Page 35 of Pieces Of You
“It’s not like that,Holden,” she says, but her smile says otherwise.
Joseph is Mia’s dad, my mom’s ex, aka, the man Ihate. “I don’t like the guy,” I state, even though she already knows this.
Mom sighs. “That’s all in the past.”
“Is it, though?” I ask, facing her completely. “Because he’s paying for your flights and rides to the airport, and—”
“It’s all for Mia,” she cuts in. “What do you want me to do?”
“Not fall for his bullshit.” I’m quick to answer. But I know it’s too late. I was there the moment they saw each other for the first time in seventeen years. I saw the spark in their eyes, heard the gasps catch in their throats. It was like they saw a ghost. Which is—in a way—exactly what Joseph is. A ghost from her past… set out to haunt her for all of eternity.
Eighteen years ago, he bailed on her, and a year after that, he did the same thing to his newborn daughter. And he’s going to do it again, and I can’t fucking comprehend why my mom can’t see that, why she thinks this motherfucker walks on water.
I drop my gaze to the worn carpet. “You’re smiling, Ma, and I haven’t seen you smile in a long time, and I know it’s not the excitement to see Mia because there’s nothinggoodabout what she’s going through right now, so… just…” I take a breath, trying to settle my thoughts. I know that, in reality, my mom can do whatever she wants. But there’s no fucking way I’m just going to sit by and watch her ruin her life. “Just be careful, Ma.”
Mom’s quiet for so long, an unease settles at the pit of my stomach, turning, twisting. I gather my strength and glance over at her.
Tears well in her eyes, and I’m quick to look away. “Ma!”
She sniffs once. “When the hell did you grow up, kid?” And then she sobs, and I rush to my feet, start for the door.
“Ma, you know I don’t do crying girls,” I whine.
“Holden!” she calls out, and I freeze in her doorway but refuse to turn around. Ireallydon’t do crying girls. “I don’t have a lot to show for the life I’ve lived,” she says. “But I have you. And I’m proud of myself for raising you. For creating a man who loves as hard as you do, and protects the ones he loves with everything inside him.” Her single exhale fills the room, fills my lungs with some much-needed clarity. “I’ve made some pretty shitty choices in life, and I’ll probably make even shittier ones in the future. Just… promise you’ll never stop loving me the way you do?”
My shoulders drop as I suck in a breath, then force myself to face her. Moving closer, I ignore the redness of her nose, the tremble of her lips. I look past the tears soaking her cheeks, and I kiss her there, just once. “I promise,” I tell her. And then, because I don’t dodeepjust as much as I don’t docrying, I shove her suitcase off the bed, emptying its contents to the floor. I start for the door again. “Go to bed. You have to be up early.”
Mom’s single sound of laughter feels like a missing piece to a puzzle. The problem? I have no idea what the complete image will be.
17
Jamie
I don’t havea lot in my trailer. Most of the furniture was already here when we moved in. There’s a couch that once doubled as my bed, a coffee table, and a TV that we found in the same field where I burned all memories of my mother.
My bed is the only things that’s new. The only thing in my life that I bought just for me. When we moved in, the walls were covered in horrid wallpaper. It took Mom and me three weeks to peel it off and replace it in blindingly white paint. We had some leftover, so I painted whatever furniture I could the same white as the walls. My mom said it looked like a room in a psych ward, but I didn’t care. I like the white. White reveals all the dirt and the dust and all the other things I’ve spent years trying to cleanse from my existence.
Saturday mornings, I do just that: rid my world of impurities, and my body of shame. I dust every piece of furniture, wipe down every surface, clean every inch of flooring, and then wash every piece of clothing I own. I iron out every crease, polish every button.
And I continue to ignore that ache in my chest when thoughts of Gina make their way through my mind, my heart.
TheZeke’sDinerpaper bag sits on my lap, the warmth of it coating my thighs. I grip it tighter when we go over a bump in the road, my head knocking against the bus window. It takes twice as long to get to my destination than what I’m used to, so by the time I get off at the stop, I have to gear myself up for the one-mile walk under the scorching sun.
When I finally make it to the house, every single inch of me is covered in sweat. I don’t even want to know how I look. Or smell. And I should’ve really called before I came because now that I’m here, standing at the front door, I realize that not everyone spends their Saturdays stuck in the house until they’re forced to leave.
Sighing, I raise my fist, knock twice. It takes only seconds for the door to open. Esme’s eyes are wide, her smile as warm as the sun currently burning me alive.“This is such a lovely surprise,” she says in greeting, ushering me inside the house. The air conditioner pricks at my flesh, does wonders for my lungs as I take in a sharp inhale. Esme adds, “Did you plan this?”
I face her once the door is closed and shake my head. “I just thought I’d come by for a visit.” It’s only a half-truth. After completing my Saturday morning routine, I sat on the couch, staring at the blank television, lonely and afraid. And before I allowed a single tear to escape, I got up, got dressed, and headed to the one place I could think that would take away both those things.
I used to go to Gina’s.
And now I’m here.
I lift the bag from Zeke’s. “I brought some cakes and desserts from my work,” I say, hating the slight wobble that comes with my words. “I thought we could sit and… chat?”
“Well,” she says, rubbing her hands together, “it’s almost lunchtime, so why don’t I make us some sandwiches first.”
After a nod, I follow her toward the kitchen. “You should get Holden,” she says over her shoulder.
