Chapter 13 #2
She calls him “Crazy Matt” behind his back, rolling her big, beautiful eyes.
“One day he’ll try to keep you all to himself and we won’t ever see you again,” she said once.
Droplets of rain wet my coat. Dad and Matt hurry next to the tree, tying a thick brown rope from my dad’s trunk.
What will Matt do about Jack? Is that it, or will he try to keep me away from him?
Possessiveness boils in me at the thought.
How could I stay away from the only person who doesn’t look at me like I’m insane or too damaged to be fixed?
“Alaska!” shouts my dad, his voice reminding me of an evening by the fireplace. “Come here, kiddo. I think I’ve figured a way to move the tree to the side!” he says, lifting his hand to motion me to come close. I rush to him under the rain, mud soiling my rubber boots, trees shifting above us.
“You okay, honey?” he asks, one brow lifted on his warm face.
Fidgeting with my keys, I try to add more warmth to my voice, “Yeah, I mean, yes. All good, Dad,” I say, faking a smile. “Show me, I wanna help.”
“Alright, put your hand on the rope. I’m gonna go to the other side of it,” he explains as I follow his commands. It’s been a while since we’ve done something together other than watching shows on tv.
It’s nice.
Living is nice.
Maybe I should give it a try.
Jack
“Mom was freaked out, dude,” says my little sister Annie.
“She saw the storm on the news and started praying like crazy.” It reminds me of the night my dad was sent to the hospital.
She prayed then, too, which terrified me since Mom has never been a religious person.
I guess in times like these, we hold on to what we can.
I didn’t pray that night, though. I had heard the doctor loud and clear in the hospital family office.
Deceased.
Heart attack.
Nothing they could do.
All our condolences.
I was six, Maya was three, and Annie was barely crawling.
“Shit, I should have c-called her back sooner,” I say, running a palm over my face, guilt building in me at the thought of my mom scared to death while I was focused on my task.
“Don’t worry, she’s alright since you called her today,” she assures me as I watch the clock in my kitchen.
I slept all day and I’m still tired. Called my mom when I woke up and, even if Annie says she was freaked out, she seemed fine on the phone.
Even now, my mom is still a mystery to me.
Or perhaps it’s because I look so much like Dad, she always put a bit of distance between us since he died.
Every now and then, I’d catch her staring at me with a haunted look in her eyes.
The bridge of my nose, the sharpness of my jaw, and the color of my hair remind her of the love of her life gone too soon for her to be prepared.
I would then smile at her, and she would flinch, like it was painful to look at me.
One time, around fifteen years old, she confessed to me how it was eating her from the inside, that she couldn’t give me the love she wanted to.
That she was trying and failing. I never got angry about it.
I knew she tried real hard and, to be honest, my mom had so much love to give that it was impossible not to get splashed by it.
When we grow up, we tend to think that kids need to hear loving words and all, but actions speak a thousand times louder. No one had the patience she had with me, repeating speech exercises every night before tucking me in, waiting for me to finish my sentences, day after day. That was love, too.
“So how’s life in Little House on the Prairie?” She chuckles, and I’m guessing she’s asking me that from her stylish flat in Minneapolis in the artsy neighborhood with galleries and shops that sell clothes and cut your hair at the same time.
“B-better than I-I thought,” I tell her honestly.
“Really? You’re not bored to death?” she gasps dramatically.
“Nah, not really,” I trail off, knowing she’s going to try to dig ‘cause that’s what little sisters do.
“Ohh, what’s her name?”
“Annie…”
“That must be good and crispy. Come on, give me all the juicy details.”
“I don’t know what you’re t-t-talking about.” I grin, shaking my head. “What bout’ ya, uh? What’s going on in your-your life?”
She sighs. “She must be important if you don’t want to talk about her,” her voice softens.
“I hope it’ll go well then, and if you need advice, I’m there, okay?
Don’t ever hesitate to ask, really.” Little Annie would have tried to get details in any way possible, but she grew into a smart and kind young woman who respects other people’s boundaries, and my chest sits a bit higher knowing I’ve got to witness her blooming like that.
“Thanks, w-will do,” I concede. We end up talking about her job in the city and the friends she made this year. Her voice is light and happy as she goes on, and I'm relieved about it. Annie's doing great, I can hear it.
When I close the call, I go to my kitchen and make myself macaroni and cheese from a cardboard box.
Not the best, but it'll do. Wish I could come home to a warm meal like some colleagues do, take my woman in my arms, and hear about her day, but I don't have that. So the cardboard box will have to do.
The house is nice, though. I don't get to spend enough time in it to make it better, but it's a small two-floor condo with two bedrooms upstairs and a living room and kitchen downstairs.
It was already furnished, and I'm guessing they went for a rustic wood-and-industrial approach, which is fine by me.
It's not much, but it's home for now. There's even a small garden, well, large by city standards, but I guess there's enough room for kids to play outside, and perhaps a dog.
What am I saying? I rub a hand on my face.
Tired, I'm tired. That's the only reason I'm making stuff up in my head. The TV’s on as I fall asleep on the couch, long brown hair floating in my dreams. I wish she was here…
and I wish she knew how little I care about her past as long as I get to hold her in my arms the next day.
I drift into sleep, hoping the hours will fade faster until I see my girl.
There, I said it.
My girl.