Chapter 8 #2
He watched her walk toward the school and shook his head. "And some things, we never really leave behind," he said quietly, then sighed.
She'll learn. I just hope her next fall isn't even harder.
Schoharie, New York
Sunday, December 13th
“I thought you’d stay at Marianne’s for the week,” Jonah said, passing Jameson a hammer.
Jameson shrugged. “I wanted to spend time with you.”
“Mm-hm. And work on the barn.”
She looked at the framing of the new interior. It had long been a dream to finish the barn—make it into livable quarters, someplace a large family could gather when the weather soured or when grandkids came home with friends and partners. That day would arrive sooner than she wanted to admit.
“Maybe one day I’ll get to complete it.”
“JD?”
“Huh?”
“You make it sound like you have doubts,” Jonah said.
Jameson’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Okay. I thought we’d spend today with you reassuring me about work,” Jonah said. “Looks like it’s my turn to play your therapist.”
Jameson stared at him, then laughed.
“I’m serious.”
“I know. That’s what’s funny. I’m okay, Jonah.”
Jonah’s brow arched, just like his mother’s often did.
Jameson laughed again.
“Now what?” he asked.
Jameson shook her head. “Don’t worry about it, and don’t worry about me.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not going to happen—me not worrying about you.”
She smiled.
“I’ve been kind of an asshole,” he said.
“What are you talking about?”
“I have. I kind of went MIA on you.”
Jameson huffed, shook her head, and put the hammer down. “Let’s go inside.”
“We still have time to?—”
“It’s cold. And besides, Marianne sent me here with that beer you like.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t know. That kind that tastes like tar.”
Jonah laughed, following Jameson back toward the house.
“It doesn’t taste like tar. And how would you know what tar tastes like?”
“Don’t ask. And it does,” Jameson said without turning back.
She opened the back door, took off her gloves and jacket, and headed to the refrigerator to grab Jonah a beer.
Instinctively, Jonah went to the counter, reached into a cabinet, and began making coffee.
Jameson turned and smiled. She missed this. All of it. And she missed Jonah. She passed him the beer.
“I’ll handle the coffee,” she said.
Jonah nodded and took a seat at the table. “JD?”
Jameson sighed. She finished filling the pot, set it to brew, and finally turned to look at him.
“I know I bailed—on everyone," he said.
“Is that what you think? Or is that how you think other people feel?”
“Probably both. Because it’s true.”
Jameson took a breath. “You needed time with your dad.”
“Yeah. Maybe. I still bailed. On Mel.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “On you.”
Jameson took a moment, letting his words settle.
“I don’t feel that way,” she said.
He looked up.
“I don’t.”
“But I did,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s just?—”
“What?”
“I felt guilty.”
“About?”
Jonah shook his head.
“Jonah?”
“It was like he was finally—like he?—”
“Was finally the dad you wished he had been all along,” Jameson said.
“Yeah.”
“I’m glad you had that time with him.”
Jonah chuckled wryly.
“What?” Jameson pressed.
“You deserved better from me,” he said. “And I just—every time I was with you, I just felt like I was?—”
“Betraying him?”
Jonah’s head snapped up.
Jameson smiled. “I know.”
“See? Asshole.”
“No,” Jameson said.
“JD—”
“No.” She leaned against the counter and crossed her arms. “You don’t get to call yourself that because you loved your father.”
Jonah looked down at the bottle in his hand.
Jameson waited until he looked at her again.
“You don’t,” she said more softly. “That’s not how this works.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
He huffed a humorless laugh. “Apparently not.”
The coffee started to drip behind her, the familiar scent filling the kitchen. Jameson turned to grab a mug from the cabinet, mostly because she needed something to do with her hands.
“I think when people die, everyone expects the stages,” she said. “You know, like all the self-help books explain. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Then acceptance.”
He nodded.
“And maybe that’s true for some people," she said, turning to face him. "I’ve found it’s mostly bullshit.”
Jonah chuckled.
“Sometimes it’s relief when someone leaves.
Sometimes it’s resentment. Sometimes it’s wanting something from a person after they’re gone that they couldn’t give you when they were alive.
And sometimes,” she continued, “it’s guilt because you feel like you need to choose between the person you’re losing and everyone else. ”
His eyes closed briefly.
Jameson poured herself some coffee and sipped.
“I was happy for you,” she said. “That you had time with him.”
“That makes it worse.”
“Why?”
“Because you mean it.”
She nodded.
Jonah shook his head. “He was finally trying, JD. Or maybe I just wanted to believe he was. I don’t know. But I felt like if I let myself have that, if I let myself want him to be my father, then I was somehow saying you mattered less.”
Jameson sat across from him. The words hurt. Not because they were cruel. Because they were honest.
“Jonah,” she said, “I was never supposed to be enough.”
He looked at her.
“I mean that.” She wrapped both hands around her mug. “I love you like you’re mine. I always have. But loving you was never supposed to erase the part of you that wanted your father. It couldn’t. And it shouldn’t. If I ever made you feel like it had to?—”
“You didn’t.”
“Good.”
He leaned back in his chair and stared toward the window over the sink. Beyond the glass, the barn stood against the gray afternoon, half-finished and waiting.
“I hated him for a long time,” Jonah said. “And then I hated myself for wanting him anyway.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because I lost someone I spent a lot of time being angry with.”
“Craig?”
Jameson nodded. “And I bailed on Scott. Worse, I blamed him for Craig’s death.”
“Yeah, but that’s because you thought he didn’t help Craig.”
“I did. But even if that had been true, I owed him more.” She sighed. “I couldn’t, Jonah. And the truth is, every time I saw Scott, I was reminded that I’d lost Craig. All I felt was guilt. All the time. About everything.”
“Not really the same.”
“Maybe not. It also isn’t that different.”
Jonah shook his head. “He told me he was glad that I had you.”
Jameson smiled.
“You’re not surprised,” he observed.
“No. Your dad and I had enough conversations that I know how he felt—about all of you. About your mom. And me.”
“Mom seemed—sadder than I imagined.”
Jameson nodded. “Why does it surprise you that your mom was sad?”
“It doesn’t. I know they were friends. But?—”
“She loved your dad, Jonah. She had four children with him.” Jameson sighed softly. “And she shared something with him that none of us can really understand. Not even Pearl. Not even me.”
“You mean Lucas.”
Jameson nodded. “Losing a child—that’s something I can’t imagine. To hold your baby while he passes?” Jameson closed her eyes.
“I can’t imagine,” Jonah said.
Jameson opened her eyes and nodded. “There’s nothing in this world your mother loves more than you and your siblings. And before you say it—not even me.”
“JD, Mom?—”
“Your mother is the only person I have ever been in love with. And the only person I will ever be in love with. And I think, as much as she loved your father and Jessica, she’d say the same about me.
I don’t doubt how much she loves me. But being your mom?
That is her touchstone, Jonah. Believe me.
As much as she loves politics. And believe me, she loves it more than she cares to admit?—”
Jonah smiled.
“She doesn’t love it more than you. She doesn’t love anything more than her kids. And I get it. I never thought I’d have kids of my own. I certainly never considered that I’d have step kids who could be my siblings.”
Jonah chuckled.
“You don’t owe me any apologies or explanations, Jonah. None. There isn’t anything you could do or say—not even going MIA—that would change what you mean to me. You need to let that go.”
Jonah took a breath, sipped his beer, and set it aside.
“Thanks,” he said.
Jameson smiled.
He lifted that signature Stratton brow.
“What?” Jameson asked.
“So, we dealt with my issues.”
Jameson chuckled. “We don’t have enough time for all my issues,” she teased.
“How about the one that has you wondering if you’ll ever finish the barn?”
Jameson groaned.
“Come on, JD. I admit, you know me better than most people. I know you, too.”
She sighed. “You do.”
“So? Had your fill of being First Lady?”
The term usually elicited one of two responses from Jameson: a dramatic eye roll or laughter. “Jonah, I have been first in my class, first in a race, and even the first lesbian married to a president. But I promise you I have never been first at being a quote-unquote lady.”
He stared at her for a moment.
They both laughed.
Jameson shook her head. “I hate that term. It makes me feel?—”
“Like a girl?”
“No. I like being a girl. Like I’m old.”
Jonah snickered.
“Why is that funny?”
He shrugged. “You’re not the youngest First Lady in history.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Not helping, Jonah.”
He laughed harder.
Jameson sipped her coffee.
“Come on, JD. What gives? Why wouldn’t you finish the barn?”
“Jonah—”
“Well?”
“We’re not moving back here anytime soon.”
“Yeah. And?”
Jameson shook her head. “And by the time we do, Coop will be off to college. I just?—”
“You need to tell Mom that you want to finish the barn. I realize this is about more than that.”
Jameson groaned.
“You don’t love living there,” he said. “Coop’s starting to. Mom? Well, Mom fits there. It doesn’t really fit you, JD. I know that. Mom does, too.”
“Your mom needs all the support she can get.”
“Yeah. But she also needs you to be yourself, JD. And I know my mom. She’s waiting for you to tell her what you need. Probably because you keep telling her you don’t need anything.”
Jameson chuckled.
“Take some weekends. Or weekdays. Come here. Work on the barn.”
“I think she needs me?—”
Jonah laughed.
“What?”
“You asked me earlier if I thought I bailed, or if that was because I thought that’s how you viewed it.”
“And?”