“You have a one-track mind, mister.” Then I’m kissing him, his tongue is parting my lips, my fingers are in his hair.
It’s not quite like a roller coaster, but it sure does feel like falling.
Chapter Twenty-one
Zoe
I spend the night with Taylor. I know I should go home, that I’ve been away too long. After all, the last time I left my mom for an entire day I came home to her baking frantically. I should at least check on her.
But when I drop off Ellie and Fred, and Taylor asks me if I’ll stay with him, his fingers running along the outside of my thigh, I can’t resist. I spent the entire day just like a normal girl would on her twenty-second birthday, and I’m not ready to give up the illusion yet. I know what’s waiting for me at home, know it will be there tomorrow too. Tonight I just want to hang on to the feeling, however misguided, that I can be happy and normal.
I love waking up in Taylor’s arms, love that he holds me all night without once letting go. I love puttering around his kitchen together, making coffee, teasing each other, eating cereal at his breakfast bar. I should probably be scared of how much I love all these things, how easily I can see myself here, in his space, for a long time to come. But I’m way too happy to worry about it.
We get dressed with plans to go get his car at the shop. “I still can’t believe you built me a Jeep,” I say, leaning against his desk as I watch him pull a shirt on. “Did I sufficiently thank you for that?”
“I can think of a few more ways you can thank me.” He grins wickedly, and I shake my head.
“You’re pathetic.”
He holds up both hands. “It’s not my fault! You’re really good at sex.”
“Good at sex? Wow, you really know how to compliment a girl.”
He laughs, and I push off from the desk, wanting to get my hands on him again. He’s just so cute when he laughs, as if all his bad boy swagger disappears for a minute. When I move, a piece of paper falls from the desk to the floor. As Taylor roots around in the kitchen for his wallet, I bend to pick it up.
Dear Mr. Taylor,
Congratulations on your acceptance…
I’m not really snooping, but I can’t help but notice the words on the sheet as I move to put it back on the desk. Acceptance? My eyes flick to the top of the page, and the logo of a university in Rhode Island jumps out at me.
“Taylor, what is this?”
The remains of his laughter freeze on his face as he takes in the paper in my hand. “That’s, uh, nothing. No big deal.”
He walks toward me and snatches the letter out of my hand before I can look at it again. I’m stung. “It doesn’t look like nothing. It looks like an acceptance letter.” I swallow. “Are you going to college in the fall?”
He shakes his head, slipping the folded-up paper into his back pocket. “No, it’s just something stupid. Don’t worry about it.”
I cross my arms, getting pissed now. “If you didn’t want me to know, you could’ve just told me it’s private. You don’t have to act like it’s nothing.”
He turns to me, his eyes searching my face, as if he’s looking for something there. Finally, he sighs. “Last spring I applied to the Rhode Island School of Design. It was before we met, a bet with Fred when he was home for spring break. I lost the bet, so I had to do it. I didn’t think anything would ever come of it. But it turns out, I got in.”
My mouth drops open. I don’t know much about art schools, but I’m pretty sure Rhode Island is top of the line. It doesn’t surprise me, either. He’s amazing. So why do I suddenly feel like crying?
“That’s awesome, Taylor,” I say softly. “Really. Congratulations.”
He lets out a breath and runs his hands through his hair. “It’s not a big deal. Seriously. I’m not even going to accept. It was just a stupid bet.”
I stare at him, confused. “Wait, what? You don’t want to go? Are you serious? Why don’t you want to go?”
“Drop it, Zoe,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. It sends a little shiver down my spine. I’ve heard him take that tone only once, right before he beat the shit out of Preston.
“But I don’t understand why you aren’t considering this. I know it’s not money.” His eyes flash at that, but I continue. “You told me doing something with art was your biggest dream. So why aren’t you jumping on this?”
He turns away from me, and places both hands on the countertop. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“But, Taylor, this could be your chance to—”
He interrupts me by slamming his hands down onto the laminate so hard the noise reverberates in my ears. “Damn it, Zoe, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“But—”
He spins around, and I gasp. His eyes look wild, his face twisted up in what I can only assume is fury. “You have no fucking idea, okay?” he says, his voice low and just barely controlled. “You have no idea what my life is like. I can’t just leave, Zoe. I’m trapped here.” He comes forward, bending toward me so that his face is inches from mine. “I’m fucking trapped here, and there’s nothing I can do about it but try to make the best of it. So please, fucking. Drop. It.”
It would hurt less if he’d slapped me. “That’s what this is, huh?” I gesture between the two of us. “You’re just making the best of things, right?”
His face falls. “No, Zoe, of course not. I didn’t mean us—”
He reaches for me, but I step away, my every instinct telling me to protect myself, to get away. I’ve made a huge mistake. I’ve been pretending this thing with us was just some fun, just a diversion, but that was all bullshit. I’m in love with Taylor, absolutely and fully. And I have never been more terrified.
“Zoe, wait, please,” Taylor says, still reaching for me. His hands are shaking, and he must notice it, too, because he pulls back. “I need…I just need a minute.”
He turns and walks quickly to the bedroom and shuts the door behind him. I try to convince myself that he isn’t trying to get away from me, that he’s simply doing his best to manage his anger. It’s a big step, really, that he could see he needed a break. It’s what we have been working on together, and I should be proud of him. But in this moment it’s hard to see his withdrawal as anything but him needing distance from me.
My cell phone rings in my purse and I reach for it, relieved, thinking it will be Ellie. She would be a welcome escape from a morning that has suddenly become far too complicated.
But it isn’t Ellie, or anyone else that can provide me with an escape.
“Is this Miss Janes?” a brisk female voice asks, and my stomach drops. I’ve gotten a call like this before.
“It is.” My voice is thick. “What’s…is something wrong?”
“Miss Janes, your mother was brought in to the emergency room this morning by the state police. We’ve been attempting to reach her husband, but we’ve been unsuccessful.”
“The state police?” I ask, my heart beating fast.
The woman on the other end of the line hesitates before going on. “She was found walking on the highway and resisted any efforts to help her. I think you’d better come in, Miss Janes, so we can talk about her condition in person.”
I close my eyes. I know exactly what kind of condition she’ll be in. “I’ll be right there.”
I hang up and focus on taking deep breaths, needing to keep the panic at bay. I open my eyes and look up at Taylor’s closed door. I want to go to him, to ask him to help me through this. I’ve been here before with my mother and know just how bad things are about to get. And I don’t want to be alone. I need him.
And that’s your biggest mistake, I think. Needing someone only leads to disappointment. Hasn’t my mother taught me that a thousand times over the years? And I’m just as bad— this morning, maybe last night, she had needed me, and where had I been? Here with Taylor, unavailable and unreliable, just like her.
The best any of us can hope for, and the one thing my mother could never a
chieve, is to be strong enough to pull through on our own. Taylor’s words just now had proved to me that I was on my own anyhow—I’d been so busy falling for him that I hadn’t even noticed he was just making the best of his own shitty situation.
I square my shoulders, grab my purse, and head out of his apartment, ready to face whatever is about to come—alone.
Chapter Twenty-two
Zoe
I feel like I’m living in a nightmare. Real life shouldn’t be like this. Real life shouldn’t be finding out that your mother was found wandering the interstate half-naked with cuts all over her arms, brandishing a kitchen knife. Real life shouldn’t be knowing that even now she is being restrained in a hospital bed for her own protection. That she can be heard screaming about the devil even here in the waiting room.
Real life shouldn’t be dealing with these horrific things all on my own.
I’ve been trying to reach Jerry for the past hour. But his cell phone is disconnected, and the house phone rings and rings with no answer. I’m finally able to get a hold of his boss at the plant, and he tells me Jerry hasn’t been in for three days and is now officially terminated.
I feel sick to my stomach. I harbor no love for my mother’s abusive, alcoholic husband, but he is her husband. He should be the one here dealing with this shit, not me. What do I know about insurance policies and lawyers and involuntary psychiatric holds?
My terror takes my breath away. My mother has experienced episodes before, but nothing like this. She’d broken things around the house, attacked me or Jerry, had once even gone into one of her deluded rages in a candy shop, breaking an entire row of handmade chocolate Easter bunnies. The cops had been called on several occasions, and we’d ended up in the ER. But it had never been this bad. And there’d always been someone else there to take responsibility for her, to convince the doctors they’d be able to take care of her, that they had it under control. I try to tell them I can handle her, but I don’t think they believe me.
“She needs specialized care, Zoe. In a hospital,” a no-nonsense female doctor whose name I can’t seem to remember tells me.
I blink at her. “I don’t understand. She’s in a hospital.”
Something like pity comes over her face. “Not a regular hospital. An inpatient psychiatric hospital. Someplace where they can help her with her specific issues.”
Oh my God, this woman wants my mother to be institutionalized.
I try to speak, but my throat is too dry. I clear it three times before I’m finally able to talk. “We…we’d never be able to afford something like that.”
Her gaze remains steady on my face. “There are state-run institutions, Zoe. If alternate arrangements cannot be made, I believe a judge will require her to be admitted.”
“Are you…you’re talking about places for criminals, aren’t you?”
She shakes her head. “No, Zoe. Your mother is not a criminal. While these institutions may have some residents who have committed crimes, there will also be many patients who are simply unable to care for themselves. Some will be there voluntarily.”
“My mother will never agree to that.” My voice is flat. I don’t much like the sound of what she’s describing, but that’s really beside the point. I know my mom won’t go for it.
“Zoe, if a judge deems her to be a danger to herself or others, she may not have a choice. She’s very ill, and she needs help. And if she doesn’t get help, the chances of something worse happening are very high. She could have hurt someone today.”
I close my eyes, shamed to my core. I should have been home with her. Wasn’t that the precise reason I had never gone away to school? The reason I quit my job last year, why I still lived in that horrible house I hated so much? So I could protect my mother—and the people she came into contact with.
“Can I see her?” I whisper, my gaze firmly on my folded hands so the doctor won’t see the tears that have gathered there.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she says, her voice soft and kind and very sad.
“Why?”
“Zoe, your mother won’t recognize you right now. She has no idea where she is or even who she is. She’s said some pretty terrible things since we brought her in. I don’t think it’d be anything you’d want to hear.”
I shake my head. This doctor has no idea what I’ve been through in the past few years. I know all about the terrible things my mother can spew during an episode.
“Has she been sedated?”
The doctor pauses. “We’re having trouble finding the right dosage for her.”
Jesus. Even the drugs aren’t working.
The silence in the room seems to get heavier. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do, no idea what the best option is, if I even have any options.
“Zoe, is there anyone else you can call?” the doctor asks, her voice still soft.
My first thought is Taylor. I want him here with me so badly I can barely stand it. Want him here to hold my hand and whisper that I can do this, that I can do anything. But I know it would do no good, certainly not for my mother. My boyfriend (former boyfriend?) can’t fix this, can’t fix her.
“I don’t think so.”
“What about extended family? Grandparents? Aunts or uncles?”
A leaden feeling settles deep in my chest. I know who I will have to call. He’s my last and only option.
I just hope my mother can forgive me for it.
***
I’ll need to go home to call my uncle Peter. The doctors aren’t going to let me see my mother anyhow, and I don’t have his number in my phone. We aren’t exactly close, not anymore. Walking out of the hospital, I take a deep breath of the fresh air. I hate hospital air, hate the staleness and the antiseptic smell. It will forever remind me of our first trip to the ER, when I’d been nothing more than a terrified seventeen-year-old, unable to understand why my mother had taken so many of her pills at one time. I smile bitterly as I make my way through the parking lot to my car. I’d been so fucking naive, thinking it had been an accident, not understanding that she’d wanted to do it, that she’d taken those pills on purpose.
The sight of my Jeep makes my breath catch. How can I keep it now, if Taylor and I are done? He could sell it for good money and should have the opportunity to do so. I’d managed to get around okay without it before, and I’d be fine now.
Of course, it wasn’t the thought of losing the car that was making it so hard to breathe.
The house is dead silent and still when I arrive, Jerry obviously not here. I open the door with trepidation, wondering what state she’d left it in. Had her episode started here? The kitchen knife had more than likely come from the house. Had she cut herself out on the road, or done it here, in the kitchen I tried so hard to keep clean?
I nearly cry with relief to find the kitchen exactly as I had left it the day before—the thought of cleaning up my mother’s blood would be too much to deal with. There aren’t even any dishes in the sink—that worries me a little. Jerry must have eaten last night, and he never cleans up after himself. With a growing sense of certainty—and dread—I approach their bedroom and push the door open.
Half the dresser drawers have been emptied out. His half. A peek into the closet reveals that none of his clothes remain. My mom’s old suitcase is missing as well.
Shit.
I’ve wanted Jerry out of the house since the day she’d first brought him home. He is cruel and stupid and a drunk, and I’ve always hated him with everything in me. But now that he has actually left I feel a real panic stir in my chest. He’s left her, left us both, and I am completely on my own.
I walk back out to the kitchen, taking deep breaths to keep the panic at bay. I find my mom’s little blue address book in the junk drawer and bring it over to the table. The whole way home I’d been hoping I could avoid calling Peter, hoping I’d find Jerry at home, ready to take on his responsibilities. But I know, now, that it won’t be happening. I have no choice.
But the memory of Jerry’s empty dresser snaps me back to reality. What choice do I have? Praying he hasn’t changed his number since she wrote it down, I dial. And wait.
“Hello?” His voice sounds exactly as I remember it, the impact of the familiar sound so strong that memories overwhelm me.
“Hello?” he says again, sounding impatient now.
“Uncle Peter?” I whisper. “It’s me…Zoe.”
He’s silent for so long that I’m certain he’s hung up. Finally, he clears his throat. When he speaks again, the fear and pain are palpable in his voice. “What’s happened to her?”
I give him a quick rundown. He only asks me two questions: what hospital is she at? And, where is Jerry?
When I tell him Jerry left, my voice cracks. I can’t help it. The enormity of the situation is hitting me in waves, the realization of how big it is getting clearer with each passing minute.
“I’ll be there in two hours,” he says, his voice calm. “And, Zoe…” He pauses. “I’ll be there, okay?”
I hang up, and then have no idea what to do next. I’ll have to go back to the hospital to meet him, but I can’t stand the thought of waiting there for two hours. I’m tired, exhausted really, but I know I’ll never be able to sleep. I wonder, briefly, if Jerry left any liquor in the house. The idea of getting completely bombed is more appealing than I want to admit.
But then I won’t be able to get to the hospital. And I promised Taylor.
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