Page 122 of Don't Let Me Go
“You called my parents?” I growl.
“Of course she called us,” my mother answers, still attempting to fix my unruly hair as if that’s her greatest concern. “She told us that you haven’t gotten out of bed in ten days.”
“It hasn’t been ten days,” I scoff.
I catch the pitying look on my aunt’s face, and it occurs to me that I have no fucking clue what day it is or how long it’s been since I left my room to do anything other than take a piss.
“Has it?” I ask.
Before Aunt Rachel can answer, my mother is tossing back my sheets. “Baby, why don’t you get up, take a shower, and get dressed? Hmm? Then we’ll have a nice lunch and talk. Just you and me. How does that sound?”
Maybe it’s because I’m too exhausted and confused to argue; maybe it’s because I know there’s no point in refusing my mother when she sets her mind on something. But against my better judgment, I hear myself mumble a short, defeated “Okay.”
“Great.” My mother beams, smoothing down her fuchsia blazer as she stands. She looks like she’s just closed the sale of the century and is already spending the commission in her head. “We’ll see you in the kitchen.”
Once she and Aunt Rachel are gone, I pull myself out of bed and drag my body down the hall to the bathroom. My first shower in over a week is a revelation. I let the hot water blast down on me until it scalds my skin, but the pain feels good. It’s a relief to feel something other than constant numbness.
When I get back to my room, I dry off and put on a clean pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Then I make my way to the kitchen, where my aunt and mother are talking in hushed tones over a platter of fresh fruit and finger sandwiches. Actually, Aunt Rachel is talking. My mother is smiling and pretending to listen, but I can tell that she’smentally redecorating. It’s a habit she’s picked up from years of staging open houses to entice potential buyers. She’s constantly revising the world in her head, making everything and everyone over in her own image.
“Oh, Jackson,” Aunt Rachel exclaims, rising from the table with a start when she notices me hovering in the hall. “Come on in. Have a seat. I was just on my way to the store.”
“You’re leaving?”
“We’re out of milk,” she says, giving me a lame shrug to go with her even lamer excuse. “But you should enjoy lunch with your mom. You two have a lot to discuss.”
When my aunt passes me in the archway, she squeezes my shoulder and musters an unconvincing smile. Then she’s gone, and I’m left to face my mother on my own.
“Your aunt has made us a nice little spread,” Mom observes cheerfully as she fixes me a plate. “I always forget how handy she is in the kitchen. It’s criminal she hasn’t been able to land a husband.”
Digs disguised as compliments are nothing new from my mother. Over the years I’ve learned not to engage with them. I slump down into Aunt Rachel’s empty chair and take the plate she’s prepared for me without a word.
Faced with my silence, Mom smiles uncertainly and plays with her sliced kiwi. Now that we’re alone together, she seems less confident than she was when she had an audience to watch her perform the role of doting mother.
I wonder how long it will take her to ask me what’s wrong. Then again, it wouldn’t surprise me if she didn’t ask at all. Mom’s never met a problem she couldn’t sweep under the rug. It’s why she let me move in with Aunt Rachel in the first place.
“Your father and I got the pictures you sent,” she announces as she sips at her iced tea. “You’ve certainly made some interesting friends.”
I’d almost forgotten the photos I’d texted her. That night and my birthday seem like a lifetime ago.
“I’m assuming the rather emaciated-looking boy who seems to always have his arm around you is the one who?.?.?.?the one that you’ve been...” She trails off, unable to bring herself to finish her thought. For a second, a part of me enjoys seeing her squirm as she tries and fails to acknowledge my relationship with Riley.
Then I remember that I have no relationship with Riley.
“That’s all over,” I tell her.
“Oh.” My mother blinks in surprise. Whatever Aunt Rachel told her to get her to come to Orlando must not have included the breakup. “Do you mind if I ask what happened?”
“We realized it was a mistake,” I say with a shrug, and leave it at that.
My mother nods, and I can practically see the gears turning in her head. She’s trying to work out what this piece of news means for her. And for me. A gleam of excitement flashes in her eyes.
“Well, that’s okay!” she gushes, unable or unwilling to disguise her relief. “Baby, weallmake mistakes. Especially at your age. High school and hormones? It can beveryconfusing. But there’s no shame in trying something new and realizing it’s not for you.”
I want to laugh. What my mother has chosen to hear (I’m straight again) and what I actually meant (I broke up with my boyfriend) are two very different things. Before I can correct her, though, she pushes forward.
“You have had such a trying year, Jackson. And I know you feel like your father and I haven’t supported you in the way you’d have liked. But I hope you know that we have only ever wanted what’s best for you. We know the kind of man you are and the kind of man you’re capable of becoming. And it just kills us, baby, when we see youdoubting yourself and making certain life choices that, frankly, don’t make any sense.”
I shake my head in exasperation, and Mom throws up her hands defensively.
