by Calia Read
There are a few people—a cashier, some businessman on his cell phone waiting for his coffee—that give him curious glances.
With a deep breath, I take a step forward and lay a hand on his shoulder. He jumps in response. It’s only been a week since he opened up to me about his problems but it feels like so much has changed.
“Selah!” His hands cage my head and he kisses me deeply.
At night, away from prying eyes and with your guard down, this kind of kiss would arguably be an amazing kiss. But right now, in front of everyone inside and outside of this Starbucks, it’s just sloppy. Sloppy and all wrong. Completely bad timing.
With my hands on his chest, I push back and try to keep my face impassive. “Jackson, what’s wrong?”
He looks oblivious to my rejection. “So I was reading a book last night,” he says. There’s a dramatic pause.
“Okay….” I draw out. “What book?”
He takes a deep breath. “Of Mice and Men.”
At first, I think he’s joking. My lips turn up at the corners, but he’s staring at me so intensely that my smile fades. He’s being serious right now.
“So there I was. Reading the book. I didn’t sleep until I was finished.”
“And?”
“And the book fucking sucks!” he explodes.
I flinch slightly but he doesn’t notice.
“And so I’m reading the story, rooting for Lennie. Poor Lennie who plods along while it’s obvious people think he’s one big fucking joke. He makes a mistake. On accident, of course, and what happens? George fucking shoots him at the end!”
That has to be about the worst synopsis of Of Mice and Men I’ve ever heard. There are so many questions running through my mind but the biggest one is for a man who claims to love War and Peace by the one and only Leo Tolstoy, why hasn’t he read Of Mice and Men before? Wasn’t it on his high school English syllabus? It seems almost sacrilegious not to have read it. Like not reading Charlotte’s Web in elementary school.
“A lot of people consider Of Mice and Men a work of art,” I say quietly.
Jackson snorts. “Fuck Steinbeck!”
At this point, Jackson earns the attention of the people around us. I reach out. “Jack, why don’t you take a deep breath. Okay? It’s just a book.”
“Just a book?” He narrows his eyes. “Just a book? Just a fucking book? God you don’t get it.”
The only thing I’m getting right now is that he’s ridiculously angry over a high school novel that shouldn’t evoke a reaction like this. He’s on an adrenaline rush… and all I can think of is drugs. Cocaine, specifically. I can’t prove it, but it’s pretty obvious.
“Look,” I start out slowly. “I’m all for books. You know how I love them. But I think you’re reading way, waayy too much into it.”
Jackson leans in until our lips are inches apart. “I thought you loved words as much as I did?” he whispers.
How can I ask him if he’s on something without making him go off on another tirade? I can’t. But I have to know. I hesitate for one second and then ask, “Jackson, did you take something?”
He pushes away and laughs darkly. “Did I take something,” he repeats before he shoots me a dirty look. “Real nice, Selah. Real fucking nice.”
I grab his arm and force him to look at me. “Can you blame me for asking? You’re acting… erratic,” I hiss.
Jackson’s lips kick up in small grin. “That’s rich, coming from someone who has a crazy-ass Mom.”
I veer back, almost as though he’s physically slapped me.
Instantly, he sits up straighter. His smile fades. “Selah. Wait. I’m sorry. That was a fucked-up thing to say.”
“It was,” I reply. My heart’s racing, ready to explode out of my chest because I’m seeing a side of Jackson that I’ve never seen before. And it’s not a good one.
Jackson drags all ten fingers through his hair and takes a deep breath. “Look. I might’ve taken something today.”
My face falls. “Oh, Jackson.”
“But I just had a shitty day yesterday.” He looks at me with those big, blameless eyes. “I lost my job.”
“I’m sorry,” I reply. And I mean it. I know the fear of not knowing what comes next after being let go. Hell, I’m still dealing with that fear as we speak.
His shoulders slouch. “I’ve worked at Caterpillar for six years. It was a good paying job.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I knew they were laying people off I just didn’t think I’d be one of them.”
I gently rub his back. “I’m sure you’ll find another job quickly.”
He snorts. I slowly pull away from him. “You and I both know that’s bullshit. I mean, look at you. You’ve been out there searching for a job how long?”
I swallow. “Two months.”
Jackson arches a brow. “Two months,” he repeats. “You have a good resume and yet no one will hire you. Let’s face it: it’s not looking promising for the both of us.”
“I know you’re upset right now but using isn’t going to make anything better.”
“Yes, Dr. Phil. Anything else you need to say to me?”
This is the main reason why I didn’t want to confront him—I knew he wouldn’t see me as the good guy. I had a feeling he would lash out and I was right. I reach out and grab onto Jackson’s bicep, making sure I have his full attention.
“When you came over to my house and told me about your drug addiction, I didn’t judge you. I listened to you and promised that I would help you, in any way possible. And now you’re being a complete asshole when I’m just trying to help.”
Jackson stares at me with stony silence.
“I care for you. And I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.” I take a deep breath. “Promise me that you’ll stop using.”
Again, he says nothing. My grip around his arm tightens. “Promise me, Jackson,” I say.
His jaw works, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Jackson,” I press. “Promise me.”
He wraps an arm around me. Gives me a kiss on the forehead and guides my head toward his chest. “I promise. I promise.”
LAST NIGHT I dreamed I was drowning in a sea of blood.
I kept trying to swim to the surface but something in the water kept pulling me back down. The few times I made it to the top, I could see Mom and Jackson standing on a beach. Frothy, red waves splashed against their feet but they didn’t seem to notice. Jackson stood there, arms crossed over his chest, a look of remorse on his face. Mom’s arms were behind her back as she stood there piously, looking at me with pity instead of worry. Yet she was crying. Her blood red tears trailed down her cheeks.
Neither one attempted to help me.
Further and further I slipped into the blood-filled ocean, until the metallic scent filled my nostrils and absorbed my entire body. The water turned a murky blue but I could see my hand in front of me. I continued to try and break free from whatever was holding onto me. When I looked down I saw two hands wrapped around my ankles. There was no body attached to those hands.
I screamed. Blood bubbles floated in front of me.
This is it, I thought to myself. I’m going to die and no one will ever find my body. I started to hyperventilate. which only made me flail about.
I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t breathe.
I kicked at the hands holding onto my ankles. And I heard an unrecognizable voice say, “Let me help you, Selah.”
If I could speak I’d tell that person that they weren’t helping me. They were hurting me in every way possible.
The fight slowly left my body. My chin dipped to my chest, but my eyes? They remained open, filled with unmistakable fear. I stared at the dark mass beneath me, hoping that the last thing I saw was the very thing that was killing me.
Instead, those hands pulled me further down. Gradually, I slipped out of consciousness, but by that point I didn’t care. I didn’t care that I was going to die. I didn’t care
that I was leaving Mom and Jackson and Sam behind. I didn’t care that they didn’t help. I just wanted this insufferable pain to end.
My body became numb and then—
With a loud gasp I wake up. My heart is pounding so hard my entire body shakes. My hands curl around my neck as I reflexively swallow and gasp. Swallow and gasp.
Clearly it was just a dream. But it felt so real that for the first few seconds I’m still gasping for air. Dazed, I look down: my sheets are pushed down around my legs. My oversized sleep shirt is drenched in sweat. My skin is clammy. I can still smell the body wash I used last night before I went to bed, but I feel filthy, like I’m actually covered in blood but I can’t see it.
The look on Jackson and Mom’s face gives me chills. They both became two strangers that I didn’t know. I know that I’m reading into the dream but I can’t stop the goosebumps that cover my arms.
I roll out of bed and walk quietly down the hall toward Mom’s bedroom. I see the light from the TV peeking out from beneath her door. That should make me feel at ease but I have to see her. I need the physical proof. I gently open her door. Her love for HSN and SUV are strictly confined to daytime. At night, it’s either the Hallmark channel or Nick at Nite. Right now I Love Lucy is playing. I sneak closer to her bed and when I see her lying asleep on her left side I finally take a deep breath.
See? I tell myself. It was all just a dream. Your mom would never do anything to hurt you.
My heart is pounding so hard that sleep is completely out of the question. So I slip into bed next to her. Me, Selah Kerrington, thirty-year-old woman, is sleeping in her mom’s bed like a little girl who just saw the fucking boogieman. But it’s not the boogieman I saw. What I saw felt akin to déja vu, it felt like I had experienced that dream in real time. The thought makes me shudder.
Mom doesn’t stir as I get comfortable and watch TV. For the next three hours I lie awake. It’s only when the sun rises that my eyelids become heavy and I slip into a deep, dreamless sleep.
I TRY NOT to count the good days against the bad.
There are times when the bad days take over, stacking themselves one on top of the other until it feels like a fortress has been built around me. To combat the overwhelming feeling I hold on to the good moments.
Lately that’s been working. I’ve started to become optimistic. I’m playing a dangerous game with my emotions, but I deserve to feel happiness roaring through my veins. I deserve this.
So does my mom.
I think my optimistic approach has been rubbing off on her. She’s helped tackle some of the bills with me. Together, we might get the never-ending pile under control. She’s even cooked us dinner a few times. She’s starting to act like the fun-loving, eccentric mom that I grew up with.
Today I have another substitute teaching job, and I wake up to the sound of my alarm. I’m dressed and walking down the stairs by 6:12. Not bad. I start the coffeemaker and inhale the deep rich scent. I grab a bagel and pop it in the toaster.
While I wait for my breakfast, I walk to the calendar hanging on the wall and cross off yesterday’s date. March 5th. I drum my fingers on the counter, wondering whether I should fuel up before I leave South Shores or wait until after school. I decide to leave early and fuel up, but that means I have to leave now if I’m going to make it on time.
I pour my coffee in a to-go cup and quickly smear some cream cheese onto the bagel before wrapping it in a paper towel. I hook my hand through my purse straps, then grab my food and coffee and walk out of the kitchen toward the foyer. Because of Mom’s recent behavior, I’ve become more comfortable leaving her at home. But I still make it a habit to check on her before I leave.
“Mom?” I shout up the stairs. “I’m leaving. I’m teaching in Warrensburg so I might get home a little later than I usually do. Okay?”
Silence.
“Mom?”
More silence.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” I mutter to myself as I place my bagel, coffee and purse on the small end table in the front room. I hurry up the stairs, and make a left toward Mom’s room.
Sometimes she stays up the entire night. She’ll watch TV, color in one of those adult coloring books, or catch up on reading. But her late-night activities make her sleep well into the afternoon and you have to practically shout to wake her up.
I knock on her door once before I walk in.
Per her usual, the TV is on. The blinds are shut, giving the room a cave-like vibe. I turn on the light, expecting to see Mom softly snoring, but her bed is empty. The sheets have been pulled back and I can still see the indentation of her head on the pillow.
“Mom? You in here?”
Silence.
The first inklings of worry start to course through me. Forgetting about my substitute-teaching job, I leave the master bedroom and search every single room in the house.
She’s nowhere to be found.
Standing in the middle of the foyer, I look around and feel panic take hold of my heart. “Take a deep breath, Selah,” I tell myself. “Just breathe.” I try to follow my own suggestion but miserably fail.
I stalk toward the kitchen where the back door is. I open it up, ignoring the cold air. Our backyard is covered in snow, making it look like a winter wonderland. The wind lightly picks up snowflakes that swirl in the air and go up and over our fence. With the exception of animal footprints, there are no other footprints. And no sight of Mom. If anyone were out in weather like this not properly dressed, they’d get hypothermia pretty damn quick.
I slam the door. The black hinges on the porch door creak loudly behind me as I hurry to the front door.
“Mom?” I inch out of the house.
It’s then that I realize she’s really gone. I don’t have proof and I’ve hardly been looking for her long but it’s a feeling in my gut. Something is very, very wrong. My vision starts to blur. There’s an acid taste in my mouth. I always worry that Mom will once again wander off. It’s one of my biggest fears but lately she’s been so great. I lowered my defenses.
This is my entire fault.
“Mom?” I ask a little louder, but my voice is hoarse.
Hurrying inside, I grab my car keys hoping that maybe she fell asleep in the backseat or something bizarre. I don’t care how crazy it seemed, I’d gladly accept any other option running through my head.
She’s not in my car. Or the garage. If I could tear apart the house, rip the walls down, I would.
She’s nowhere.
It gets harder and harder to breath, I think I’m going to vomit because that gut feeling won’t go away.
Just then I see Noah walk out his front door. He gives me a friendly wave as he walks to his car. I don’t wave back. Instead, I hurry over to his driveway.
“Have you seen my mom?”
He unlocks his car and frowns at me. “No, I haven’t. Why?”
“She’s gone.”
“What do you mean gone?” he repeats slowly.
“Gone! She’s nowhere to be found!” I half shout.
“Calm down,” Noah says in a soothing tone. He walks around the car and stands in front of me. His hands curl around my bicep. “Why do you think she’s gone?”
“Because she’s not in the house and she’s been known to wander the streets.”
“And have you searched the streets?”
“No!” I say impatiently. Frantically, I look around the cul de sac, hoping that she’ll magically appear. Noah’s fingers dig into my flesh, making me wince. But I don’t tell him to let me go because the pain keeps me wide awake and alert.
“She’s done this twice before,” I admit, my voice shaking. “A third time and they’ll involuntarily commit her. I can’t let that happen. I can’t.”
Noah lets go of me and I cross my arms over my chest. “Let’s look around the neighborhood first before we panic,” he says calmly.
He opens up the passenger car door and waits for me to get in. My distrust of Noah is still alive and well, but at
least he’s on my side, willing to help me out. And right now I need all the help I can get.
FOR THE NEXT two hours we search Wildwood for Mom, but come up short. Noah has the heat on full blast but nothing can warm the frigid cold that’s swallowed up my marrow. Very slowly, it’s spreading through my bones until I can feel nothing.
It’s apparent that Noah wants to give up the search. He keeps drumming his fingers against the steering wheel and looking out his window with idle eyes like I’m asking him to search for a garage sale or something.
Yet the fact that he is helping me stands for something.
Eventually, we broaden our search to South Shores shopping area. I text Jackson multiple times to tell him what’s going on.
Hey! I need to talk to you ASAP!
No reply.
Five minutes later.
I’m with Noah. We can’t find my Mom. I don’t know what to do.
Nothing.
“Earlier, you mentioned that she’s done this twice before… Is she on any medication that she should be taking but isn’t?”
“No,” I lie, trying but failing to keep the defensiveness out of my tone.
“Hey, now…” He momentarily holds his hands up in surrender before he drops them back to the steering wheel. “There’s nothing wrong with medication. I just didn’t know if there’s something else to the story that I don’t know.” He glances at me searchingly. “Because if there is, it stays between you and me. I won’t tell a soul.”
Never, ever trust someone to hold your secrets, my mind whispers. Yet I still hesitate because Noah’s here, helping me search, and that means a lot. Reaching across the console he pats my hand. I expect him to pull away but he lays it there for a few seconds longer than necessary. I don’t say a word because for a second I feel comfort that I haven’t felt in hours. Maybe days.
Toward the end of the day, I tell Noah to park outside of Kroger. Maybe someone inside or leaving the grocery store saw her. I ask over twenty people. Not one person saw her. Something starts to break inside of me. Something important and vital. My sanity? Nothing is making sense anymore.