Chapter Thirty
Jay
It’s the middle of the night, but I’m wide awake. My feelings for Caleb haunt me, keeping sleep at bay. I tip-toe downstairs to the kitchen for a late-night snack.
Soft sobs meet my ears as I enter the hall. “Hello? Is someone there?”
I scan the space, trying to pinpoint the source. Slowly, I creep down the hall toward the kitchen. Upon entering, I find a woman.
Her elbows rest on the kitchen table, and she sobs into her hands. In front of her is half a sandwich on a plate, collecting her tears.
I stop in the doorway. “Are–are you okay?”
The woman peers up at me through her hands. With bloodshot, puffy and red eyes, she must have been crying.
She sucks in a breath through her quivering bottom lip and wipes her eyes. Sniffling, she says, “Uh . . . no,” She laughs. “But it’s fine. I’ll be okay. Thank you.”
“You don’t seem fine.”
She sighs. “It’s nothing, it’s—” The woman glances at her plate and averts her gaze, laughing at herself. She opens her napkin and dabs her cheeks and under eyes, then she sniffles again. “It’s stupid. So stupid.”
She takes a deep breath, and the waterworks start again.
I approach her and gesture to the bench across from her. “May I?”
She nods.
I take a seat.
“It’s this sandwich. After years of cooking for two, you forget how to cook for one. I used to always give my other half to him.”
This must be Caleb’s mom, Bloodhound’s luna.
“Do you want it?”
“Thank you, but I don’t eat meat.”
“A werewolf who doesn’t eat meat? That’s . . . unusual.”
“It’s . . . a long story,” I say.
No, it’s not. It’s simple: I’ve seen mauled flesh so many times I can’t look at meat the same anymore. A choice I made that’s meant further limiting food options for myself, especially in the winter when there wasn’t much to gather. But she probably doesn’t want to hear about that.
“I’d like to hear it.”
I could tell her every horrible thing I was forced to do, how I remember them all—but instead, I shake my head. “Another time.”
“Well, thank you for listening. I think I’m going to head on upstairs for a nap.” She struggles to stand, and her arms shake as she lifts from the table.
“Do you want some help?”
“No, no, I got it.” She finally stands completely, and the moment she straightens, she collapses again.
I grab her arms, stopping her fall. “I gotcha.”
She sighs, relieved. “Thank you. Old age will do that for you.”
For someone her age, she’s so frail, but she couldn’t be older than fifty, if that.
“How about I help you to your room?”
“Uh . . . no. I’m fine. I—” She pauses. “Yes, that—That would be nice, thank you.”
With one hand on her elbow and the other at her waist, I escort her up the stairs.
She grabs the railing.
We climb the stairs slowly far slower than you’d expect for her age as she hides her winces.
At the top, I peer down the east and west wings. “Which way?”
“My bedroom is that way.” She points to the west wing.
We move down the hall, past several doors, until she nods at one. “That one is mine.” Once there, I reach for the doorknob.
“Wait!”
I halt.
“Thank you for your help. You’ve done enough. I’ve got it from here.”
“Let me help you into bed.” She can barely stand, let alone walk or hoist herself up onto a bed.
“No, really—it’s fine. I don’t want to be any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble at all, I insist.” I place my hand on the knob and turn it. When I open it, I put on my best poker face.
Oh, jeez.
Clothes have been thrown everywhere. Boxes of various shapes, colors and sizes sit open, covering the floor, stacked to the ceiling.
One accidental bump and those box towers would crush her.
Plates with old, half-finished meals are piled up on half-cleared surfaces.
The bed is unmade and judging by the room’s odor, it doesn’t seem like anyone has cleaned in quite some time.
It’s unsanitary, not to mention a safety hazard for a woman in her condition.
Doesn’t this household have maids? I’m sure there are plenty of people who would clean up the mess if she asked.
Luna Kathy wipes a tear. “It’s a mess, I know.”
This must be why she was hesitant to let me help her.
Kathy is clearly ashamed of how she’s living.
I think she expects me to judge her, but I don’t.
If anyone can understand hoarding, it’s me.
I’m no stranger to filling voids with things that are maladaptive to my health.
At its core, it’s no different from what I do.
My method is just easier to hide with long pants.
But the root of this behavior is often the same: grief and depression.
“That’s okay. Let’s get you into bed.”
I enter her room and walk her to her bed.
She posts a hand on the mattress and eases herself onto it.
I help lift her legs and pull the covers from the end of the bed to cover her.
It was weird. Every room I’ve seen has had their beds made, but hers is undressed.
At first, I thought she just had a nap. Then I realize: she just doesn’t want anyone to disturb the memory and time capsule of this room.
“It didn’t always look this way. Ever since my mate passed on, I haven’t been able to bring myself to do anything. I get overwhelmed and then . . .” She fiddles with one of the tissues on her bed.
“I understand. Do you . . . prefer it this way?”
“Yes,” she lies.
“Has anyone tried to help you?”
She shakes her head fast. “No, I’m too embarrassed. Besides my son, you’re the only person who’s seen it.”
My conscience can’t let her continue living this way.
“How about I take care of it for you and tell you about why I’m a vegetarian? And then you can tell me about your mate.”
“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that. It’s too much.”
I scan the room. It is a lot. But it probably feels like even more to her. It’s nothing I can’t handle. “I want to.”
“I don’t know . . .”
I don’t wait for her to give me permission or revoke it.
Instead, I gather clothes and throwing them into a nearby hamper. “Just let me know if it gets too overwhelming for you, and I’ll stop.”
She watches me for a beat as I pick up her clothes and put lids back on things that shouldn’t be left open. When I throw trash away, her body relaxes. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Jay. And yours?”
“Kathy. Luna Kathy.”
***
Helping in Luna Kathy’s room will never make up for what I took from her, but it’s something. You could say I’m selfish, but I don’t feel any less guilty than I did before.
I finished cleaning a little while ago. I watched and listened to Luna Kathy get increasingly lighter in her demeanor as more and more of the space cleared.
At times, she’d shoot skeptical glares my way like she was waiting for me to give up, run away screaming or judge her. Now she’s laughing as she tells me stories about her and Alpha Jack.
“Do you have a mate?”
“No,” I laugh at the ridiculous question.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh,” I look at my hands. “I guess because the idea that I’d have a mate is laughable.”
“Laughable? Why would you say such a thing?”
“To think that something so wonderful—someone loving all of me unconditionally—could happen to me is what’s so funny.”
“Someone like you? You say that like you’re a bad person,” she asks skeptically.
“What if I told you I am?”
Knitting in bed, she cocks a brow, considering my question. “It’s possible. I guess I don’t really know you, but I do know that you just cleaned my entire quarters, and you just met me. You also spent the past hour listening to me talk about my late mate. You’re not behaving like a bad person.”
“I really enjoyed your stories. Especially the one about the waterfall.”
Luna Kathy laughs. “Oh my. That’s probably my favorite memory with Jack.”
“Oh my goddess! And the part where he—”
“I know!” She shakes her head. “I couldn’t believe it.”
We both burst into laughter. It only stops when there’s a knock on the door.
I turn to find Caleb standing in the doorway.
“What’re you doing?” He looks around the room, astonished and mortified. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”
“Caleb, it’s fine—” Luna Kathy starts.
“No, it’s not fine. It is anything but fine.” Caleb stomps over to me. He grabs me by the arm and drags me out and down the hall toward his bedroom. His anger seems to come from nowhere.
I can’t place why he’d be so angry with me. “I–I don’t understand. Why are you so upset?” I’m not fighting against him, but he tightens his hold anyway.
Caleb busts through his bedroom door, and I’m just thankful he didn’t use me as a barricade. After throwing me into the room, he slams the door shut. “What were you doing in there?” He paces, running his hand through his hair.
“I-I–”
I try, but the words can’t come. I don’t even know where to begin because I don’t understand why he’s so upset.
He points to the door. “That is my mother you were just with.”
It’s then I understand. He has every right to freak out—he just found me with his only surviving parent after I killed his other. “I know,” I say softly.
“Does she know?” he snaps.
I shake my head. “I didn’t tell her.”
“Then why were you in there with her?”
He still doesn’t trust me, and I can’t blame him.
Despite his seething anger, I manage to recover my backbone. “I was only trying to help her. Her room needed to be cleaned.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
He’s so defensive. Triggered and scared, he can’t communicate the way I know we could.
I remain calm and hope he brings himself down once he realizes it’s safe to do so.
“Do you think I haven’t tried?”
That was the furthest thing from my mind, but clearly, he’s ashamed he didn’t clean it himself. I bet she’d never let him, especially considering she didn’t even want me to, at first. “I’m sure you did. You care for her. Why else would you be freaking out right now?”
Something about what I said cuts through his anger and brings him down. I watch the defensiveness leave his body. Soon after, he stops pacing, and his shoulders relax.
“It needed to be done, and it was easier to let a stranger do it than her own son.”
He looks at me, puzzled. “She just let you clean? Just like that?”
“Well, let is a strong word. I didn’t really give her much of a choice.”
His eyes soften. “Thank you.” He takes my hands in his.
The affection is unexpected.
I bite my bottom lip, scared to move. If I do, he might realize what he’s doing and stop. “I heard her in there with you. You—You made her laugh . . . I haven’t heard that sound in a long time. I was starting to think I never would.”
I hum at his love for her. “She loves you, you know?”
He peers up at me.
“She talked about you constantly. And about your dad.”
“She talked to you about my father?”
“I know. I think she really needed someone to talk to about him. You know, it’s hard when someone dies, and the world doesn’t end. People move on, and you start to feel left behind. Stuck. And it’s hard to catch up.”
He nods, taking in my words. “She’s been like this ever since he passed. I can’t get her out of bed.”
“That’s really hard. I’m sorry.”
He clears his throat, collecting himself. “I have a meeting with the council, and if she isn’t there, things won’t just stop but will regress. How do you suggest I get her out of bed?”