Disgrace

by Cherry, Brittainy

  “But Grace…” my sister started.

  “Really, Judy. It’s fine. You can go home.” She looked at me with concerned eyes, but I gave her a comforting smile. “Seriously, I got this.”

  “No. I’m helping you,” she said, not allowing me to take on Mike Emery alone.

  I went back to looking at Jackson’s father, covered in trash. He kept telling us to leave, but I ignored him. There was no way I was leaving his side, and there was no way Judy would leave mine. I didn’t need more kids to gather around and abuse him, or even worse, the cops to pick him up and take him in.

  I did the only thing I could think to do: I helped Mr. Emery up from the trash, and Judy helped too. We started to walk him home even though he pushed against us. “Go away, you fucking ugly bitches,” he growled, and for a moment, I considered it, but then Dad’s words crossed my mind.

  If you turn your back on one, then you turn your back on all…

  Halfway though, he simply gave up and let us drag him home.

  “I don’t n-need you,” he muttered, drool rolling out of the side of his mouth as he slurred his words. I reached into his pocket and pulled out his set of keys to unlock his door, and we brought him inside.

  The house was a mess. There were empty beer cans scattered throughout the space, and old food sat on dirty dishes stacked high in the sink. I kept pulling Mr. Emery through the house until we reached the bathroom.

  “We need to put him in the shower,” I told Judy, and she was quick to help me without any questions.

  “You’ll hate me for this,” I muttered. “But then again, you already hate me, so it can’t get any worse.” He sat down and scrunched over, mumbling to himself. I reached into his front pocket and grabbed his phone before I turned on the cold water. He reacted instantly to the feeling.

  “What the fuck?!” he shouted but was still unable to stand.

  I couldn’t let him sit in his own urine and the filth from the garbage bins. “You’re okay,” I told him.

  “I don’t need y-your help. Fuck you, whore,” he kept repeating, but his shoulders slumped over as he shut his eyes and allowed the water to run over him. I turned the water to a warmer temperature before grabbing his cell phone and dialing Jackson’s number.

  The moment it began to ring, Jackson was quick to answer.

  “Yeah, Dad?”

  “Hey, Jackson? It’s actually Grace…”

  His voice grew alert. “What’s going on? Is my dad okay?”

  “He’s, um, he’s okay. He’s just a bit wasted. I found him in town almost passed out, and a few kids were messing with him. I brought him back to his house. I just thought you should know.”

  “Shit,” he whispered under his breath. “I’m so sorry. I’ll be over there soon. You don’t gotta stay with him.”

  “No, it’s fine. I’ll wait with him. I’ll probably need your help getting him into clean clothes."

  “I’m so—”

  “Jackson.”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t say you’re sorry. I’ll see you soon.” I hung up the phone and turned to Judy, who still had a look of worry in her eyes, but I knew it was for Mr. Emery’s life. She cared about everyone equally because that was the only way her heart knew how to beat. “You can head home, Judy. I’ll be there soon.”

  “Are you sure? I can stay and help…” she told me.

  “No, really, it’s fine. Jackson will be here soon, and then I’ll head home.” She gave me an uncertain frown, and I reached out and lightly squeezed her arm. “Really, Judy. We’re good here.”

  “Okay, but call me if anything changes.”

  “I will do. And Judy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you not tell Mama about this?”

  “Of course, I won’t.”

  I thanked her for that, and then she left.

  I shut off the water and began to dry Mr. Emery’s hair, but he kept pushing my hands away and calling me names. That didn’t stop me from trying to help.

  After I dried him the best I could, I went searching for dry clothes for him to change into once Jackson made it home. I walked into his bedroom and I paused at his dresser. A dusty framed picture sat on it of Jackson, Mike and his late wife. They were all laughing in the photograph. A beautiful memory snapped into a forever keepsake. I moved my fingers across it lightly and studied the family.

  They once looked so happy and full of life.

  It was amazing how tragedy could change a person forever.

  I shook off the feeling of sadness and gathered Mike’s clothing.

  Then I went back to the bathroom and waited on the floor, making sure Mike didn’t get sick and choke on his own vomit. He leaned against the tiled wall with his eyes closed, and his mouth parted. Every now and then, I waved my hand in front of his mouth to make sure I could feel his breaths.

  The moment the front door opened, a wave of relief hit me. Jackson rushed through the house, calling for his dad.

  “Over here, in the bathroom,” I replied.

  He stepped into the room, and his eyes fell to his father. “Jesus, Dad…” he softly spoke, disappointment dancing through his sounds. He raced his hands through his hair.

  “He pissed himself?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He cringed. “I got it from here. You can go.”

  “Are you sure…?”

  “Yes,” he said, uninterested in any more words. “Go.”

  I stood and gave him a broken smile. “If you need anything…”

  “We won’t.”

  “Okay.”

  I walked past him and then felt a small touch to my forearm. My eyes fell to Jackson’s hand against my skin, and my stomach flipped.

  Oh…

  I forgot what that felt like—to be touched ever so gently.

  I looked up and found his hazel eyes staring into mine. As his lips parted, his words somersaulted off his tongue. “Thank you for bringing him back here. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  As I walked away to allow Jackson to help his father change into clean, dry clothing, I had a feeling I shouldn’t leave him alone to deal with everything on his own. As he took care of his father, I helped clean up around the house, tossing the dishes into the dishwasher and throwing the empty beers into the trash can.

  After Jackson helped his father to bed, he came out with such a look of distress on his face.

  “He’s knocked out. I placed a garbage can next to him. Hopefully, he won’t need to use it.”

  “I hope he’s okay.”

  “Why are you still here?” he asked, and I wasn’t very certain. He glanced around the space. “Did you clean up?”

  “Only a little. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. Are you okay?” I asked, nodding in his direction. After the words left my mouth, I realized how stupid the question was. Of course, he wasn’t okay.

  “I’ll be fine,” he replied with knitted brows. He was repeatedly snapping a band on his wrist. So much so that his skin was turning red.

  I hugged my body with my arms. “It has to be hard living in a place where you feel like you don’t belong. I’m sure your reasons for staying are valid, but that doesn’t make it any less hard. Plus, with the shape your father is in, that can’t be easy.” He didn’t reply, so I kept talking. “I know you don’t know me, but if you ever need a person to talk to—”

  “I don’t,” he snapped, and when the words harshly fell from his tongue, his mouth twitched.

  “Okay.”

  His bottom lip twitched. “It’s not you. I don’t talk to strangers, and it just turns out that everyone’s a stranger.”

  “Except Alex.”

  “Yes. Except Alex, and even then…”

  I nodded in understanding, then swayed back and forth a tad bit. “I, uh, I’m Grace. I love puzzles, but I never finish them. I’m the worst person to take out to eat because I can never decide what to order. I think bananas are weird, but
I love banana cream pie. I can’t do a cartwheel, but I can eat a whole pizza in one sitting, which some might find gross, but I find impressive. I still have my wisdom teeth even though they bother me during full moons, and—”

  He narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing?”

  “Telling you about myself so I’m no longer a stranger to you. Therefore, you won’t feel weird talking about things to me.”

  He almost smiled, or at least, I pretended he did. Every now and then, I imagined what it would look like if his lips curved up into a grin. I bet a smile would look so good on him.

  “Why are you so set on trying to get me to open up?” he asked.

  “Because, even though you don’t see it, I think we have things in common. Plus, you’re the only person in this town who makes me feel like I don’t have to pretend to be something I’m not.”

  “What are you pretending to be?”

  I swallowed hard and shrugged my left shoulder. “Perfect.”

  “I know what that’s like.” He spoke low, unease in his tone. “To have to pretend to be something you aren’t.”

  He was opening up, slowly, quietly, softly…

  Please stay open.

  “What are you pretending to be?” I asked.

  “Angry.”

  “But what are you really?”

  “Lost,” he truthfully confessed, and I felt his words deep in my soul.

  “Me too,” I told him. “So much, me too.”

  His shoulders rounded forward, and his stare dropped to the floor, but no words escaped him.

  I stepped toward him. “If you need anything—”

  “I don’t. We don’t.”

  “But if there ever is a time you do need anything, I’m here. Even if it’s just loading the dishwasher.”

  He appeared so perplexed by my offer—almost angry that I’d say those words—but he didn’t say anything in response to my offer, which made me grow a bit uncomfortable.

  “I should get out of your hair, though. I don’t want to take up your night.”

  He nodded in agreement and walked me out to the front porch.

  “I’ll walk you home,” he offered, his voice intense, but I didn’t take offense to it. It seemed that intensity was all that Jackson really knew how to be.

  I shook my head. “I’ll be fine.”

  He grumbled, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “It’s late.”

  “We’re in Chester,” I joked. “It’s pretty safe.”

  “You never know what kind of weirdos there are in small towns.”

  “I think I can handle it.”

  “But—”

  “Really,” I cut in. “It’s fine.”

  “Are you always this stubborn?”

  “That’s funny.” I grinned. “I could ask you the same thing.”

  He almost smiled, and I almost loved it.

  “Well, if you’re sure,” he told me, his deep voice still uncertain.

  “I am but thank you for the offer.”

  As I turned to leave, his sharp voice sounded once more. “Why didn’t you call the cops?”

  “What?”

  “On my father. Why didn’t you call the cops on him like everyone else in town does?”

  My eyes locked with his, and even though his words were hardened, his stare wasn’t. His eyes simply looked sad. Oh, Jackson. He was way too young to be that sad, that angry, that broken.

  “That’s simple,” I replied. “Because I’m not like everyone else in town.”

  “Grace?”

  “Yes?”

  He stuffed his hands into his pockets and released a small breath. “You’re nothing like your mother.”

  That both broke my heart and healed it all at once.

  We didn’t say another word. He turned and went back into his father’s house, and I walked down the steps of the front porch. As I made my way back to my sister’s, Jackson Emery and his father both stayed on my mind.

  I said a small prayer for their hearts and hoped somehow their souls could find some kind of healing.

  13

  Jackson

  She helped him when she didn’t have to.

  I didn’t understand. I couldn’t process what had happened the night before. Grace Harris, from the family I despised, helped my father last night. Why would she do that? Why would she reach out a hand to him and take him home? Shower him? Clean up his home?

  She could’ve easily just called the cops on him. I should’ve been bailing him out of jail last night, but I didn’t have to do that.

  Everything I knew about her family proved the opposite of her actions, yet still…

  “Where’s the damn coffee?” Dad muttered, walking into the auto shop, scratching his beard. He looked like shit, but that wasn’t surprising. I was actually shocked he was up before five in the afternoon.

  “In the break room where it always is,” I stated dryly.

  He walked into the break room and went to pour himself a cup. I tried my best to ignore the small bottle of whiskey he dumped inside before he began to sip.

  “How was your night?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Fine. I just passed out.”

  Blacked out, you mean.

  “Did you hang out with anyone?” I questioned him, wanting to know how much he remembered.

  He cocked an eyebrow and sipped his “coffee.” “Who the hell would I hang out with?”

  “No one. Forget about it.”

  “Already forgotten. Also, clean up this room. It looks like shit in here. Are we running a business or a fucking dump?” he grumbled.

  We weren’t running anything. My father hadn’t worked on a car in years. He used to be the best at it, though. I used to really look up to him before the liquor made him too far gone.

  Now, he was merely a ghost of the man I used to look up to.

  He hadn’t a clue of the events from the night before. I wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing. Though, if he found out a Harris was who saved him from himself, he’d probably take another sledgehammer to the pews.

  Our family didn’t take handouts.

  Especially from the likes of them.

  Except maybe she saved him last night. If she hadn’t been there to walk him home, to watch over him, who knew what would’ve happened.

  My mind was conflicted, blurred, and I wasn’t sure how to make it clear.

  I not only had so much hate for Grace Harris and everything she stood for, but an overwhelming amount of gratitude also.

  How could that be? How could I hate and be thankful all at once?

  I didn’t know how to feel, so I chose to feel nothing at all and headed back to work. My job was the only thing I had control over, and at that moment, I felt as if I needed some form of control.

  Yet even as I worked, the sight of her eyes crossed my mind every other minute. Those stupid, wide-eyed doe eyes that looked so full of kindness.

  I wished she didn’t look so kind.

  My mind was split in two as I thought about Grace. Part of me was so thankful for her help. I wanted to believe in the kindness that she showed me and trust that she did it from the goodness of her heart. Yet another part of me wished she hadn’t helped my father because that felt like some kind of leverage to me. That she had something over us somehow. That we were some kind of charity case to her. I didn’t want that at all, so I’d make it my mission to pay her back somehow.

  No matter what it took.

  * * *

  “Hey, Jackson, I got a call that I was supposed to come into the shop?” Grace said, walking in later that afternoon. “Is everything okay with the car?” As she walked up, Tucker rose from his dog bed and wandered over. He was slow and grumbled as he did it, but his tail wagged the whole time. He was committed to greeting every guest who came into the shop even though he was half blind and arthritis ravaged his body. He was in pain whenever he moved, but the idea of not giving someone a “hello” and a lick against the face seemed more painful to
him than anything.

  Grace welcomed his greeting, rubbing directly behind his ear as Tucker licked her face once, then sluggishly retreated to his bed. The vet had recently put him on new meds, and I worried they were making him too drowsy, but at least they were supposed to help his pain.

  I cleared my throat and stood up from working under the hood of a truck. “Your car’s still a piece of shit. I still think Alex should junk it, but that’s not why I called you in.”

  “Oh? What’s up?” She stood a bit taller. “Is your father all right?”

  “Yes, well, no, not really, but as far as last night goes, he doesn’t remember it. But that is what this is about. About last night.”

  “Yeah? What about it?”

  I walked over to her and crossed my arms. “I don’t want to owe you.”

  “What? What does that mean?” she asked, and I hated how her eyes were so wide. And beautiful. And kind.

  Stop being so soft-spoken and kind.

  “I don’t want to owe you anything for helping my father,” I told her matter-of-factly.

  “Oh.” She somewhat laughed, and I hated the sound because it sounded gorgeous, and I needed her not to sound that way. “You don’t owe me anything. I just wanted to help.”

  “We don’t want your handout,” I told her.

  She raised a brow and narrowed those eyes. “It wasn’t a handout. I was just helping him.”

  “No, you must want something in return, and I don’t want you or your family to hold that over us.”

  “Listen, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but please know that you’re wrong. It wasn’t some kind of game—me helping your father. I didn’t want anything at all. I still don’t.”

  I heard her words, but they were so hard to believe. I slid my hands into my jeans pockets, and my shoulders curved forward. “I don’t get it then.”

  “Get what?”

  “We’ve been awful to you…my father and I, and you still treated us with kindness. Why?”

  “Jackson.” She sighed, her voice almost a whisper. Her eyes softened in a way I wished they hadn’t. She looked so genuinely concerned by my question, worried about my lack of understanding. “My father always taught me that you don’t only treat certain people well. You treat all people equally. With love, with respect, and understanding.”