Chapter 29
JO
Nico texts me.
I love you. No matter what. I don’t care about your family or that we started because of a lie or that you don’t even believe it. I will prove it to you. Every day. But you have to let me. Please let me.
Also, your dad threw me out of the house. I’m not sorry about it.
Let’s go away for the next holiday. To a beach. I’d really like to avoid your family if possible.
I’m here. I’m not leaving. Not until I see you.
It’s that last line that makes me power off my cell phone.
I can’t take another one of his messages or the silence for my family.
Not that I expected anything less, but I guess that tiny piece of hope inside me finally needed to die.
After Granny, there is no one left whom I’m very interested in having a relationship with. Or vice versa.
With nowhere else to go, I spend hours in the local library.
I browse paperbacks, look up highlights from the Iron’s game last night, and cry in the children’s corner, contemplating the last twenty-four hours, until the librarian hands me tissues and kindly informs me they are closing for the night, but if I need help finding a shelter, she can direct me to one.
I thank her and then drag myself back to my car, considering whether I want to drive back to Philadelphia tonight or fly back in two days as planned.
I don’t like either one of those options because I don’t think driving in my current state would be wise, but I also don’t want to stay in my parents’ house and pretend like everything is fine.
What’s worse is my first instinct is to rely on Nico, ask him his opinion. Another knife twisted in my gut.
Over the last few months, he’s become not only my sounding board but my best friend and biggest supporter. My number one protector.
But nothing real can be born from a lie.
It’s simply not possible to build a mansion with popsicle sticks and duct tape.
In the end, I decide it’s best to head to the airport to change my plane ticket and pay whatever fees I have to.
Not using Nico’s money.
Bad enough to use him for this clown show of terror, I have to stop using his generosity too.
Now, I park in front of my parents’ house, glad to see all of the cars and people gone from the wake, except the one man I’ve resolved to stop using.
He stands from the stoop in front of the door and waits for me to exit the car with his hands in his pockets. He looks like an exhausted mess.
How I feel. “What are you doing here?”
“I told you I wasn’t leaving.”
I exhale a trembling breath. “I don’t know why. You have a game tomorrow, and you don’t need to be here.”
“I do. I need to be here with you. I love you, Jo.”
I sniffle. “I wish you would stop saying that.”
“Why?” He approaches me slowly, his hands out like he wants to hold me, but he eventually drops them back to his sides.
“Because I have too much—we have too much to work through to say that to each other.”
He frowns, shaking his head as I speak, but I keep going.
“Don’t you get it? What we have, it’s built on a lie.
We can’t keep going like this. I can’t keep going like this.
” I throw my arm out, vision blurry with tears.
“My whole life basically fell apart this afternoon, and I can’t possibly figure out how to fix any of it right now.
I need time to think about myself. I need to stop…
” I wipe at my cheeks, blinking until I can see Nico clearly.
Even in the darkness, I can tell his eyes are glassy.
“I need to stop using you to fix my problems. I need to stop hiding behind you. I need to be honest with my family, myself, and you. I can’t be what you want when I don’t even know what I want. ”
He rubs his hand over his mouth and jaw. “You don’t want me?”
I find the courage I should have had back in my hospital room. “I need time to think.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means I need you to go home. I need you to give me space and time.”
He sniffs, rubbing his eyes before clearing his throat and meeting my gaze. “I don’t want to leave you.”
“Please, Nico.”
It must be the desperation that changes his mind, because he eventually nods and pulls his phone out of his pocket. He taps on it a few times. “My ride will be here in a few minutes.”
I make my way to the stoop, sitting down, and he follows. I place my head on his shoulder. He holds my hand.
And we sit in silence, waiting until his car comes. Then he kisses the top of my head and walks to the curb. I watch as he curls his long body into his seat, saying something to the driver before turning to offer me a soft, sad smile.
Then he’s gone.
Inside my parents’ house, my mother is waiting at the dining room table for me. “Is he still here?”
“No.”
She hums, annoyance in the sound. “Where have you been?”
I make my way to the corner of the living room, where I hid my bag. “Around.”
A chair scuffs behind me, and a few moments later, I hear her pad across the living room carpet. “I was scared for you.”
“Scared for me in this town of nine thousand people?”
“I’m always scared for you.”
Irritation flares as I zip up my toiletries bag. “Seems like it. Seems like you’ve always been so scared for me to be hurt. So scared you bullied me my entire life.”
“First of all, I didn’t bully you. And I don’t appreciate the sarcasm.”
I laid bare so much of myself out in the cold this afternoon, there is nothing left of me anymore. Nothing left for me to feel bad. No amount of scolding can make me feel worse than I already do.
“I don’t appreciate my own mother treating me worse than she’d treat a pet.”
She huffs. “Never. I would never do that.”
With a sad laugh, I turn to face her. “Remember Chickpea?”
“Of course I do.”
She was my mother’s beloved Maltipoo who died when I was seventeen. Mom got her from some shady breeder and would carry her around in her purse. “Then you’ll remember how you used to call her pretty girl and ooh and aah over her.”
“She was a dog, Buck—Josephine.”
“Exactly. She was our dog, and you gave her more compliments than you ever gave me. You wouldn’t let me have seconds of dessert because it would make me chubby, but you’d give ice cream to the dog.
You put a picture of her on the fridge but never hung up any of the photos I took.
Even the one that came in first place at the regional art competition in school. You—”
“I get it.” She holds up her hand, eyes cast down to the corner of the room where Chickpea’s bed used to be. “I get it.”
While Mom stays quiet, I finish packing up and loop my purse over my shoulder, obviously leaving, but Mom doesn’t seem to understand until I’m at the door. “Where are you going now?”
“Home. To Philadelphia, I mean.” Because I’m not sure if it’s my home anymore. I’m not sure what will be waiting for me there anymore after I blew up my life here. I don’t think I want to continue working for Sean, but if I quit, I’m not sure where else I could go.
Mom stands, closing the distance between us, but doesn’t reach for me. Doesn’t smile or try to glaze over what happened and pretend like everything is fine, which I’m glad about. I’m happy the act is over.
All of it.
“Did you really wish…” Mom covers her mouth with her hand, afraid to say it, but when I don’t fill in the blank, she’s forced to finish her statement. “Did you really want to hurt yourself?”
I hold her gaze. She needs to hear this honesty as much as I need to say it.
“Yes. That’s what I’ve been trying to say.
To all of you, I was a joke, but every time you called me a name for the sake of being funny, it cut into me.
Eventually, it felt like I was in so much pain every day, that the pain of leaving would be nothing compared to what I had to endure on a daily basis. ”
Her nose flares as she inhales sharply, audibly, eyes filling with tears.
And I feel no remorse.
I feel nothing about her tears.
“I never knew,” she says eventually, voice wavering. “Where do we go from here?”
An apology would be a start, but I shouldn’t have to tell her that.
Although, I’m not sure I’m even interested in one at this point.
It wouldn’t help. I’m not sure anything short of turning back time could heal what’s been broken.
So I tell her the truth. “I’ve made mistakes and missed out on a lot of things in my life because I couldn’t stand up to my family, so I’m doing it now and saying I’m not interested in being anyone’s punching bag anymore. ”
I pivot, placing my hand on the doorknob, though I pause before turning it to tell her the last bit of my truth.
“When I was little, I used to think you just didn’t like me compared to Lizzie and Danny and that’s why you treated me that way, why you let everyone treat me that way.
But as I got older, I think I realized that some part of you must hate yourself, and that’s why you take it out on me.
I think, maybe, I remind you of all the things you hate about yourself.
That you are always in competition with your siblings for Mamaw’s attention, that she picks on you for your weight and what you wear, that you never had the opportunity for braces, so you never let me get them either.
It was almost like you wanted to punish me for all the things you felt slighted for because you couldn’t do anything about it.
But I’m not going to let you punish me anymore. ”
Then I leave.
I get back in the car to go back to the airport, although I’m not sure how I arrive there, my mind a million miles away.
It’s as if I’m walking in the middle of a snowstorm.
I can’t hear or see anything other than white noise.
I don’t remember speaking to the ticketing agent or waiting in the security line, sitting on the plane, or even taking the rideshare to my apartment.
Don’t recognize much until I curl up in my bed and spot the small pot Nico placed on my nightstand.
He swore he could replant seeds from the last batch of sunflowers he brought me a few weeks ago and grow them inside.
There hasn’t been a hint of germination yet.
But merely having the terra-cotta pot here makes my throat ache. I’ve cried so much, it feels swollen and like it’s made of sandpaper, but still, I can’t help the well of tears that overflows.
Or the sleep that overtakes me.
The next day, I ignore Nico’s texts and calls. Each buzz of my phone sends a jolt through me, but I can’t face him. Not yet.
I spend the day alternating between watching The Walking Dead and sleeping, and as much as I know I should get up and do something—brush my teeth, even—I can’t.
I can’t see my way out of this, and every task, no matter how little, seems like climbing a mountain, so I stay in bed.
Until someone knocks on the door to be let in.
Nico has a game, so I know it’s not him, but I fear whoever is on the other side because no one else has a code to open the door downstairs. Whether it’s a burglar or a serial killer, they somehow wanted inside enough to spend the time figuring out the passcode.
Another knock.
But at least the criminal is polite.
“Jo? Are you there? It’s Alma.”
Not a burglar or a serial killer.
“Nico gave me the code to open the door downstairs. He wanted me to check in on you since he hasn’t heard from you all day. Honey, he’s worried, and so am I. Are you there?”
My eyes well for the hundredth time in twenty-four hours, but this time, it’s out of gratitude. For Nico’s thoughtfulness and for this woman who was a stranger mere weeks ago but is now at my door to check in because she’s worried.
I drag myself out of bed and open the door. Alma’s eyes are full of concern. “You’re here.”
I pluck at my day-old clothes. “I’m here.”
“I’m glad.”
I try to manage a smile, but it’s a tough fight, and Alma stretches her arms, offering me a hug that I nearly fall into. “I’m glad you’re here.”
I don’t know what Nico has told her, if anything, but that one sentence fills me with more warmth than anything my family has said to me…maybe ever.
After she releases me, she takes in more of my appearance and nods once, as if she completed some kind of assessment and came to a conclusion. “I brought dinner.” She holds up a plastic bag. “I hope you like Chinese.”
It occurs to me I haven’t eaten all day, and I’m suddenly ravenous. “Love it.”
“And if you’ll allow me, I’d like to sit with you a while. Maybe talk, if you want. Or not.”
“I’d really like that.”
She enters my apartment when I open the door and says nothing about the state of it, only sets the food on the counter. “How about you take a few minutes to wash up, and I’ll help myself to finding the plates?”
I take her suggestion and brush my teeth, wash my face, and put my hair up with a claw clip. I also change my clothes and feel better already. When I open the bathroom door again, Alma is seated at my kitchen table with a spread of orange chicken, fried rice, and spring rolls.
Once I’ve slipped onto my chair, she says, “It’s up to you. We can eat in silence or we can chat. I will not be offended either way, but Nico said you might need a friend, so here I am.”
“Thank you, Alma.”
She winks, a sweetly benign action that strikes me as so matronly that I take a deep breath and tell her everything.