Blazed (24 page)

My mother pauses while I watch my hands shake violently.

“I want to leave so bad, Jaime. I want to walk to you. But I can't do that. I have to make sure I wipe all the dirt away.”

“I know.”

“I'm so sorry,” she says.

Hearing the sound of her voice again is awesome. I've missed it. There hasn't been a single day in my life that I've never heard it. It's really comforting. It's also maddening.

Like, you did this. You. There'd be no need to walk to me if you'd never let the demons rip you away to begin with.

“I miss you so much, Jaime. My boy. My beautiful boy.”

Not even the numb of the two blues is enough to deflect the sharp edges of each word she says.

“I miss you, too,” I say. “But it's getting better now for sure, right? You're gonna be fine soon?”

I stand, then walk to the desk and drop an Oxy on it, covering it with a sheet of paper.

“I will,” she says. “I have to. It's the only way I get you back. There's no choice in this for me, Jaime. I'd die if I couldn't have you back.”

Crushing the pill down into powder with my lighter now, I say, “How does it feel to be sober?”

“Clear,” she says. “The fog is gone and I feel everything so much more. That's why this is even tougher. I feel your absence and I feel all the shame and the guilt. All the remorse, it hurts so bad. There are no more shields or walls. When it comes at me, I know it's going to hit. And I know it's going to hit hard. No more ducking from it, Jaime. No more trying to hide from life.”

I cut the pile of blue into two lines and roll a twenty-dollar bill.

“I feel myself living in my body again. It's been years. And it hurts. My body hurts.”

I stare at the lines. I wonder if she was here, and she'd just said everything she just did, and then I handed her a
mirror with these lines of Oxy on it, I wonder if she'd do them. It's hard for me to think she wouldn't. People have to want to quit something to actually quit it for good. Quitting usually doesn't work when that person is forced to for whatever reason.

“It's terrifying. Losing everything you've been leaning on for as long as I have, all these things you've counted on to keep you standing up, it's horrendous and frightening, but every time I've been ready to lose it and break down, I think about how you're supposed to feel fear when you're alive. You're supposed to be scared of some things and uneasy about some things. It's life. You're supposed to feel life. And I'll get to this breaking point and then think how nice it is to actually remember the day I just had. How nice it is to feel something about the day. It's gorgeous. It's so much prettier than the fog.”

Pause.

“I'm glad I don't remember what happened last week, though,” she says. “I'm so glad I don't remember breaking my finger.”

This is when I lean down and snort both lines of blue.

“Jaime,” she says.

Rubbing my nose, I say, “Yeah.”

“I'm so thankful that you're different than me. That's the one silver lining, ya know. That as awful as I was, my son, my beautiful boy hasn't gone down the same road as me. You've been a saint. You're not out there hating me
or getting wasted and doing horrible things and getting in trouble.”

I snap my head all the way back and suck the rest of the Oxy out of my nostrils and down my throat.

Images of me slicing a switchblade through a strange man's hair, vandalizing cars and slashing tires, smash through my head.

“You've turned your back on all of that bullshit. I'm so proud of you. Life gets you high enough. I'm grateful for that. So thrilled and grateful my Jaime doesn't have any issues, no stupid addictions. You're too smart for that. And now I'm going to get back to being as smart as you.”

Stepping back from the desk, this nausea hits me.

Sweat begins pouring down my face.

I sit back down on the edge of the bed and breathe slowly.

“This will all be over in a blink of an eye,” she says. “We'll be back together soon, just me and my boy, and our life will be better than it's ever been.”

“I hope so,” I barely manage to say.

“I know so. Just a blink of an eye,” she says again. “And it'll be like none of this ever happened. I can't wait for that. I can't wait to feel like tomorrow really is the first day of my life.”

“Awesome,” I say, after wiping the sweat off with my shirt.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Click.

The phone falls out of my hand and I run out of the room, sprint down the hallway and into the bathroom.

Two seconds later, there I am, on my knees, and my face is in the toilet and vomit is shooting out of my mouth.

All those drugs I've never done, and here I am throwing them up and everything else my body wants to push out because I did too many of them.

LESLIE IS GRADING PAPERS IN
the living room when I finally come back downstairs.

When she looks up at me, her face is angry and her eyes are like ice.

“What's going on with you?” she asks.

I shrug. “Nothing.”

“Are you sick?”

“Why?”

“I heard you throw up. I was in the office.”

“I'm fine.”

Leslie's face hasn't changed. Neither has her glare.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “Not at all.”

“I'm sorry to hear that . . . I guess. Is there anything I can do to help?” I start looking around the room. “Where is my father?”

“He's long gone,” she says.

“Should I call him?”

Leslie drops the stack of papers in her hand on the coffee table and stands up. She shakes her head. “No,” she snaps.

“Well, what do you want me to do then? What's wrong?”

“I want you to stop being a fucking bitch to your father,” she barks.

Just the tone of her voice startles me. Hearing those particular words come out of her mouth, this fucking blond hippie art teacher, it's fucking weird, and it really rubs me the wrong way.

“Say that again,” I snort.

“You heard me the first time,” she says. “Don't play stupid, Jaime.”

I toss my arms into the air and go, “Who do you think you are, Leslie? My mother?”

“You listen to me,” she says. “That man has been nothing but great to you since he picked you up. He's treated you with respect, kindness, and understanding, and I'll be damned if I'm going to stand in my own house—our house, not yours—and listen to you say those things about him to a complete stranger. Do you know how hurtful that was to watch? Do you know how bad that made him feel? Standing in his own house and having to watch his own son, his abandoned flesh and blood, tear him down like that and call him those names and say those things about him after he flew to Illinois on a few hours' notice just to bring you into his home so you weren't all alone. You ungrateful brat. If there's anyone being a monster, it's you.”

The skin on my face is burning. My heart is racing.

“If it was so goddamn awful,” I rip, “where is he? If he's so
hurt by what I said, then why the fuck isn't he here talking to me?”

“Because he actually has some respect and dignity,” she hisses.

“Yeah, right. You don't know anything, Leslie. Nothing. You have no idea what you're talking about, so stay the fuck out of my business. This is between me and him.”

“This is my house!” she yells. “You're in my fucking house and you will not disrespect my husband like that in front of me or him again.”

I roll my eyes and even though I don't want to do this at all, I start laughing. I can't stop myself. I just laugh and run a hand over my face.

“What the hell is so funny?”

“This,” I say, spreading my arms out. “This! Like, here we go again.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Once again, my father is fucking gone, and the woman he's in love with is trying to define him to me. That's awesome.”

A sudden hush comes over Leslie, and her face dries up and turns white.

“The only difference between you and my mother right now is that you're telling me how great he is instead of how awful he is, and I still don't even know who he is. Bravo!” I snap, smacking my hands together. “The woman he was in love with before you is the one who shaped my impression
of him. She's had fourteen years to do this, though, so if you think you're going to make me feel bad about what I said and shed a different light on him with some passionate five-minute rant in the living room after I just finished talking to that other woman, you're about as crazy as she is too.”

Leslie says nothing. She's fucking shell-shocked.

“I appreciate him for making sure his fourteen-year-old son wasn't totally alone and by himself after his mother almost died, but if he wants me to think he's anything other than what I know him to be based on what happened between him and my mother, he's gonna have to do a lot more than house his own fucking son. Dude's never given a shit about me until he legally had to. Never even pretended to maybe give a shit. Fuck that.”

Leslie's head drops and her eyes close and I put my earphones in and walk out of the house.

DOMINIQUE MEETS ME AT THE
west portal station. It's really windy and cold. When I look around, it almost seems like I'm in a different city. It was sorta sunny in the Haight and not very cold, and instead of mostly apartments and stoops, I see houses and driveways.

She gives me a hug. It's really fucking nice. Just to see her again and see someone smile and at least look fucking happy.

“You smell nice,” I tell her.

“It's the least I could do. Are you hungry?”

“I could eat. Sure.”

“Pizza okay?”

“Pizza's great. I'd eat it for every meal and snack if I could.”

“You'd get so fat, though.”

“But I'd never have a bad meal.”

She grabs my hand and we walk away from the train station.

“Ya know, I really, really love your septum ring,” I tell her. “I keep thinking about it. It looks so good on you. It just fits. It makes a pretty face just a little bit more pretty.”

“Do you spend a lot of time thinking about me, Jaime?”

“I mean, not a lot. Not really all that much. Here and there, ya know. Like right after I'm done thinking about how amazing my father is and how rad my mother is too.”

“Shut up,” she says, pushing me gently, jokingly. “I'd rather you didn't think about me at all then.”

“Not even the nose ring?”

“Nope.” She's grinning. “Nothing about me at all.”

“Never,” I say. I reach up and touch the end of it. “I could never not think of this.”

“You should get one while you're here.”

“You think it would look good?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Duh. Anything is gonna look good on someone who already looks so damn good.”

“Maybe I will then,” I say. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Not tomorrow,” she says. “I've gotta be there with you if you get it, and tomorrow I can't.”

“Why not?”

“Cos,” she says, glowing now.

“Cos why?”

“Cos we got offered a show tomorrow night, opening for King Krule at Slim's,” she says. “We got the e-mail this morning. The original opener dropped off the bill and that main dude, Archy, stepped in and wanted us to play. He's a fan, I guess. I mean, we were all blown away. He wanted an even younger band on the bill than his. I'm still a little shocked.”

“That's so fucking cool, Dominique. I'm stoked for you. I like that band a lot.”

“The show's sold out, too,” she says. “And it's all ages, mister. So you can totally get in and be there. I'll put you on the list.”

“Fuck that,” I say. “I'll pay. Guest lists should only exist for family, cos they've supported you enough, ya know. They're probably a huge reason why you have a guest list.”

Dominique grabs my hand again and says, “I've never thought about it like that. There's people who haven't come to some of our shows cos they couldn't get on the list.”

“Fuck those people,” I say. “Save a spot on your list.”

“No,” she goes. “As much as I love you saying that, you're getting a spot. The show is sold out. The only way you get in is to be on the list.”

“Right,” I say. “Great point.”

“I'm so excited,” she says. “I'm seeing my fucking dream playing out, and it's way better than I ever thought it would be.”

“Good,” I say. “I'm excited for you.”

“Thanks, babe.”

“So what's up with the pizza?”

“It's right around the corner,” she says, and then pulls me into her and puts her head on my shoulder.

DOMINIQUE'S HOUSE IS SMALL AND
cute. It's one story and white with a garage and a tiny front lawn. It's so quiet here too. Again, it feels like I'm in an entirely different city, and I like it. The quiet and the grass and the trees and the families.

We walk through the front door and right into the living room. She tells me to take my shoes off. The floor is wood with a dull shine. It's really clean inside.

“Is anyone else here?” I ask Dominique.

“No,” she says. “My mom's at work. She's probably at the Transmission Gallery.”

“How long has she worked for my father?”

“Almost a year. It's been so great, too. Having inside access to all this art and meeting the artists. Your father really saved us,” she says.

“How's that?”

“My mom was laid off from her old job. She'd been with them for over ten years and made decent money, but we were still barely getting by. It's just been her, ya know. She's raised me and my older brothers all by herself, so when she lost her job, it was so sad to watch her struggle. We all got jobs to help out,
but we weren't even making ends meet. She was really depressed but tried to hide it as much as she could, but we could tell. It was different. She was quiet and distant and she cried a lot alone in her room. We were all set to move into this tiny two-bedroom apartment in Oakland when she met your dad. Her background is in media relations, and he was about to open the second gallery in SoMa. A couple of days later he called her and offered her a job with salary and benefits. I've never seen someone as relieved and grateful as my mom was, because it meant we could stay in the house. We've lived here for eleven years. This is our home and when your dad hired her, it meant we could stay here. It was huge.”