13. Drop Off #2
I forgot for a moment she thinks I’m doing social work.
I guess she thinks my client, Archer, is dangerous.
“No. No, nothing like that. It was… a freak accident. It was this old house, and…” If I tell her something as ridiculous as what actually happened, I know she won’t believe me, and she’ll go into a fresh spiral.
“A… something fell on him, like some furnishings? I didn’t really see it.
Some unsteady bookcase or something. And he got hurt.
And we had to take him to the hospital. And you know how emergency rooms are.
We were there for hours. I came home as soon as I could. ”
She watches me for a while, taking in the story, and my heart sinks that she’s probably already made up her mind to not believe me—that the idea I’m running drugs is so much more natural and reasonable to her.
“Hillingdon Hospital,” I tell her. “You can call them. Raul Vasquez is the guy’s name. You call them to see if he was admitted this afternoon.”
Fresh tears start to her eyes, and her shoulders drop as her voice softens. “Oh, Liam. I don’t need to call them. I’m sorry. I’m sorry you think that.”
“It’s all right.” It’s not, and we both know it.
But this is how we do things. This is how we live our lives.
Her forever grieving my missing brother, and always, always waiting for me to disappear too.
And me, terrified of sending her into another one of her weeks-long depressive breakdowns, where she can’t even get out of bed to wash or to eat.
Where every hope I have of living as basic a life as a man who can hold down a job goes straight back out the window.
“I’m sorry, it’s just…” Her gaze darts away, like a frightened animal trying to hide from whatever she’s thinking. “It’s almost the fifth and…”
The fifth. The anniversary of Jem’s disappearance. The day she makes the call to Detective Peter Marsden, the man in charge of my brother’s case, to ask him for news. The day Marsden tells her there’s nothing. Again. The day she falls apart.
No wonder she’s been so upset. It breaks my heart. I loved him so much. I miss him. But for her… I can’t imagine what it’s like, even now. “Please don’t worry about me, Ma. It’s okay.”
With a relieved tilt of her head, she comes over, takes my hands, and leads me to the sofa. “Tell me what happened today.”
“That was it, really.” I settle down by her side, keen to talk about anything but Jem.
“It was… just a job. I was talking to the client, just like I was supposed to, then… then it all went wrong.” I shove my own tears down, but I can’t control the waver in my voice.
“I thought he was dead, Ma. It looked so bad. And I was so scared and…”
Her arms come around me, and there won’t ever come a day I won’t melt into them. I know it. It’s not just that she’s my mother. It’s that she’s listening. Through all her own fear and anger, she still sees me. Me and not Jem, even if it’s just for a little while.
When she pulls back to talk, I miss the warmth instantly. “Is he all right now?”
“He’s weirdly all right. I mean… the whole thing smashed down on his head. Then he was fine? But I guess maybe he has a concussion or something, because he spoke for a bit, then he passed out, and even though he looked okay, or his body did, he’s got to have some kind of a head injury, right?”
“Sounds like you did the right thing by taking him to the hospital.” She scoops my hands up to hold them tight. “I’m proud of you, Liam. That you’d make the right call like that.”
The comment’s loaded. All at once, it means the world to me.
Because every time she says something like that, it feels like we might have finally made it out—that I will have proved my worth, shown her she can stop worrying now.
And I feel happy and hopeful. But I know her words also carry a warning.
Don’t fuck up. Don’t ever, ever be like your brother. Don’t let me down.
Maybe my face is showing all my thoughts, because she switches the conversation. “How was the rest of it, then? What was your client like?”
“My client?”
It’s a daft question. I guess I only ask it to stall the conversation. Because I’m not sure how to describe him. How to describe either Archer or all of what happened between us today. Or the weird way I’m feeling about him now.
“His name is Archer,” I venture. “And he’s certainly not as old as I thought he’d be. He’s actually just a few years older than me.”
She narrows her eyes at that, and I know what she’s thinking without her saying it, but she says it anyway. “Only a few years older than you, and they send you, totally inexperienced, as his… What is it again? Social worker?”
“Sort of.” I rush an excuse out. “I’m there to help him with his… nerves.”
“Anxious, is he?”
My heart flutters and, “Not really.”
“What is it then?”
“He’s…” Handsome, smart, kind, caring, stupidly wealthy… “He talks to this bird.”
The guffaw she huffs out breaks all the tension apart, and I’m so thankful for it. “And does the bird talk back?”
I’m smiling finally, at how ridiculous that whole part of the day was. And how lovely it was, actually. “It does a bit, yeah.”
“Well, maybe he’s not that mad after all.”
“That’s the funny thing. I don’t think he is. I think maybe he just needs…”
Someone to get rid of his ghost problem…
That isn’t really a ghost problem at all.
That’s worse than a ghost problem.
A problem that tried to kill me only a few hours ago. And him too.
“Maybe he just needs you, Liam,” she says lightly, sweetly.
“Yeah,” I reply, some mixture of self-flattery and fear fighting for supremacy while I’m wishing there was any way on earth that could ever be true. I repeat the nice notion all the same, because it feels good to think it—to say it. “Maybe he just needs me.”
I know the reality is different, though. Darker. Much, much more complicated.
Because even after everything else, I still constantly see my brother’s face.
Pale.
Dead.
A bullet in his brain.
And I know it’s not really Archer who needs me. I need him. And tomorrow, I’m going to find out every single thing he knows about the supernatural.
Then I’m going to find out what that thing knows about my brother.
We spent the next hour chatting, Mum telling me about her day, me trying to find reasonable bits and pieces to drop about mine. By the time I’ve showered, done some washing, and crawled into bed, my body is begging for a rest. I’m so tired I know I’ll drop off in about two minutes.
Between the sheets, covers up, body relaxing, eyes falling closed, and the deep satisfaction of sleep coming…
My phone vibrates on the bedside table.
I extend a tired hand, force my eyelids to part, and as soon as I see the message, my heart sinks.
Office. 7 a.m. Not happy >:( Ted.