get a break from Mom. I can feel something dark and crazed brewing inside of me. I felt restless and part of me is just begging to blame Mom.

  “Good morning,” I grit out.

  She sits down across from me. As always, she’s clutching her cup between her hands.

  The silence lingering around us feels suffocating.

  “Did you sleep well?” I ask.

  She shrugs and I’m close to pulling out my hair. I really am; a person can only put up with so much. I’m at my wit’s end. I take a sip of my coffee and watch her above the rim of my cup. When I place it back on the table, I mimic her actions and clutch it with both hands. Instantly my hands feel warm and I wonder if she did this very thing when she was in the psych ward.

  When I signed her out all those weeks ago, I obsessed over how she was treated there. It would keep me up at my night. It tortured me because I wanted to see and experience every moment through her eyes. Just so I could know that she wasn’t harmed. I always thought there’d be no match to the helplessness I felt during that time.

  I was wrong. Completely and irrevocably wrong.

  Over and over my mind tells me that I should’ve been there more. I should’ve grabbed her arm before she slipped off the ledge and fell into the deep ravine of depression. I may be with her now but I feel like no more than a small boulder, trying to hold her up from completely falling.

  The clock in the dining room ticks, magnifying the silence.

  I drop my pen and look at her. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Were you… treated okay when you went away?”

  Went away. Phrasing it like that makes it seem like Mom went on a cruise or something. But there’s no perfect way to ask someone about their time in a psych ward.

  She looks down at the table. “I suppose.”

  That’s not the answer I want to hear at all. I lean forward. “What do you mean by that?”

  “It’s a terrible place, Selah. A terrible, terrible place. It’s where people are at their most fragile.” She looks back down at the table. And I want to shake her and scream, Why didn’t you tell me you were suffering so much? I could’ve intervened! I could’ve saved you!

  Her eyes lift, as though she can read my mind.

  “You know the hospital smell?” she asks.

  I swallow and just thinking about it, the disinfectant and bleach, makes my nose scrunch up. “Who doesn’t?”

  “I would rather inhale that stench every day for the rest of my life than smell what I did there. It was a mixture of sweat and fear.”

  “Were the doctors nice to you? What about the nurses?”

  “Well, enough. I guess. But they didn’t bother me.”

  “What did, then?”

  “The woman I had to share a room with talked to herself constantly and when she wasn’t doing that she made the strangest keening noise, as if she wanted to scream but didn’t have the strength to.”

  Goosebumps appear on my arms.

  “You’re not going back there again,” I say firmly. And I mean it.

  “No one can predict the future, Selah,” she sighs.

  “True,” I reply as I stand up from my seat. I dump the remains of my coffee in the sink. “But one can be determined.”

  Mom stares straight ahead. “You know it’s up to you to keep me out of that place, right?” She has said that before and it always makes my stomach dip in fear. Like she knows something I don’t.

  “Are you going to be okay while I’m gone?” I ask.

  She rolls h
er eyes. “Of course, Selah.”

  “Well, can you blame me for asking? Especially after what you just said.”

  “Oh, I’ll be fine.”

  For a moment, everything in our relationship seems fine. For the time being that is. So I grab my purse from the table and give her a kiss on the head. “See you later, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I’m so distracted putting on my coat that I walk straight into a solid wall of male as I walk out the door. I veer back and hit the door and see Noah Harrison standing in front of me. He reaches out to right me, but I shrug him off.

  “Sorry,” he says in that deep voice. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “No worries.” I adjust my purse strap. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

  He holds out a stack of mail, a rubber band holding the pile together. “The mailman brought over your mail yesterday. Said that your mailbox was full.”

  “He could’ve put it on our porch,” I remark.

  Noah nudges his head to the right, directly at the stack of newspapers and mail near the door. Shit. How long has that been there?

  “I should check the mailbox more often.” Awkwardly, I reach out and grab the envelopes in his hands. “Thank you for bringing it over.”

  I try to avoid any hand contact whatsoever, but I graze his fingers. The touch gives me a slight jolt.

  I look down and notice his dog. What’s his name again? Duke, isn’t it? He sniffs around my yard, slowly edging toward me. Noah gently tugs on his leash.

  “Duke, no.”

  “He’s fine.” I bend down and pet him. Like his owner, he’s too friendly for his own good. The only difference is Duke’s sweet on instinct. Animals have no motives. They just want to be fed and loved. And this golden retriever is no exception. I can’t help the small smile that creeps onto my face as Duke kisses it. Noah tugs on his leash once again. This time Duke obediently retreats back to Noah’s side like a loyal doggie.

  “Sorry about that. He gets a little excited when he meets new people.”

  “No worries.” Even though I’m supposed to be going to work, I take a step back toward the house—a friendly yet obvious sign that the conversation is over with. The gesture flies directly over Noah’s head. He tucks one hand into his jeans like he has all the time in the world.

  “Are you enjoying the day?” he asks.

  “Today, sure. But that’s only because I have a job to go to. Ask me tomorrow. My answer might change,” I say. He raises both brows, but doesn’t say a word.

  I’m not good with awkward silences. I either laugh nervously or keep talking. This time, it’s the latter. “It’s just me and my mom living here. She retired a year ago. Someone has to make a living.”

  “What’d she retire from?”

  “She was a kindergarten teacher.”

  “And what did you do before you moved back home?”

  “Second grade teacher.” I take a step closer. “What’s that little smile for?”

  He raises a surrendering hand in the air. “Just think that it’s interesting you more or less followed in your mom’s footsteps.”

  “Oh.”

  Another awkward silence.

  “Have you lived in Decatur for awhile?” I ask him.

  “No. I previously lived in New York.”

  “You chose Decatur, IL over New York.” I cross my arms and let that sink in. “The rows and rows of soy beans just became too irresistible?”

  He tilts his head back and laughs. “No. I have family here. Remember my Aunt Abby?”

  Vaguely, I remember him talking about her during our last conversation. I find myself nodding.

  “Growing up we lived in New York but when I left for college she moved back home to be with her family. She died a few years ago but I’ve just been curious as to where she grew up.”

  “Spoiler alert: it’s a dull, dull Midwestern state,” I say dryly.

  “It’s not that bad. But I get what you’re saying.”

  “So what do you do?” I find myself asking.

  “I’m a journalist for the Herald and Review,” he supplies.

  Huh. That’s not what I imagined but his strange work schedule now makes sense.

  “Ohhhh…” I draw out. “So that must be why you work from home.”

  “Do you watch my every move?” he teases.

  “Yes,” I reply bluntly.

  “So what did you think I did?”

  “I don’t know.” I sigh as I think of an answer. “You’re friendly. Yet a little too friendly. So maybe a car salesman?”

  I know I’m being a bitch. I seemed to have left my filter inside the house. I think I’m deliberately testing the waters with Noah to see how he’ll react.

  Noah quirks a brow. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.”

  Right now, I don’t know either so I don’t say a word.

  “I feel like I’m being interviewed,” he says. “Do you want to know where I graduated college? Perhaps you want to see my birth certificate?”

  “No, no,” I reply. But inside I’m saying, Yes, yes.

  “Graduated from Northwestern, majoring in journalism. And my birth certificate is probably in some filing cabinet inside my house. Give me a second and I think I’ll be able to find it,” he says.

  There’s a second. A small, minuscule second where we both smile at the same time. And my perception of him shifts. Just for a second. And I concede that maybe he isn’t that terrible guy I pictured in my mind.

  Noah clears his throat and tugs on Duke’s leash. “Well. I should probably take this guy inside. I’ll see you later.”

  “Yeah. See you around,” I say to his retreating back.

  I watch him walk back to his house. Going up the front steps he stops to unhook Duke’s leash and grabs the paper on the second step. He tucks it underneath one arm and goes inside.

  All right. So the man might not be a serial killer. Or a man with psychopathic tendencies like I first painted him out to be. But there is something off. I just don’t have enough time to think about it.

  Quickly, I hurry inside the house to drop off the mail. It lands on another pile on the dining room table.

  “Wondered when you’d be back,” Mom says.

  I stop short at the living room entryway. “Why?”

  Her gaze stays rooted on the TV. Unfortunately, today there is a Law and Order: SVU marathon on. Fortunately, I don’t have to hang around and watch it. “Because you left your phone here.” She nudges her head in the direction of the end table.

  Sure enough there it is. I check my phone and see I have a few missed calls. For a second, my pulse jumps. But I take a deep breath when I see when they’re from Sam.

  “Why didn’t you tell me Sam called?” I ask Mom.

  She shrugs. Mom may miss Sam being around, but she knows how Sam feels about her, too.

  “I really have to go or I’m going to be late.”

  Mom just nods.

  Now that I’m standing here, with my full winter gear, I notice that it’s really cold inside the house. “Have you been messing with the thermostat?” I ask Mom.

  “Now why would I mess with it?”

  I remember, years and years ago, when she was going through ‘the change’ as she called it, she would have the thermostat set so low you could practically see your own breath while sleeping.

  This cold is way worse.

  Walking out into the hallway, I peer at the thermostat and my heart sinks. It’s clearly set at seventy-two degrees. That means either the thermostat is broken or the heater has decided that now would be a great time to stop working. I would assume the electricity has been turned off but then how would Mom be watching her beloved show? In time I’m sure that will be shut off, too. I shudder to think what Mom will be like without television.

  With a hearty thwack, I hit the thermostat and turn back toward the front door. “The stupid thermostat is broken,” I call out. “If it gets really bad just bundle up, o
kay?”

  All I hear is a light, “Mmm-hmm.”

  As I’m walking out the front door, I distractedly text Sam back: Sorry I missed ur call. I have a teaching job. Call u later?

  Her reply comes within seconds with makes me think she’s in between meetings or she’s been waiting for me to call her back: That’s what you said last time. Is everything okay?

  Everything is great. Talk soon!

  I make it to my car and throw my purse into the passenger seat. Luckily the car is nice and toasty, instantly warming me up. Before I put the car into reverse I text one more person.

  How are you?

  Lately, I’ve been talking to Jackson multiple times a day. When I made that promise to help him, I meant it. I just had no fucking idea how hard it’d be. The honest truth is that I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I’ve never been an addict or dealt with one and I wanted to go about this the right way, not treating Jackson with kid gloves. He deserves better than that.

  But I also want him to remain clean because that night at my house, with his eyes half dead and his skin clammy still makes my blood run cold. Because even though he looked sick, there was this hunger in his eyes that showed me he’d do almost anything for his next high.

  Anything.

  My phone rings in my hands, jolting me slightly. I see it’s Jackson and quickly press answer. “Hello?”

  “Can I see you? I really need you right now! Where are you?”

  “At home. Getting ready to leave for a teaching job.”

  “I need to see you. Right now.” His voice sounds jittery. Shaky and disjointed. Like he’s out of sorts.

  I pause for a second and take a deep breath. I know I shouldn’t. I know I need this job, but I made a promise to be there for Jackson whenever he needed me. I sigh and stare at the garage door in front of me.

  “Where are you?”

  “The Starbucks where we first met.”

  After that, he hangs up.

  WHEN I WALK into Starbucks, I instantly see Jackson. He’s sitting near the front register, tapping his hands against the counter, loudly, to a beat that no one else can hear. His left knee rapidly bounces up and down. His lips are briskly moving, as if he’s having a conversation with someone. There’s just one problem: no one is around him.