52. Blakely
FIFTY-TWO
Blakely
I’ve always thought of myself as weak. A pathetic shell of a person who breaks apart and shatters at the first sign of distress. My emotions are wild, frequently revolting against the box I keep them in, leaping out like a caged tiger, its razor teeth snapping as it shreds everything in its path.
Standing next to DJ Andelo and looking into the camera, hoping Jackson was watching while I spewed the biggest lies I’ll ever tell…
That was the strongest I’ve ever had to be. The biggest test of my control.
But where there’s a play of strength, there’s the comedown after the show.
And when I go home and find the rest of the leftover junk food stacked neatly in the cabinet, my inner demons jump in glee, breaking free of their shackles until I’ve consumed every last bite. Thousands of calories in under twenty minutes. And even though I promised myself it wouldn’t happen again, I race up the stairs and force it all back up, the sharp edges of control slotting back into place with every single heave.
Just like the time before.
So, no. I’m not strong.
I’m still just a fraud.
I lay on the floor next to the toilet, allowing the heated marble to warm my chilled skin, hoping that maybe the warmth will shock some feeling back into my body—make me able to experience something other than this bone-deep ache.
Forcing Jackson out of my life was the right choice. But I didn’t expect it to hurt this bad. Like there’s this giant, rotting wound in the middle of my body, sucking up everything in sight until nothing is left.
Maybe if I lie here long enough, it will suck me up too and I’ll cease to exist.
Eventually, I pull myself up from the ground and head downstairs to grab some water, my mind on autopilot. There’s a type of numbness that comes with the acceptance that this is my lot in life. This is my reality.
Muffled noise comes from the family room and light from the TV flickers into the darkened hallway.
Curiosity pushes me forward until I’m standing behind the oversized couch, staring at my father as he watches home videos on the TV.
My cracked and bleeding heart splinters more as I watch my mother walk and talk right in front of my face.
“James, stop.” She laughs, pushing the camera and smiling.
My stomach clenches tight, my breath sucking in on a gasp. I didn’t even know we had home videos. I would have watched them every day.
My father’s head snaps around, his eyes dark as he looks at me. I’m not sure if he wants me to leave and honestly, maybe I should, but my feet are stuck to the floor like glue, desperate to stay right here. Maybe if I close my eyes, I can pretend she’s standing next to me, brushing back my hair and telling me things I’ve always imagined a mother would.
After a few moments, he smiles softly and gestures me over. A thread loosens in my chest and I trudge to the couch and sit down, my eyes flickering back and forth between him and the screen.
He’s wearing plaid pajamas, a glass of water in his hand, and I rack my brain trying to remember the last time I’ve ever seen him look so relaxed.
The only one that comes to mind is when I was six years old and I came down on Christmas morning expecting to see my nanny but found him instead.
The screen flickers, drawing my attention back, and the footage goes grainy before popping a new image on the screen. My mother sits in a rocking chair, rubbing her swollen belly and singing a lullaby. Tears spring to my eyes, my battered heart seizing in my chest.
I swallow, not able to tear my gaze away for a second. Her face looks up to the camera, beaming. “James, she’s kicking like crazy! I think she likes this song.” Closing her eyes, she hums, putting her hand out in the space between them. “Come here, feel her move.”
The camera jostles as it’s set down, angled toward my mother, and suddenly, my father walks into the frame. A younger version, without the graying at his temples and the frown lines, but still, the same. He kneels in front of her, both of his hands coming up to wrap around her belly—around me— his eyes shimmering, his mouth parting on a gasp.
“It never gets old, does it?” my mother says, her fingers running through his hair.
He leans in, kissing her stomach before resting his cheek against it and smiling. “Hello, Blakely Alexandra. We can’t wait to meet you.”
My stomach flips and tightens, my throat burning.
“She was so excited to have you,” my father says from beside me, his voice low and deep. “We both were.”
My teeth chomp down on my lip so hard, they break through the skin, the tang of blood trickling into my mouth.
“Your mom was an actress,” he continues. “Did I ever tell you that?”
The tears I’ve been trying to hold back overflow like a broken dam, my vision blurring. “No,” I whisper. “You never talk about her.”
“You never ask.”
I’m quiet, my legs coming up to curl into my chest, my arms wrapping around them. “I’m asking now.”
He smiles. “She was an actress, that’s how we met. A terrible one.” He chuckles. “But that’s what I loved about her. She was…”
“Beautiful,” I cut in, watching her twirl effortlessly around as she dances on the screen.
He audibly swallows. “She was definitely that. But she was genuine . And in my world, that was something rare. Almost unheard of.”
My gut cinches like a corset, pushing the breath from my lungs. “Yeah, tell me about it,” I mumble.
“She wanted nothing to do with me.” I glance over at him and see his eyes shining, fat drops of emotion lining his lower lids. “But I was persistent and had a ring on her finger in less than six months.”
My chest compresses. “I wish I could have known her.”
His hand reaches over, patting the top of mine, and my eyes drop to the motion, trying to remember the last time I felt his touch.
“So do I, honey.” He hesitates. “I’m sorry I’ve never let you.”
My fists clench against the couch cushions. “It’s okay.”
He shakes his head. “It isn’t.”
Something loosens in my chest, dropping down into my stomach and disintegrating. “You’re right, it isn’t.”
“Anyway, your mother’s bad acting was my favorite feature on her. She wasn’t able to hide a thing from me, you know?” His eyes glance at me from his peripheral. “Not like some people, who can hide the world behind a smile. But it also meant that when she fell down, people would see. And your mother…she fell down a lot.”
My heart skips. “What do you mean?”
“She had depression. Severe depression that would hit out of nowhere and take her down for months. She’d go from this smiling, happy person to a shell who couldn’t even get out of bed. I watched everyone in her life brush it off and tell her to get her act together. To just decide to be happy.”
The hole in the middle of my stomach widens, sadness coating its edges.
“But I saw her.” He wipes a tear from his chin. “More than anyone else, I saw her. And I was there every day, helping her shower and holding her when she cried.” His voice breaks as he turns to me. “I think the biggest regret of my life will be not doing the same for you.”
My mouth parts, shock freezing everything in my body, unable to process his words. Not sure if I should even believe them.
“She would be ashamed of what I’ve become. Of how I’ve let others raise you. How I left you alone with your demons instead of helping you learn to navigate their shadows.”
Tears steadily roll down my face, my nose burning and chest throbbing from his words.
“You’ve always been so damn self-sufficient, and I…I have no clue how to do life without her.” He nods his head toward the screen. “Almost twenty years and I still wake up with a hole where my heart should be.” He inhales deep. “I let work take over my life because the alternative is admitting to myself that she’s gone, and because of that, I’ve failed at taking care of the greatest gift she ever gave me.”
I suck in a stuttered breath, my face screwing up as the tears stream from my eyes, dripping over my lips and dissolving on my tongue.
He turns toward me fully and takes both of my hands in his. “I know it doesn’t make up for it, but I am so sorry, Blakely.”
The little girl inside of me bursts with joy, but the woman spawned from his abandonment pushes back. “What if it’s too late?” I choke out. “What if you waited too long and now I don’t need you?”
He bobs his head. “Everybody needs somebody, Blakely. I’m begging you to let that person be me. At least until we can get you help.”
My spine stiffens.
I try to pull my hands back, but he tightens his grip. “Your mother had the same reaction, a straight back and a defiant look on her face before I even finished getting out the words.”
I scoff. “But I’m fine .”
He shakes his head. “There’s no shame in getting help, Blakely. Sometimes, you have to put yourself first, admit that you need someone to help you steer through the choppy waters.”
My chest caves in at his words.
“Your mom went to therapy, four times a week at first. She went on antidepressants, and she had to work every day at digging herself out of the hole she fell into. It didn’t make her less of a person. It didn’t make her less worthy. It just made her human.”
His words filter through my cracks and I stare at the TV, watching her love my father. Watching her love me .
His hand squeezes mine. “It’s okay to be human, Blakely. Let me help you. Please. ”
Raising my chin, I swallow back the sob. Closing my eyes, more tears squeeze from the corners and stream down my face. Thoughts of Jackson filter through my head, of him begging me to get help—for me to just open my eyes and see.
“This isn’t living, baby.” His voice whispers in my mind.
I gulp in air, the slight aftertaste of vomit—despite brushing my teeth—still lingering, the shame resting heavy on my tongue.
I close my eyes.
One. Two. Three.
And then I nod.