by Jason Myers
Tears begin to fall down her face. Slowly, the car veers into the other lane.
“Mom,” I go. “What are you doing?”
“Huh?” she whispers, looking at me with a pair of the most haunting eyes I’ve ever seen from her, and I’ve seen so many.
“Look at the road, Mom,” I say. “Please just pay attention.”
She giggles and then slides back into the proper lane.
“Maybe I should drive now, Mom. How about that?”
“No!” she snaps. “No! You don’t want to drive anymore, remember? You’re leaving. There’s no driving left for you to do.”
“Oh, come on,” I say. “Let’s just go back home.”
“In a little bit, my boy. In a little bit we’ll be home.”
I sigh and try to remain calm, even though my stomach is in knots.
And she goes, “When you were born, you were my everything. Deep down I knew that my old life was never going to come back to me. I knew, Jaime, and you were my savior.”
I bite my bottom lip.
“I love the ballet.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“And it was taken from me for good. Taken!”
“Mom.”
“And I love you, my sweet boy, just like I love the ballet.”
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“And I can’t let you be taken away from me for good. I’ll just die. I know this.”
Prolly like two miles in front of us, coming at us in the other lane, is a semi truck.
“You are my last link to the happiest time of my life,” she says. “The last link.”
“I love you, Mom. We will still be a family. Still be together.”
“Oh, I know,” she goes. “Me and you will be. We’ll always be together now. Forever.”
She takes another drink and unties her coat.
I turn white.
She’s wearing her ballet dress.
Holy shit.
She looks at me now and says, “We are always going to be together, Jaime. Just me and my beautiful boy.”
Then she veers the car back into the other lane.
I start yelling for her to quit it. I scream for her to stop, just please stop, just please let me drive and take us back home.
But she shakes her head and her smile grows and she grabs my phone and turns up the volume all the way.
This is what she wanted anyway. This was her plan.
And in front of us, the semi keeps coming hard. I’m sure it’s honking and I’m sure the driver is wondering what the fuck is going on. And I’m sure he’s getting really nervous.
Then all of a sudden, my mother cranks the volume down and she looks at me. Her eyes say it all. This is her peace. This is what she needs to happen and this is how she gets to have me no matter what, all to herself again.
And she says, “Just me and my boy and my favorite dress. I love my ballet dress. I love my sweet boy.”
And the strangest thing happens next. With the semi less than a hundred feet from us, this beautiful calm just washes over me. This light shines into the car. I’m going with her. I have no choice now and it’s fine. I’ll let her have what she wants. For the last eight days, I had the best life a boy can ever have. I loved a girl. I got to hold her hand and listen to my favorite bands with her. I got to look at her and sing her a song. It was perfect. I had my taste of perfect and I’m okay with this now.
When she holds her hand out to me, I take a deep breath and look into her eyes. They look so angelic and then everything gets blurry cos it’s time. The fog swarms in and the haze blows everywhere and I take her hand and I squeeze it and I nod and she goes, “Are you ready?”
I whisper, “I am, Mom.”
The semi is twenty feet from us now, and I close my eyes one last time as I brace myself for impact. Brace myself for the end.
Images of me and Kristen laughing and dancing in the basement to that Naked and Famous song “Punching in a Dream,” of me and my father standing near the ocean talking about Vertigo and my mother, of me and Eddie and Brandon writing songs and skateboarding together, of me and Savannah getting stoned and listening to Portugal. The Man, of me and James fucking Morgan talking about what it means to actually live life, smash through my head.
And finally, an image of Dominique and me standing at the top of the train station holding hands, listening to Youth Lagoon, pounds through my head and that’s the one I want. The last memory I see is the happiest moment I’ve ever had, and I won’t lose it now. I’ll have that moment for eternity.
And none of this is fair. Nothing was ever fair in my life. Squeezing my hand so hard I think it’s going to break, I open my eyes for the last time and look at my mother, and she looks so peaceful. This woman who’s done nothing but battle her whole life is finally at peace, and this is good enough for me.
I just hope the papers get it right and I hope that Dominique will never find anyone better than me. And I hope . . .
BANG!
CRASH!
SMASH!
This is all over now.
This is the end.
108.
I SHOOT UP STRAIGHT IN bed and can barely breathe. I’m covered in sweat. I’m panicked. Looking around my room, I’m still here, though. Still in my room, and my mother, she’s sitting next to the door, crying, wearing a brown trench coat and pink sweatpants.
I feel so sick seeing her in the coat and sweatpants.
“How long have you been in here?” I ask.
“Long enough,” she says.
“I’m not taking that drive with you. No way.”
“What drive?” she asks.
“The one,” I start to say.
Pause.
Looking around the room again, this here, this is real life. Not a dream.
And I say, “Sorry, never mind.” Then, “Have you slept yet?”
“Why do you care?”
“Come on, Mom. Just cos I’m leaving doesn’t mean I don’t care.”
“Sure it does. But I’ll answer. No, I haven’t.”
“How long have you been watching me sleep?”
“A couple hours, I guess.”
“Why?”
“Cos this is all I get now. These last few hours with you.”
“That’s not true,” I snap.
She stands up. She’s as shaky as I’ve ever seen her. That Lewee Regal song, “Broken Ever Thus,” quickly smashes through my head as she says, “Sure it is. Once you leave, my life is over.”
“Don’t say that,” I go.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, she stares at me and says, “There’s nothing left to say besides that.”
“Mom,” I go, reaching out for her.
But the doorbell rings and she says, “That’s your father. It’s time to go, my boy.”
She stands up and walks out of the room.
Hold it together, I tell myself. Just hold it together and everything will be okay.
Oh, those lies we try and fool ourselves with. The responsibility that will never stop even for a lie.
I get dressed and go downstairs. My father, he has half the truck loaded already.
My mother, she’s in the kitchen and I watch her swallow an Oxy.
When my father comes back to the front door to grab more boxes, he goes, “You look exhausted, son. Did you sleep last night?”
Looking over at my mother, I go, “I did. I had to. She’s still here.”
“Huh?” he goes.
“Nothing,” I say, as my mother looks over at me and smiles.
It’s the same creepy smile from my dream.
It shakes me.
And when my father turns around with that last load, my mother goes, “I hope you do so well there.”
“Me too.”
“I’m gonna be sorry that I miss all of that.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says.
I go to the door and help load the rest of my shit into
the truck.
When we’re finished, my father locks the back of the truck. My mother is standing in the doorway. We both watch her swallow something and wash it down with water, and my father says, “Go do what you need to do. I’ll be waiting in the truck.”
“Yeah,” I go.
I walk up to my mother.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” she sniffs. “I saved you when you were a baby boy, and I made sure you had a great life.”
“Okay,” I say. “But I can also have a great life there.”
“What am I supposed to do?” she goes. “I’m so lost now. I don’t know what to do.”
“The dance school,” I go, spitting out the first thing I can think of, even though I know it won’t do shit.
“Whatever,” she says, crying again. “I have nothing without you. Life won’t matter without you.”
“You’ll be just fine,” I say. “This will all be fine.”
“But it won’t,” she goes. “So just go. Stop worrying about me. I’ll do what I need to do.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“I’ll never be a problem for anyone again,” she says.
“Jaime,” my father goes.
I turn around.
“We should get going now.”
“All right.”
I look back at my mother and say, “I’ll call you when we stop for the night.”
“Don’t,” she goes.
“Why not?”
“I won’t be able to answer.”
“Mom,” I go.
And she says, “I didn’t do anything that wrong. I helped you become who you are. I’m a great mom.”
“You are,” I say.
“Were,” she says.
“What?”
She stares at me and goes, “Nothing.”
She goes, “Have the best life ever, my boy. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Jaime,” my father goes again.
“Coming,” I say.
Before I turn back around, I look at my mother again, her face in her hands, sobbing, her with no sleep, her, the most gorgeous person in the world even though she’s completely lost.
I try to hug her again, but she pushes me away and says, “Just go, please. If you aren’t gonna live here, just leave and let me be.”
Nodding, I say, “Okay.”
Turning around, I walk to the passenger side of the truck and get in.
We pull away.
As we turn out of the driveway, I look in the passenger-side mirror and watch my mother crying.
It really might be the last time I see her.
It’s the worst I’ve ever fucking felt.
Two blocks later we hit a red light and it just floors me. I can’t go. I just cannot go with my father and live in San Francisco. I can’t leave my mother like this. She never abandoned me.
Fuck the suicide attempt.
She took me in the middle of the night and saved me.
I can’t leave.
Never.
Until it’s on her terms, not mine.
I just can’t.
My mother, she said to me one time a few months ago, while she was totally blacked and I know she doesn’t remember, but she said to me, she went, “You should get the hell away from me someday soon. I’ll only destroy you after I’m done destroying myself. So just go. Leave me. It’ll be the best thing for you.”
I never said anything about it to her.
You don’t ruffle that kinda feather, especially when you’re aware that the person who said that has no recollection of it.
So I let it pass.
I never thought I’d ever have the chance to leave her either.
But now, knowing what I’m doing, I can’t leave. I just can’t.
What I wanted to say to my mother that night was, “If I leave, you will die. That’s the truth. You will really kill yourself. And there’s no way I can live with myself knowing that you only did it because I left.”
This is the truth.
The only one that matters.
I can’t let her die.
Life anywhere else won’t ever be any good knowing that I left this amazing woman alone with her demons, and it was those demons that killed her.
Right as the light turns green, I look over at my father and say, “Turn around.”
“Did you forget something?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I go. “My priorities.”
“Jaime,” he starts.
I cut him off and say, “Turn around now. I can’t leave her. I’ll never be able to live with myself if something happens to her again.”
He groans and says, “She tried to kill herself when you were there, son.”
“But she didn’t die. I stopped it. Cos I was there. I have to go back.”
“What about San Francisco and your girlfriend and your band?”
“What about it?” I say. “I’d rather know my mother is alive than play another song with my band. Turn around now.”
“You’re for real?”
“I’ve never been this for real about anything before.”
“Fine,” he goes. “Okay. But if you change your mind—”
“I won’t,” I say, cutting him off as he flips a U-turn in the intersection.
“But if you do.”
“I won’t,” I snap. Then, “Thank you.”
And my father, he drives back the two blocks and pulls into the driveway.
My mother is still sitting on the front steps, crying. She looks up as I hop out of the truck.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
“I’m staying here with you,” I go.
“Really?” she gasps.
“Yeah. Really. I’ll never leave like you tried to leave me.”
“And I’ll never do that again.”
Standing up, she gives me the biggest hug while my father unlocks the truck and says, “I’ll call the rental place and have them pick this up tomorrow.”
Walking back over to him, I say, “Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome, Jaime. But how are you going to explain this to Eddie and Dominique and Kristen?”
Shrugging, I go, “I ain’t sure yet. But I’ll see you in Chicago for the Rolling Stones.”
He grins. He says, “This is what you want?”
“This is what has to happen right now.”
“And you’re okay with it?”
“No. But I’m doing the right thing, and sometimes the right thing ain’t what you wanna do.”
He hugs me and kisses me on the forehead and goes, “You’re a good person.”
“Thanks, man. So are you. I had an incredible run in in San Francisco.”
“Yeah, you did.”
Pause.
“The Stones,” he goes.
“Yeah, the Stones.”
This is when he says he’s going to walk up the street and call a cab to take him to the airport.
This is when I watch him walk away, down the driveway, and disappear around the corner.
“I’m gonna unload all your stuff now,” my mother says.
“I’ll be down in a second to help.”
“Where you going?”
“My room for a minute.”
“Okay,” she goes. “Well, I’ll be out here.”
Walking inside the house, I go straight to the kitchen and open the drawer where all her pills are at.
I take four Oxys, then rip off a sheet of foil and jog up to my room.
This is the only way to get through this now.
I want back inside the glass castle again.
I want in so bad.
Just like my mother, feeling nothing in Joliet is better than feeling anything in Joliet.
109.
SITTING DOWN AT MY COMPUTER, I drop an entire blue on the foil.
I’m so excited too.
Something about this, it leaves me thrilled and in love.
Cutting a pen in half, I grab a lighter and I chase th
is fucking dragon. Its tail is so big and hazy and my eyes blur for a moment before I’m back.
The corridors are as beautiful as ever.
So perfect.
The fogman is back in his palace.
After three more hits, I set the foil down and then turn off my phone.
I thought about texting Dominique and texting Kristen and Eddie, but I can’t right now.
I don’t feel like letting anyone else down again until I have to.
Turning on my webcam, I hit the record button and go for it.
Another poem.
Another lullaby.
“Blonde on Blonde” by Nada Surf rolls in and then out of my head.
It was so beautiful to hear Dominique sing that on Tuesday night.
I’m gonna miss her so much.
Staring straight into the camera now, I go, “There are reasons we do everything in life. Some of them are harder to explain than others. Some of them are impossible to explain unless you’re in that person’s shoes. This is one of those moments. I loved every fucking second in San Francisco.”
Taking a deep breath, I lean out of the camera lens and take another hit.
Now I’m ready.
Squaring up straight again, I go, “Here it is.”
I say, “In the shadows is where I found the most comfort, away from all the noise and the distractions, away from the excuses, face-to-face with the isolation and the vast silence, never a part of anything or anyone, but a reminder that yes, you’re still fucking alive . . . when the car broke down in the desert, the only thing I grabbed for the endless stroll was my notebook and my pencil . . . there was no way I was going to stop this recording, no way this story was not going to be told, I’ve always understood the importance of stories, just think about that . . . we are nothing without our stories . . . It rained once for six days straight and when the rain finally ended, it was immediately replaced by a fog so thick that some people swore it was smoke . . . this was the first time I saw her eyes . . . in the fog . . . these golden wandering eyes that faded into this dark brown hair, which hung just perfectly down her back. . . . For the next two days I followed her through the fog and watched her from afar . . . every time she laughed, I felt alive, but it was her singing that kept the journey moving, her voice that gave comfort to my soul and justified the worth of my curiosity . . . I often dream of these sunny afternoons where I’m swinging so high I can taste the sky . . . those dreams usually end with me jumping from the swing into the ocean and laughing all the way to the bottom of the ocean floor where the only thing I see are more shadows . . . two days after we started walking through the desert, my notebook was full . . . we’d eaten cactus and tamed snakes and started a cult after meeting twenty beautiful girls and boys who were listening to the Growlers and Beach Fossils and racing dirt bikes through the sand. . . . One day I really will get to Paris and I’ll teach my girl all about Sartre . . . and I’ll pour absinthe all over her body while she quotes Rimbaud . . . In Mexico me and her danced all night and drank tequila and she finally forgave me for that one choice I made even though that choice kept us apart for so many years. . . . the notebooks were the key to everything . . . she was able to read about what had happened since the day I’d left her that first time, and it was because of those stories that we were able to find each other once again and get right back to the place we’d left each other all those years ago . . . these are our days, this is our time . . . the only things we’ll ever truly own are our days, and our time, and our stories . . . this is our life and this is our only fucking chance in this special place where the sun triggers a million possibilities and the moon gives us the quiet we need to try and understand what we did with those possibilities . . . and hopefully we did a lot . . . there’s nothing sadder than a person with no stories of their own . . . there are no excuses for a dull life . . . there’s no time for regrets . . . everyone is given a choice to own their world, everyone is given a blank notebook . . . your memories are only as good as the life you fucking lived . . . so live a good life . . . make history . . . burn through page after page and drink the fucking air . . . In Vietnam we rode motorcycles and talked about a park in San Francisco . . . In Cambodia we took turns telling each other the story of how we got here . . . how we got to this place . . . We told our stories . . . our stories . . . and we laughed . . . and we drank . . . and we flipped another page as the stories moved on . . . the only real currency in this fucked-up world are the stories we tell each other in the downtime of our lives . . .”