CHAPTER 4 JACKSON #2
“I wouldn’t call the departure of my soul from my body every time I have to talk about something other than the forecast getting tongue-tied.” I pause. “Maggie said we’re going to be broadcasting live.”
Aiden shrugs. “Maybe television will be easier than radio.”
I stare at him. “It’ll probably be worse.”
“It can get worse?” At my dark look, Aiden cracks another smile, holding up his hands. “I’m just giving you a hard time. You won’t know until you try, yeah?”
I mutter a string of obscenities under my breath.
“What else? C’mon. I know you like your lists.”
I drag my hand down my face. This is my heaviest burden. The thing that keeps me staring at the ceiling of my bedroom long into the night. There are so many things that can go wrong, and I’d be so far away. “Who will look after the girls if I’m not here?”
“I told you. They can stay with me, Lucie, and Maya. We’ve got the space.” Aiden moved in with Lucie and her daughter after they expanded Lucie’s Fells Point row home into the house next door. “Maya is excited about the prospect of an extended sleepover.”
“With this storm, we’ll likely be stuck out there for a week. Maybe two. It’s a lot to ask.”
“You didn’t ask. I offered. And you raised those two to be scary-good houseguests. Last time they stayed with Maya, my entire record collection was organized and dusted.”
“By color?”
“By genre and artist last name, as god intended. You did good with them, Jackie.” He leans forward, his face earnest. The teasing is over now, and Aiden means business. “You can trust me with this. I’m not going to let you down.”
“I know you won’t. I trust you.” And I do. I know the girls will be in good hands if they stay with Lucie and Aiden. “I just—I haven’t been away from them since I got full custody. I like our routine.”
“I know you do.” There’s no judgment in Aiden’s voice.
Just quiet understanding. He knows how much I rely on having things neatly laid out in predictable sequences.
“But I think it might be good for you to break out of it every once in a while. Try something new. Have a little fun.” He stands from his chair and brushes the crumbs off his lap.
“Look at me. I tried something new and I found Lucie.”
“Your something new was emotions.”
He shrugs. “Yeah, well. It worked out all right in the end.” He raps his knuckles against the doorframe. “Maggie isn’t going to let you think on it for too much longer,” he warns. “I’ll buy you some time, but you’ll need to give her an answer sooner rather than later. I’ll see you in an hour?”
“Yeah,” I agree. “I’ll meet you in the booth.”
Aiden leaves and I try to break it down logically, but my brain follows the tried-and-true route instead.
I think about the girls, and how excited they were at the prospect of something different.
I think about giving in, saying yes, and the long drive I’ll have to take to the doldrums of Western Maryland.
I think about standing in the middle of a field—a street, a sidewalk—holding a microphone in my hand and staring at the blinking red light of a camera.
I think about Delilah Stewart standing right next to me, watching as I fumble.
I think about the smug delight that would light up her eyes.
I think about stepping outside of my routine, and the way everything could crumble because of it.
I think about falling short and making an ass of myself.
I think of the crushing disappointment, not just for me, but for the girls too.
The station. I think about letting everyone down, letting everyone see.
The cracks in the foundation that reach up. The things that make me wrong.
My phone buzzes across my desk and I reach for my glasses. I tried to fix them last night using one of Penelope’s bracelet-making pliers, but I think I just made them worse.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll tape an eyeglass repair bill to Delilah’s car window.
My phone stops vibrating, then immediately starts up again. I glance at the screen.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
This is another one of my routines, though I don’t particularly care for the predictability of it. I hesitate, then swipe my thumb across the screen.
“Camille.” I clear my throat. “Hello.”
Cars rush in the background. A horn honks, someone yells, and it’s another fifteen seconds of panting and ambient noise before she remembers she’s dialed the phone.
Or, in other words, a typical conversation with my mother.
“Jackson,” she says, sounding out of breath. “I really wish you’d call me Mom.”
“Okay,” I deflect without agreeing, a skill I’ve honed to perfection after years of wild demands.
I stare at the weather model open on my computer screen and watch the massive low-pressure system that’s forming at the base of the Rockies.
The map cycles through the forward projection and the pressure grows and grows.
A giant blob of red that shifts and morphs. I can relate. “What do you need?”
“Don’t you mean, How are you doing?”
I don’t need to ask. I know exactly how she’s doing. She’s in an exciting new place with an exciting new job and exciting new friends, and everything is sunshine and rainbows and chocolate-frosted cake.
Still, I cave. “How is the essential oil business these days?”
“That was two cities ago, Jack. I’ve told you, haven’t I? I work in music management now.”
The background noise abruptly cuts out and a car door slams. Music management. Coffee shop supply. Antique broker. It’s always something. Once during one of these little check-ins, she was sitting in a truck full of livestock exploring her options in restorative goat yoga.
“That’s great,” I answer, unable to rally any enthusiasm. This is not what I need today. It’s another brick on top of my otherwise impossible load. I’m buckling beneath the pressure. “What can I do for you?”
She laughs and my skin pulls tight. “Maybe I just wanted to say hello.”
She never wants to say hello. “Hello. What else?”
“Jackson,” she sighs. “You really do think the worst of me.”
“It’s a prediction based on previous behavior.”
My mother doesn’t do check-ins. She prefers whimsical appearances and sporadic phone calls whenever she needs something for her bright and shiny new adventure, usually with dollar signs attached.
“You make me sound like a monster.”
No, not a monster. Just absent and self-absorbed.
“Camille.” I find the clock at the bottom right of my computer screen. I have about twenty minutes before I need to go on the air. “What is this call about?”
She sighs, put-upon that I’m not indulging her. “I wanted to ask about the girls.”
“Why?” I ask, my hackles immediately up.
“Because they’re mine,” she says simply. “And it’s been too long since I’ve seen them.”
They’re not yours, I immediately want to say.
They’re mine. I’ve changed diapers and cooked dinners and done seventy-three thousand loads of laundry.
I’ve been at every back-to-school night and fixed every ponytail.
I’ve done every sleepless night and every early morning. You gave them to me. They’re mine.
“The girls are fine,” I bite out.
“That’s it?” She laughs. “That’s all you have for me?”
“That’s it.”
She pauses, waiting for me to fill in the gaps. I refuse to.
“Well, what are they involved in? They’re twelve now, right? Almost high school.”
Something in the middle of my chest bends and buckles. She doesn’t even know how old they are.
Suddenly, I’m seven years old again, sitting at a kitchen table with a hollow, aching stomach and clothes that are two sizes too small, watching my mother bake a cake and wondering if she will remember to take it out of the oven before it burns.
Ten years old and sitting on the curb outside of my elementary school, watching the sun sink over the parking lot, painting the asphalt in golds while I wait and wait and wait.
Where’s your mom, Jackson?
She’s probably working late. She’ll be here soon.
Always wondering. Always waiting.
“They’re fifteen,” I grind out. “They’re in their sophomore year.”
They skipped seventh grade because they were both reading at an advanced level and got bored in their classes.
They’re smart and kind, and wildly funny.
They both made the volleyball team, though I think Adeline is more interested in hiding in the library.
But she didn’t want Penelope to be alone at tryouts so they did it together. They still do everything together.
You would know this if you really did care, I almost say. You would know this if you stuck around.
But I don’t, because she doesn’t deserve to know.
“Fifteen,” my mother repeats.
“Yes.”
“That’s . . .” Her voice drifts. “That’s incredible. I bet they’re fun. Are they fun?”
I stay quiet.
“Don’t tell me they’re little pencil pushers like you.
” She laughs and it slithers beneath my rib cage.
Twists into something harsh and ugly that pinches and prods.
“I swear, Jackson. You were the most serious little boy. You would write your schedule down in your school notebook and tape it to the refrigerator. Do you remember that?”
“Yeah, I remember.” I glance at the file cabinet in the corner of my office and the habit I never figured out how to kick. The days of the week are labeled in neat, color-coded dry-erase maker.
I feel a hot flush of embarrassment.
“You’ve gotta make sure you’re giving those girls fun, Jackson. Teenage girls need fun.”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious, Jack. Don’t be a stuffed shirt. You’ve got to live every once in a while. You don’t want your sisters to end up like you, do you?” A laugh bursts out of her, prickling at my skin. “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”
I am this way because of you, I want to snap. I want to twist my words like knives until they hurt. You made me this way. Utterly reliant on systems and routines and habits so I can fucking breathe.
Instead, I say, “Thanks for the advice. I’ll take it under consideration. I’m hanging up now.”
And then I do. I hang up on my mother and place my phone carefully to the left of my keyboard, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. Again. Again.
My phone buzzes with an incoming call and I pick it up.
“What is it now?”
Silence fills the line. Then, “Is that how you always answer the phone?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. This fucking day.
“Not usually, no.” I dig a knuckle into my eye, then adjust my glasses. “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”
“A jilted lover? A loan shark? Who inspires that level of venom from Jackson Clark?”
I slump back in my chair. “How did you get this number?”
“Your loan shark,” Delilah answers, light and breezy.
“Is this loan shark named Maggie?”
She snickers. “This loan shark is named Aiden Valentine, and he left your phone number taped to my car window.”
“Of course he did,” I sigh. Asshole.
“I thought the note thing was your move.”
“Apparently, not just mine.” I pick up the dry-cleaning bill I found stuck to my window this morning and a reluctant smile tugs at my mouth. Some of the tight feeling in my chest disappears. If nothing else, Delilah is an excellent distraction. “What can I do for you, Delilah?”
“You and I . . . we need to talk.”