Chapter 5 Jane
JANE
“So, tell me about your day,” I say, settling into the chair across from Jackson as I take his plate and serve him a generous portion of macaroni.
“We learned about the different types of clouds,” he says, accepting his plate and taking a massive bite before I’ve finished filling my plate.
“Slow down there, Jay. Dinner’s not going anywhere.” He must be growing again, judging by the rather impressive appetite he’s shown lately.
I’ll need to get ahead of it and get him some new shoes soon.
He’s always been terrible about telling me when they get too small—I had to find out the hard way last time when his toes literally tore through the front of his shoe and his teacher had to call me because Jackson couldn’t stop crying.
He thought he’d ruined them when in fact, it made me feel like the worst mother in the world that I hadn’t realized he’d outgrown them.
Won’t be making that mistake again.
“Any other fun news?” I press, curious whether he’ll tell me more about his first walk home as a big boy.
Jackson shrugs, then his face lights up as if he’s suddenly remembered something. “I made a new friend today,” he says after swallowing his mouthful.
“That’s wonderful. Tell me about him,” I suggest as warmth floods my chest. Jackson tends to be on the shy side.
The friends he has have been hard to come by because he’s quiet.
He doesn’t like to make the first move, and I smile as I picture someone new to the class coming up to introduce themselves to the boy who’s probably the least intimidating kid in a class.
“His name’s Gio, and he’s got the coolest tattoos,” Jackson says enthusiastically.
“Tattoos?” I repeat, my heart skipping a beat. “Like the stick-on kind?”
Jackson giggles, his smile breaking across his face. “No, like the real kind. He had them all across his knuckles and hand and up his arm…”
I don’t know why, but my immediate thought is to jump back to my creepy customer this morning, and I rack my brain trying to remember if he had tattoos.
But I can’t, for the life of me, recall one way or the other.
“Jackson, was this new friend of yours a man? Like, an adult?” I clarify, my pulse suddenly racing.
“Yeah,” he says, seeming almost confused by my question as he keeps his fork in hand.
“Where did you meet him—when?”
“Just outside, while I was taking out the trash…”
Jackson glances over his shoulder toward the side door of our townhome, and that creeping sensation of goosebumps crawling along the nape of my neck has me out of my chair in an instant.
“Mom, what’s wrong?” Jackson asks as I race to the side door, throwing the deadbolt home before I turn my attention to the window and peer out into the deep shadows along our walkway.
It makes me wonder if that gut feeling I had early about being followed was spot on, but if someone did track me home, I don’t see them now.
The street is empty aside from Mrs. Henderson from two doors down as she shuffles along the sidewalk, taking her little Yorkshire terrier, Snickers, for an evening stroll.
“Tell me more about this man. What did he look like?” I press, turning back to Jackson.
Again, he shrugs, his brows furrowing in concentration. “He was tall and had one of those fancy shirts with the buttons down the front.”
A common clothing option for businessmen—and also what my creepy customer was wearing. “Good. What else do you remember? What color was his hair? Did he have a beard? A mustache?” I ask as I head back to the table.
“I don’t know. His hair was dark, kinda like mine, and yeah, I think he had hair on his face, but it wasn’t, you know”—Jackson gestures to indicate a full beard—“long like a wizard’s or anything,” he finishes.
“Did he say why he was outside our house?” I ask, my ears roaring with the sound of my adrenaline rushing through my veins.
“No,” Jackson says thoughtfully, as if checking his memory with care. “He just seemed like he was on his way home from work or something.”
It might not be a clear description of the man who came to my shop this morning, but it’s close enough.
I’m not about to take chances—especially if this man was bold enough to engage my son in a conversation.
“You need to be more careful about talking to strangers, Jay,” I warn, worry edging my tone.
“He’s not a stranger. His name’s Gio, and he’s my friend,” Jackson insists.
“I’m glad you’re making friends, bud, but not everyone is a good person. Please keep it to kids at school and grown-ups you meet when I’m around from now on. Okay?”
Jackson gives another shrug, his expression bordering on baffled as he stabs his macaroni with his fork. “Okay,” he agrees.
I should feel relief at how willing he is to concede, but I know my son. He has a mind of his own, and my sense of foreboding only increases as I glance out the window once more.
But I’m met with the same quiet stillness as before, and I will my heartbeat to calm down so I can enjoy dinner with my son.
“You have anything else to tell me about your day?” I ask, forcing my voice back into a cheery space.
But I can tell my anxiety has dampened his enthusiasm over making a friend, and I immediately feel guilty when he rests the side of his head against his palm as he gives a simple “No” and eats his next bite.
“Well, I was looking at the sky on my way into work this morning, and I thought, ‘You know what? I wonder what the names are for all those different kinds of clouds up there…’ If only I knew someone who could teach me such a thing,” I say with an exaggeratedly dreamy tone.
Jackson giggles, his mood picking right back up. “Mooom,” he says, dragging the word out in exasperation. “I can teach you that. We just learned it in school. Remember?”
“Oh, that’s right,” I say, flashing him a grin, and my heart swells as he goes into an enthusiastic explanation of what the different types of clouds are and exactly how to identify them.
After dinner, Jackson clears the table while I pack up the leftovers.
Then he heads upstairs to get his homework while I clean the dishes.
He rarely needs my help on math equations, so when he gets stuck on two, I enjoy the process of sitting down with him while we work through the book’s explanation of what his teacher expects him to do.
It’s a nice reminder for me as well, and I wonder if math was quite so complicated back when I went to school.
If so, I don’t remember it.
“Is that the last of it?” I ask when Jackson tucks his page of finished math problems into his Spider-Man folder and slips that into his backpack.
“Yep,” he says proudly, zipping the matching webbed bag closed with an audible snick.
I don’t know where he got his academic drive, but I can always trust that my son is on top of his schoolwork.
I clap my hands together as I stand. “Well then, time to brush our teeth?” I suggest.
Jackson stands without argument, walking through the living room and depositing his backpack on the floor of the entry.
Our routine is simple enough, and pretty much the same every night, but I love it.
It’s full of the little moments in life that make me smile, and though it might just be the two of us, I couldn’t be happier.
As I watch my son climb up the stairs, I can’t help but note how big he’s getting.
He’s still my little boy—and always will be—but somewhere over the last year, he’s started to develop a maturity that I’m not quite sure I’m ready for—even if I have to be.
Shaking my head, I finish tidying the kitchen, then follow him upstairs. Jackson’s already scrubbing his teeth by the time I reach the bathroom, and I join him, flossing first while he times himself to ensure he brushes long enough.
“Let me know when you’re ready, and I’ll be right there to tuck you in,” I assure him, tousling his thick head of curls as he passes by.
Thankfully, he hasn’t reached the stage where he’s too big for that anymore.
It’s going to take an iron will not to cry when that night comes.
Until then, I’ll soak up every motherly moment he’ll allow me.
I’ve just finished patting my face dry when I hear him calling from the other room, telling me he’s dressed for bed.
Quickly applying a thin layer of moisturizer, I flick off the bathroom light and pad down the hall to his door.
Jackson’s room is simple in its decoration but entirely him, with a solar system bedspread and glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling to match.
The deep blue of his accent wall behind his dresser adds to the space theme, and I smile when I find him wearing a pair of NASA pajamas I bought him last Christmas.
“Did you pick out your outfit for tomorrow?” I double-check—because we both know by now that it’s going to be a scramble out the door, as usual. Best to be as prepared as we can be the night before.
“Yep,” he agrees, wiggling further beneath the covers as I lift them to make it easier. Then I pull them snuggly up to his chest.
“I love you, bud,” I say, leaning in to press a kiss to his forehead.
“Love you too, Mom.”
“Sweet dreams,” I add, chucking him under the chin as I straighten.
“Good night.” He grins, knowing what comes next in the bedtime ritual, and he echoes me as I head toward the door, saying, “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
Blowing him a last kiss, I flick off his bedroom lamp, igniting the stars above him that serve as his nightlight.
It isn’t hard to know how blessed I am, and I take a moment to appreciate my life as I cross the hall to my bedroom.
My son is my entire world.
I love him with every bone in my body and know without a shadow of a doubt that I would give anything to keep him safe.
With that in mind, I gently pull my bedroom door closed before heading to my closet—and the tiny safe bolted to the shelf in the far back corner there.
Spinning the dial, I quickly put in the combination and turn the lever to open the door, then reach inside to palm the pistol there.
It’s not loaded—I know better than to keep a bullet in the chamber.
But the box of ammo sits right beside it, and I go through the motion of checking the cartridge and pulling back the hammer before raising the sights to eye level.
I’ve had the gun for years and never used it, but it doesn’t hurt to know how—just in case.
I’ve been to enough gun ranges to be certain I do.
I bought the gun to protect myself almost straight out of being released from the hospital eight years ago.
Because I refuse to be anyone’s victim again.
I have Jackson to think of now, and that means I simply can’t afford to let something happen.