Sometimes, the panics came through me fast, and other times it felt like they lasted for days. I pushed up my sleeves and revealed the scars of my past sadness, the markings of my mind spinning out of control. The first time Monica saw my scars, she called me dramatic. “You didn’t even cut the right way to end your life. You just cut for attention,” she barked. But, I knew she was wrong. I never wanted people to see my scars. I was ashamed of them. It was why I wore long-sleeved shirts every single day. I wasn’t proud of what I did, and it damn sure wasn’t for attention. It wasn’t for suicide either, though. It was for me to feel something more than empty inside. I was desperate to feel anything, because for the most part, my mind seemed so worn down.
I hadn’t cut myself in a while. I was trying my best to find other ways to feel outside of cutting.
My hands trembled, and I held on to the iced-over railing of the bleachers as I lowered my head to try to keep from throwing up. My hands burned from the chilled bar in my grip, but I was thankful for that. I was thankful to feel something, even if it hurt.
Feeling any kind of pain meant I was still alive.
That had to count for something.
I think I was born with a hole in my heart.
It doesn’t beat like it’s supposed to, and I don’t know if that makes it unworthy of love.
What kind of person would want to love a broken heart?
What kind of person would take the time to listen to the heartbeats of something so damaged?
I just hope broken hearts can receive love, too.
I think us broken hearts need love the most.
-L
After my breakdown, I headed back into school, straight for Mrs. Levi’s office. We didn’t have a meeting scheduled, but I was thankful that there was no one sitting in her office taking up her time.
I didn’t know where to go, and honestly, a part of me wanted to man up and just get over myself and my breakdowns, but I wasn’t that strong. I didn’t know how to move past my own thoughts and be okay.
“Landon.” Mrs. Levi looked up from her desk and smiled like always, but her grin had a bit of concern. With good reason. I doubted people came to her office just to talk about the latest high school fashion trends or other mindless topics. “Are you okay?”
I stuffed my hands into my pockets. “Yeah.”
That was all I could push out.
She raised an eyebrow, and I looked away from her, somewhat embarrassed by the fact that she could tell I was damaged goods just by looking at me.
“Shouldn’t you be in class?” she asked.
“Probably,” I replied.
Silence fell over the room, and I glanced up at the photographs of her family upon the wall. They all looked so happy, so connected.
I wondered if she knew how lucky she was.
Dammit.
My mind was doing that emo crap it did on the daily.
“Do you want to sit for a while?” she asked.
“I don’t want to talk,” I blurted out.
“We don’t have to talk at all.” She gestured toward the chair across from her. “But please, have a seat.”
I sat, and somehow, I think Mrs. Levi heard the silent thank you I was giving her that afternoon. I was thankful to have someone to sit with in silence. Sometimes, sitting in silence with someone who is willing to stay with you helps a heart heal more than talking about one’s hurts.
10
Landon
The following afternoon, Hank, Greyson, and Eric came over to my place to hang out. They could always tell when my mind was heavy, but they never asked me questions about it. I was thankful for that. I didn’t feel like talking much. We all hung out at the pool, talking about pointless topics.
That afternoon, KJ showed up to my house at the request of Hank. My house was the main place for weed pickups, because my parents were gone most of the time. KJ was an older dude in his late forties—about Lance’s age. He’d been dealing weed to my friends for a while now, and overall he seemed like a decent person.
Eric smoked a joint on a lounge chair and looked up toward the sky. “You ever play the cloud game?” he asked. The clouds were huge and looked fake, like the clouds on The Simpsons intro, all spaced out a little too perfectly. It looked as if an artist had taken an oversized brush and added to the sky canvas.
“Cloud game?” I asked.
He placed his hands behind his head and nodded. “Yeah, where you see the clouds and shout out what they look like.”
KJ grinned as he counted the money Hank gave him. “My youngest daughter still goes apeshit for that game. Last summer we’d lay out in the grass for hours just make-believing the things we saw. Turtles. Dogs. Michael Jordan. Shit…” He laughed, shaking his head back and forth. “Those are some of the best times. My older daughter is way past that age, but we used to do it, too. It was great.”
KJ always did that, always told stories about his kids whenever he stopped by. I wondered if my parents did the same when they spoke to other people.
Dad probably told horror stories about me.
Mom probably told love stories.
Funny how you could be a different character in different people’s storybooks.
“That’s good and all, but can I ask why you are sitting in my house, with these teenage boys?” a voice asked, snapping me up from my lounging position.
“Mom, hey.” I rose to stand. “What are you doing in town? I thought you’d be in California for a few more days.”
“I took an early flight home.” She combed her hair behind her ears and looked over to KJ, who was standing there like a puppy being caught misbehaving. “I don’t know who you are, and I don’t know why you’re hanging out with these boys, but perhaps you should go now.”
He didn’t say a word as he exited stage right.
Hank put on a goofy smile. “Hey, Mrs. H. You’re looking beautiful in that trench coat.”
Eric stood from the lounge chair. “Is that a new haircut? It looks great on you?”
Greyson grinned. “Are you losing weight? You look like you’re losing weight.”
Mom smirked a little. “Goodbye, boys.” They all started to hurry away, but Mom stopped them. “First, hand over the goods.”
“But, Mrs. H! It’s for my allergies,” Hank joked.
She held her hand out toward him, and he groaned as he placed the weed into the palm of her hand. “Good night, boys.”
“‘Night, Mrs. H,” they all muttered as they left.
Mom walked over to me with an arched eyebrow and a somber look on her face. “Really, Landon? Marijuana?”
She always did that—called it marijuana instead of pot or weed. I didn’t know why, but it always made it sound so much worse than it actually was.
Marijuana—the gateway drug.
“I wasn’t smoking it,” I muttered.
She gave me a bullshit look, and that made me feel like shit.
I wasn’t smoking it, but she didn’t believe me. Truthfully, in the past, I’d given her enough reasons not to believe me. She’d found enough weed in my bedroom throughout the years to think I had my own pot farm somewhere.
My mind was racing with the fact that she was home. Damn…I missed her. I wanted to hug her, but also, I wanted to yell at her for not being around enough. I wanted to call her out on not being much of a parent lately. I wanted to tell her how I wasn’t okay, and I needed her more than ever before.
But mostly, I wanted to hug her. So, so badly.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I muttered.
“Yeah.” She nodded. “Me too. Come here.” She opened her arms, and I fell into her embrace like a damn needy child. She smelled like roses, and I missed that smell. I hovered over her small frame as she embraced me. Even though I was way taller than her, it felt like she was the one holding me up.
I’d almost forgotten how good she was at giving hugs.
“I missed you,” she whispered, pulling me in tighter, and I let it happen.
>
When we let go, I scratched the back of my neck. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to check in. I talked to Mrs. Levi, and she seemed a bit concerned.”
Oh, that made sense. She was home because an outside person commented on her neglectful parenting skills. She was probably embarrassed that a guidance counselor called her out on such a thing. In my mom’s eyes, she probably thought she was doing a solid job. I was alive for the most part, still doing my schoolwork—only because it was a distraction for my brain—and I had managed to not burn the house down.
What more could a parent ask for?
“Let’s go get some dinner ordered,” Mom said, linking her arm with mine. “Did your father call you? He said he was going to call today.”
“Nah, I haven’t heard from him.”
Mom frowned, but she shouldn’t have been surprised by it. My father wasn’t too good at checking in on me. It was fine. I didn’t need to be checked in on by him.
“I’ll have to ask him about that the next time we talk,” she said.
“Nah, just leave it. It’s not a big deal.”
She kept frowning but didn’t say anything else as she began walking toward the kitchen. I followed her steps too, like a needy dog, and Ham—the actual needy dog—followed right behind me.
“Okay, what are you thinking? Pizza? Tacos? Tapas?” she asked me, grabbing her cell phone out of her purse.
“Anything’s fine.”
She glanced at me and smiled. “Pizza it is.”
We spent the rest of the night together. We watched shitty movies and Friends reruns, and we talked about Mom’s clients. I told her about school, and how classes were fine. I didn’t mention Shay, because if I did, she would’ve thought I’d lost my mind, but I thought about Shay every now and then, just passing thoughts. Nothing too heavy; just simple things.
Mom and I didn’t talk about Lance, and that was probably because we both couldn’t stand bringing him up. Whenever Mom did talk about him, her eyes would water over, and she’d burst into tears over it all. He was her only brother, and losing him had done a number on her heart. She’d once mentioned that it was probably due to the stress of everything that she had the miscarriage, and that broke my cold heart. I couldn’t imagine putting that kind of pressure on oneself.
It was an unbelievably shitty situation, but Mom wasn’t to be blamed for it. I’d told her that time and time again, but she didn’t believe me. That was why I kept so much of my crap to myself instead of unloading it on her shoulders. Her baggage was already heavy enough—she didn’t need me weighing her down any more.
We both went to our beds around midnight. She told me she loved me, and I believed every syllable of the words. I never in my life doubted my mother’s love. I just knew it came in spurts. Whenever it showed up, like a famished child, I swallowed her love whole, using it to nourish my sick soul.
Mom stayed in town for two more days before she had to fly out to Florida for work. During those two days, she didn’t let me out of her sight. She even had me skip school on Friday so we could spend the whole day together. We shopped, explored, and even drove down to Chicago to replace a lamp that was broken from the party I had. I figured Mom would’ve wanted to meet up with Dad while she was in town for lunch or dinner or something, but she never brought it up. I couldn’t think of the last time the two of them had been in the same space with each other, but it seemed to work for them. Some love stories didn’t need constant watering. They made their relationship work in their own way.
Mom tried the cooking thing, too.
She made pancakes that tasted like baking soda, a burnt lasagna, and an extremely hideous coconut cake—my three favorite foods, completely butchered at the hand of my mother.
Maria would’ve been horrified. Shit, I was horrified, but she was there, trying—failing miserably at the cooking thing, but trying nonetheless.
Those nights, I knew she was right down the hall, just two doors away from me.
I knew her heartbeats were under the same roof as mine, beating the same rhythms as mine. I knew I wasn’t alone, and for the first time in a while, I was able to sleep.
I felt high with her being home—the kind of high pot couldn’t get a person.
Saturday morning, she was leaving, so I woke up early to cook her breakfast. I couldn’t really take any more burnt meals, and I figured it would be a nice gesture. Maria had taught me quite a few things in the kitchen throughout the past year.
Every time I made them and flipped the pancakes without messing them up, I felt like she was right there with me, patting me on the back, and saying job well done.
As I cooked the pancakes, Mom dragged her suitcases into the kitchen. She had one more suitcase than when she arrived, and I would’ve questioned why, seeing how she’d be home in less than two weeks for my birthday, but I’d learned from an early age to never question why a woman carried so much shit with them when they traveled. Once, on a family weekend getaway, Mom had brought five swimsuits. Five swimsuits for three days.
Somehow, she’d managed to wear every single one, too.
Some she had worn twice.
“Why does it smell like real food in here?” she questioned. “Mmm…” She walked over to the countertop, picked up a few pieces of the sliced bananas I’d prepped, tossing them into her mouth with the chopped walnuts. “Since when do you cook?”
Since you left me home alone to fend for myself.
I didn’t want to be a dick, though, not with her leaving soon. The last thing I ever wanted to do was make her feel like shit for being a shitty parent sometimes, even though, honestly speaking, she was a shitty parent sometimes.
I was sure I was a shitty son sometimes, too, but she never gave me hell about that.
That was part of being human—being shitty on accident sometimes. It was part of the human DNA.
“I’ve picked up a few tricks here and there,” I muttered. I left out the fact that Maria had taught me because I didn’t want Mom to feel like there was a woman being a better mother to me than she was. She was sensitive about that kind of stuff.
“Well, it smells amazing—and not burnt.”
“It’s my lucky day, I guess. I’ve burned my fair share of things.”
“You must get that from me,” she joked, walking over to kiss me on the cheek.
I volunteered to drive her to the airport, but she told me if I went with her, saying goodbye would be too hard. I understood, I supposed. I was feeling emotional enough to beg her to stay a little longer, and I didn’t want to be the dramatic dick asking their mommy to stay with them. Besides, she’d be back home soon enough for my birthday. It wouldn’t be too awful having her gone for a few days, because she’d turn around to come right back home to me.
“Can I have a hug?” she asked, and I obeyed.
She held me tight and pulled back to stare at me longingly with tears building up in her eyes. Then she hugged me again. I hated when she cried. It always made me feel hopeless.
“Come on, Ma, don’t get emotional. I’ll see you in a bit. Plus, you’re going to make me burn the pancakes.”
“Yes, sorry. It’s just…” Her eyes darted away, and her small frame shook a little.
“It’s just what?”
She shook her sadness away and smiled. “It’s nothing. I’m going to go put my hair up and wash my face. I’ll be right back for breakfast.”
She placed her purse on top of one of her suitcases.
As I was flipping her pancakes, her purse fell over, knocking all her girl crap across the floor. I put the spatula down and went to pick up a tampon I wished I hadn’t seen. The idea of your mom using tampons was an oddly disturbing thing. Moms weren’t supposed to have periods and crap. That was gross to think about.
I picked up the rest of her crap, too; lipsticks, change, pens, plane tickets.
My eyes darted across the roundtrip tickets, and I felt a knot in my gut.
She was flying to
Paris?
Why hadn’t she mentioned that over the past few days?
I thought she’d be heading back to California or something.
Then, I saw the return date.
Five weeks out.
Two weeks past my birthday.
What the actual fuck?!
She was supposed to be there for me. She was supposed to come home during the shittiest time of my damn life to be there for me. She was supposed to hold me up while I was drowning. But instead, she was going to be sitting in France, eating macarons with some hotshot celebrity, and dressing them for some premiere show.
Now, it was clear to me. Her tearful moment seconds ago wasn’t because she was sad to be leaving me; it was because she was abandoning me.
I loved my mother so fucking much, but I hated her right then and there.
She’d lied to me. Well, she’d withheld the truth from me, which was pretty much worse than a lie in my book.
I pushed everything back into her purse and tried to control my emotions. I wanted to snap. I wanted to shout and cuss and tell her what a terrible mother she’d been by choosing work over me, but I didn’t.
I went back to cooking the pancakes and waited, because I knew she had to tell me. She wouldn’t actually leave the house without telling me her plans of going to a foreign country for several weeks. She wouldn’t have the nerve to do such a selfish thing.
We sat at the dining room table, and I watched her stuff the food into her mouth. She went on and on about what an amazing cook I was and how I should consider culinary school in the future. She talked about her job—except for the parts where she mentioned her travels. She told me what celebrities were like; she discussed what the latest fashion trends were going to be for the summer; and she never mentioned Paris. Not once.
As she gathered her things to head to the airport, the anger I’d been holding in for so long shifted to despair, to sadness, to loneliness.
“Come give me a hug,” she ordered. Once again, I obeyed.
Landon & Shay - Part One: (The L&S Duet Book 1) Page 10