27. Jenna
Chapter twenty-seven
Jenna
“You packed light,” Tahnee tells me as she and her husband, Gio, wait for their bags at baggage claim, while I have my single duffle bag slung over my shoulder.
“We’re only home for a few days.” I shrug. “A lot of my stuff is still here, so I didn’t feel the need to pack it all away, only to do it all again so soon.” I pull my vibrating phone out of the pocket in my dress to see my Uber app alerting me that my driver is here. “I have to go,” I say, flashing my phone screen toward her, and she nods. “I’m heading straight to the salon to see Margot, but you have absolutely zero work requirements while we’re here. You have a week off. Try to enjoy yourself.” I pull her in for a quick hug before smiling awkwardly at Gio, and heading out the door.
He’ll be staying in California for the remainder of shooting, but he and I don’t have the type of friendship that warrants a goodbye hug.
Once I’m comfortable in the back seat of the car, I take my phone back out, scroll through my contact list, and stare at my mom’s name. I haven’t let her know that I’d be coming home today, because honestly, I don’t have the energy for it.
I’m here for seven days. Putting one of those aside for her wouldn’t be the worst thing, but I just don’t have the mental capacity to go backward. I’ve spent the last month and a half surrounded by people who love and appreciate me.
People who choose to want me.
People who choose to be seen with me.
I just know, being back in her presence, will unravel all of that, and I’ll go back to being the girl who let the words of one person break her apart.
“Just here is fine,” I tell my driver, who pulls up in front of the Lotus. It’s an old bar, and it’s been here for as long as I’ve lived in the city, yet somehow, I’ve never stepped foot inside.
I pass it every single day on my journey to and from work, but I couldn’t tell you what color the walls are painted.
On my way home after drinks with Tahnee and Margot nearly two months ago, I was almost directly in front of this bar when I heard him call out my name. Cassandra confirmed what I already knew, and now I can’t help but wonder if he lives nearby.
No way he does, I tell myself. You stayed in his hotel . Not his apartment.
“Are you sure, Miss? It’s a little while to walk,” my driver tells me. I nod as the car comes to a stop and I open my door to get out. Slamming it shut, I hang my bag over my shoulder, and make the walk toward the salon, grateful that I’ve chosen to wear bike shorts beneath my dress to stop my thighs from rubbing together in this Californian heat.
If anyone ever tells you that thick thighs save lives, they’re lying.
My best friend loves to tell me that curses aren’t real, but thick thighs are a damn curse, and I’ll believe that until my dying breath.
“Hello,” I call out as I push the door open to the place I built from the ground up. Margot pops her head out from the back room.
“You’re here!” She rushes toward me, placing her bowl of cereal on the desk before wrapping her arms around my neck. “I wasn’t expecting you until later.” Letting me go, she picks up her bowl, and heads toward the couch to make herself comfortable.
I knew it would be quiet at this time, but I triple checked the calendar that this hour was blocked off for lunch before just showing up.
“I haven’t been home yet. I wanted to come see you first.” I smile, throwing my bag under the front desk, and walking toward the couch to sit beside her.
We talked for her whole lunch break, and I filled her in on as much as I could without too many juicy details.
No one needs to know the ins and outs of that part of my life.
“So much for three months in a small town bringing you an abundance of mystery men and great sex.” She chuckles. “Instead, the beach-free, little town just bought you the same mystery man, over and over and over again.” She tucks her light brown hair behind her ear, and shoves the last scoop of cereal-flavored milk into her mouth before placing the bowl on the ground beside her feet.
Going by the alarm that just went off, she has a client in ten minutes, so I decide now is the time to bite the bullet and find out what she knows about why my mom came looking for a job.
“Honestly, Jen, I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I just know she comes in on time every single day, has never once called in sick, and she does everything I ask of her. She’s even become friendly with one of our regulars,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows. “I think they’re actually dating now, but I guess I’ll have to keep an eye out.”
“The only part out of everything you said that I don’t find hard to believe, is her being friendly with one of our regulars.” I shake my head and sink back into the couch. “Let me guess. Mark, the silver fox who has appointments booked every three weeks for the next two years and couldn't take his eyes off Margot's tits?” He’s just my mom’s type. Hot for his age, rich, and apparently a sleaze.
“Just…maybe take it easy on her, alright? She’s working herself to the bone, probably harder than she’s ever worked in her life, and it’s exhausting her. I also haven’t smelt any alcohol on her breath. Not even once.” She squeezes my arm, and I give her a slight nod.
Right. Go easy on Becky Rogers.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad it looks as though my mom is trying to turn her life around. I just wish she’d decided to do it for me when I was younger and needed a mom.
Not for a man.
“Dinner tonight?” I ask as I rise from the couch, walking over to collect my bag as her next client walks through the door.
“Definitely.” Margot nods. “I’ll book a place and text you the details.”
“Great, see you later.”
***
Fumbling for my keys, I scan my pass to open the door to my building, nodding at Julius, the doorman who is much less friendly than Marv, before making my way toward my apartment.
I didn’t think I would appreciate being back home as much as I do, and I’m barely even at the elevator. With a week off, Cassandra on her honeymoon, Olive locked in the studio or playing shows, and Lizzie busy going on a million dates, I figured I would come home.
Also, Cole is in New York—not that it matters. Even if he stayed behind in Grangewood for the week, I still would have come back home to California.
At least, that’s what I’m telling myself. But I don’t know when I became such a liar?
Turning my key in the lock and pushing my door open, a scent I’m too familiar with overrides my senses, and I know my mom is in here. Unlike last time, it doesn’t take me long to find her.
“What are you doing here?” I ask her, dropping my bag at my feet, and slipping my shoes off one by one. I don’t greet her in a typical mother-daughter way. This is my home, and she’s invading my space.
Again.
She whips her body around, startled to see me. Clearly, the sound of my keys rattling in the door wasn’t enough to get her attention, but my voice echoing through the apartment was.
She’s wearing the same dark blue jeans that she’s owned for years. Typically, they hug her tiny legs like a second skin, but they swim on her now. The black, spaghetti strap singlet isn’t doing her any favors, either.
“Jenna?” she attempts to say, her voice low as she brings her hand up to rub her cheek, the other holding a glass of water. Her body moves slowly, but her face looks confused. Terrified, almost. Her eyes dart side to side as she moves to grip the edge of the counter. Placing down her glass, she steadies herself before straightening her posture, and clearing her throat. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon.” A weak smile appears on her face when she loosens her grip. Picking her water back up, she walks carefully toward the couch.
Something is off.
“Mom?” I say, using the name only I call her, expecting to be scolded for reminding her that she has a child. But to my surprise, I don’t get that sort of response.
I don’t even get so much as a judgmental look or comments on how my dress is too short, or that my hair looks ridiculous in a bun, or that the California sun has melted my makeup off my face.
“Mom?” I repeat, and she strains her head to look at me.
A knock sounds at the door, and I watch as her eyes flick to it, then back to mine. She makes no attempt to answer it, and neither do I.
I’m too focused on watching her. It’s almost as though she’s forgotten…everything.
“Mom?” I say for the third time, and I don’t even know if she can even hear my voice.
Do I help her, or answer the door?
Logically, I know the person behind the door can wait, but I’m frozen still in the middle of my dining room, struggling to rake through every thought process that flashes through my mind, but it happens in slow motion.
The way her eyes glaze over. The way her arm falls to her side, loosening her grip on the glass before it shatters into a million tiny pieces. The way one of her legs gives out beneath her, forcing her body to do the same.
“Mom!” I scream, hoping she can hear me, because I desperately need her to.
Her eyes are still open, but there’s no life left. It’s like looking into a dark, empty void.
I scold myself for hesitating, for not knowing how to react.
She’s my mom. I’m the only family she has left. Of course she needs me.
Running toward her, I fumble for my phone, and dial nine-one-one.
“Mom, can you hear me?” I say to her while the phone rings, and I use my free hand to slap her cheeks gently.
The front door bursts open, but I don’t look over my shoulder to see who it is.
“Becky, baby, come on,” Mark says from behind me, shoving me out of the way to rest my mother’s limp body onto his lap.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
***
“So…you and my mom,” I say awkwardly, while Mark and I sit at opposite ends of the waiting room. His feet have been non-stop tapping on the vinyl floor while I’ve stared at the blank wall behind him.
Whenever he’s been at the salon, conversation has always been short, and to the point.
All I know about him is that he’s divorced, and has no kids. I made the general assumption that he was a creep because he gave me those vibes. Now I'm not so sure.
I wonder if he even knew she was my mom when they started…whatever this is.
Knowing Becky Rogers, though, probably not.
The ambulance got to my apartment three minutes after I’d called them, and I rode in the back with Mom. Mark followed behind us in a cab.
Neither of us have said a word to each other until now, and we got here almost an hour ago.
“It’s still very new.” He sighs but doesn’t look at me, rubbing his hands together while his elbows dig into his knees. “She was working at the salon, and I guess we just hit it off when she was rinsing the color out of my hair,” he says with a slight shake of his head.
There are a thousand questions I want to ask him, but I don’t know where to even begin.
I’m terrified of potentially losing the woman who gave me life, but my heart is so conflicted over.
“Has she been acting out of character?” I ask, wanting to keep the conversation vague. He knows Becky differently than I do. He could say ‘ yes’ or ‘ no ’, and I wouldn’t know what he meant.
Margot said she was working herself to the bone, that she was a lot more tired than usual, but I thought nothing of it. I just put it down to her, trying to prove herself to yet another man.
I brushed it off.
Guilt.
But when I saw her in my apartment, she looked…off.
She had dark circles under her eyes, which isn’t unusual for my mom, but she typically prides herself in her appearance as best as she can afford to do.
But the lopsidedness to her smile, the way one leg buckled under her.
Guilt.
“She’s been feeling a little off all week. I told her to get checked, but she refused.”
“Jennifer Rogers?” A doctor’s voice cuts through.
I rise to my feet, rushing toward him. “Present,” I say awkwardly, in a panic.
“I’m Dr. Mansfield.” He gives me his hand to shake, and I squeeze it, feeling the uncomfortable warmth of Mark’s body beside mine. “Your mom is ok for now. She's awake and a little bit groggy, but we won't know the full impact that stroke had on her until we run a few more tests,” he says, and I sigh, and draw a deep breath.
She’s OK.
“I knew it,” Mark whispers, and it's the last thing I hear before I zone out.
A stroke?
I don't focus on their conversation anymore.
Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.
She was having a stroke, and I hesitated.
Can strokes kill you? Oh God, I hesitated, and she could be fucking dying.
Everything around me falls silent. There are no nurses, no beeping machines, and no family members eagerly awaiting news.
The last thirty years of my life play in my mind like a B-roll.
The things I remember, and the things I tried so hard to forget.
The way she used to stand in my doorway while my dad would read me a bedtime story, with a soft smile on her face.
The way she would watch me run from the kitchen down the hallway into my dad’s arms, letting him greet me first before they got to say their hellos.
The way she pushed me away while she sobbed on the floor of that very same kitchen, after the police had knocked on our front door and told her a drunk driver had collided with Dad’s car, killing him on impact while on his way home from work.
The way she fell into a deep, dark depression, and turned to the one thing that killed my dad.
Her husband.
Alcohol .
The way she never looked at me again with light in her eyes, only ever darkness, like I was the person who took her love away from her.
Like I wasn’t a living, breathing part of the man who owned her heart.
Like there wasn’t still a part of him alive and well in his child that shared half of her DNA.
She burned through my dad’s life insurance money faster than I ever knew to be possible. But when I was younger, I didn’t need to understand it. All I knew was that I’d just lost the only man who’d ever truly loved me unconditionally.
It was only as I got older that I understood the amount of money he left behind, and just how quickly it vanished.
Within the year, the bank repossessed the house that he worked so hard to make a home, and we moved into the trailer park that she still lives in.
The one she refuses to leave, for some God-forsaken reason.
Though, apparently when I’m out of town, she pretends to live in luxury by putting herself up in my apartment, and has the audacity to act shocked when I come home.
Like I’ve interrupted whatever plan she had for the day by simply existing.
“You can both go in and see her now,” Dr. Mansfield says, bringing me out of my grueling trip down memory lane, and I realize I didn’t catch a single word of their conversation after hearing that my mom had a stroke.
Can she walk?
Can she talk?
The doctor said ‘ she’s ok for now’. What does that even mean?
Have we wasted all this time feuding with each other, only for her to succumb to an illness before we had the chance to fix anything?
“You go. I think she’d want to see you,” Mark tells me, walking backward until his legs connect with a seat behind him, and he gets himself comfortable for the long wait that he thinks is coming.
Nodding, I follow the doctor down the narrow hallway, keeping my eyes directly in front of me, careful not to misstep or bump into anybody else.
I don’t look into patients’ rooms. I don’t care to see their family members hunched over their bedside, waiting for them to wake up.
I don’t want to see people with tubes draped over their bodies and shoved inside their noses.
I don’t want to hear the sound of beeping machines, or the voices of doctors telling desperate families that they ‘did all they could, but it was too late.’
I don’t want any of it.
“She’s just in here,” Dr. Mansfield tells me, pressing his hand to the door for me to go inside without him. I want to beg for him to follow me, but he doesn’t.
I close my eyes and force myself to draw in a deep breath before taking my first step inside my mom’s hospital room.
I didn’t know what to expect, but I sure as hell didn’t expect to see her sitting upright in bed, with a half smile on her face while the nurse checks her blood pressure.
“Jennifer. What are you doing here?” Her voice is different. Slower. More cautious, but she looks better. No longer hollow.
“Are you…?” I get two words out as I approach her slowly, taking a seat beside her bed. I reach for her hand to hold, but she rolls her eyes and I quickly take it back.
“One-twenty-over-eighty.” The nurse smiles at us both. She writes the results before turning off the machine and removing the blood pressure cuff from my mom’s bicep.
“Am I, what, Jenna? Dying?” My mom turns her attention to me after smiling goodbye at the nurse.
Dying.
After seeing her the way that I had in my apartment, watching her collapse in front of me, I thought she was drunk or hungover, because all my life, that’s all I’d seen from her.
But I should’ve known this was different.
“No. I’m not.” She shakes her head weakly.
“Mark and the doctor were talking, and they mentioned something about a stroke, but I panicked and zoned out, so I didn’t get to hear the part where the doctor told us if you were going to recover fine or if you were on your deathbed.” I sigh, slumping backward onto the uncomfortable seat.
“Would it have mattered?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Of course it would’ve, but if I tell her that, she’ll mistake my kindness for weakness.
She tries to sit upright, but quickly realizes she doesn't have the strength, and slowly steadies herself back in. “If you had listened to Dr. Mansfield when he came out to talk to you, you would’ve heard him tell you that it was a ministroke. But of course, in typical Jenna fashion, you worried more about yourself than you did me.” She reaches for her cup of water with her non-dominant hand, and even that trembles. She thinks I don't notice, but I do.
I ignore her spiteful comment, and rise from my seat. Rounding the edge of her bed to help her, she tries to swat my hand away. “What are you doing?” I ask, filling the cup. “I’m just trying to make it easier for you.”
“Why?” she asks, and I bring it to her lips, tilting it back slowly to make sure none of it spills from the corner of her mouth that I haven't seen move. “You’ve never offered to help me before, Jenna. Why start now? Having a sick mom has never fit in with your lifestyle.”
That’s not true, it’s never been true.
I could list every date and every time I offered her help, and how she had shoved it back in my face.
What I couldn’t do, though, is tell you how much money I’ve given her over the years.
I don’t even want to try to figure it out.
“You’re my mom.” My reply is soft, and the crack in my voice is noticeable when I remind her just who she is to me.
Who she will always be, no matter what.
“Give me a break.” She scoffs, shaking her head. “You know as well as I do that the relationship you and I have isn’t that of a mother and a daughter. You want me in your life as much as I want you in mine.”
Guilt.
But not because she’s sick, and not because she’s right about me not wanting her in my life.
This time, I feel guilty for wishing that I came home a little later. Maybe the outcome would’ve been different.
Guilty for wishing I was one of the family members the doctors tried to console while telling me they did all they could.
But I put on a brave face.
She’s not in her right mind .
“I’ll stay. For as long as you need me to,” I tell her, and her head snaps to mine, her lip slightly tugging up at the corner.
“As you should.”
As you should .
Of course, she would expect me to drop everything important in my life to be here for her.
Of course, she expects me to put her first, when I can’t remember a time in my life where she did the same for me.
Of course, she expects me to give up the job I’ve wanted for so long, to be by her side through this.
“How’s my girl doing?” Mark says from the doorway, and my head whips over my shoulder.
“Hi, honey.” My mom smiles up at him with her eyes, and the person she was only seconds ago, now ceasing to exist. “Jenna here was just telling me that she’s going to leave that small town and take care of me while I go through physical therapy. Isn’t that nice?” She bats her eyelashes at him, and I vomit in my mouth, swallowing it when his eyes narrow in on mine.
“Then you should get some rest, Jenna. She will need you around the clock.” He kisses my mom’s temple before ushering me to stand. “Give your mom a kiss goodbye. Dr. Mansfield said her PT will start the moment she feels a little stronger. I’ll call you when I know more.”
I haven’t so much as hugged my mom since my father’s funeral, yet she holds her stronger arm out for me, and I’m too uncomfortable to decline her, so I don't.
I take the two steps between us, dipping my head lower until it rests on her shoulder. We both keep our arms still by our sides, but she nuzzles herself closer to me. “I don’t need you here, Jenna. I don’t even want you here. But good thing I have a job now, so insurance will cover all medical bills. I guess you came in handy, after all,” she whispers in my ear, low enough for only me to hear, and I pause before I pull away.
Her words turn my world dark, ripping every ounce of color I’d ever experienced.
I don’t need you here . I don’t want you here.
For someone with such little physical energy, mentally it hasn't changed or drained her.
I give the two of them my best, fake smile, and head out the door, bumping into Dr. Mansfield on the way.
“Doc?” I squeak out, and his eyes look toward my mom’s room, then back at me. “My mom…she’s going to be OK, right?”
“We don’t like to make promises, but if she’s willing to put in the work, I’m confident she’ll make a full recovery.” He checks his watch, then looks back at me.
“Did she have any alcohol in her system when she came in?”
I don’t know why I ask.
That’s not true. I do know.
I want him to tell me that she’s way over the legal limit, so the things she just said to me wouldn’t hurt so badly.
“Ms. Rogers, your mom’s blood alcohol level was at zero.” He grips my forearm for reassurance, but I don’t feel relieved.
I feel like a fucking fool.
“I should be a contact on my mom's file. Do you think you can have someone keep me updated throughout her physical therapy?” I ask, wanting to be kept in the loop, but only from a distance.
“You got it.”
Thanking him, I walk out further down the hallway, text Margot that I’m on my way to dinner, and book the first flight leaving for Grangewood Creek.
If that woman thinks I’m pausing my life so she can have control over me, she doesn’t know me at all.
***
“I’m so sorry I’m late.” I bring Margot in for a quick hug before she sits back down in her seat, and I take mine.
She waves me off, swallowing the sip of the cocktail she’d just taken. “It’s fine. I got your text when I was putting my shoes on. I called the Lotus and had them push back our reservation, but in case you can’t tell, they’re not very busy.” She chuckles, looking around the almost empty space. “Apparently, this is the busiest they get.”
After I left the salon this morning, I’d asked her to book this place. I wanted to see what it was like.
I felt a pull toward it, and I couldn’t explain why, and now that I’m inside it, I still can’t understand it.
This isn’t the type of place I would usually dine in, and now that I’ve tried it, I won’t be coming back.
“Have you decided what you’re ordering?” I ask as I turn over the double-sided menu, not at all surprised to see that the meal options are almost nonexistent. When she doesn’t answer me, I look up to see that she’s watching me cautiously. Like she has something on the tip of her tongue, but can’t spit it out. “Do I have lipstick on my teeth?” I rub a finger over them just in case, and she shakes her head.
“Are you OK?” she asks, fiddling with the napkin underneath her cutlery. There’s distant chatter around us, the sounds of the jukebox playing older music, but she has all of my attention.
“You mean after thinking my birth giver was dying, panicking about it, and deciding to quit my dream job to come back home to take care of her, only to find out that she’s using me for my insurance and doesn’t actually care to be part of my life?” I smirk as her eyes widen in horror. “Just peachy.”
I called the insurance company on my way to the restaurant, and told them she was no longer an employee. Once I hung up the phone, I refused to let it cross my mind again.
Her face softens, her wispy fringe framing her face, her green eyes glistening under the shitty lights of this bar. God, there are so many things that need to be fixed in this place.
“That’s a lot of emotions to manage. Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, and I shake my head.
“I kind of would rather just forget it happened, enjoy dinner with a friend, then go home,” I say as I settle the menu back onto the table. “Do you think you can handle that?”
“Absolutely.”
We spend the next hour gossiping over a shared plate of nachos and bowl of fries, while she throws question after question at me about my time spent with Cole Green.
“Are you guys in love ?” She drags out the word ‘love’ like it’s something so natural and common for people to feel, and it might be.
Just not me, though.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I am the only single friend from the group. Always remember that. He and I are just having fun. Everything about us is temporary.” I like to tell myself this as a reminder.
Because in moments like tonight, where my good friend is trying to get me to open up about my mom being sick, all I want to do is curl up next to Cole, allowing the smell of him to calm me down from the incoming spiral I feel on the horizon.
While my friend is trying to distract me with fun, happy banter, I just want Cole to quote his favorite movie to me while we lay in bed together.
And while my friend is asking ridiculous questions about me being in love, I keep wanting to check my phone to see if I have a text from him asking me on a date, even though he knows I’ll say no.
But when I check my phone, I’m grateful the text isn’t there.
Because right now, I don’t think I would turn him down if he asked.
God, I can’t wait to go back to Grangewood Creek.