Was hit with this story when listenin to some old Jason Mraz stuff.
I own nothing. I swear!
If I knew all the words I would write myself out of here
If I was all the colors I would paint you pretty in gold in a picture, so I'm told little sister
So now I'm sold little sister.
Why don't you tell me about the sunsets in Sweden and the laws of Eden
And how you were the rock of Gibraltar, and how they called you foxy
"Jess! You came!" The blonde eight year old launched herself at her older brother, wrapping her arms around his waist, and knocking him off balance.
"'Course I came." He smiled down at her as she took his hand and lead him to the living room.
"You missed the party." She looked back at him, the glitter on her temple catching the light.
"That was the point."He smirked as he sat down and she climbed onto his lap. She adjusted the pink crown on her head, that read 'Birthday Princess' and gave him a bright smile that was missing a few teeth.
"Well it was good. Aunty Lorelai helped plan it. And we had a dance competition and I won!"
"What did you win?" Jess laughed.
"The trophey!" She pointed to the pink feathered and sparkly 'trophy' sitting on the mantle.
"That's awesome Doula."
"I know. And then we watched Hannah Montana and learned her dances! It was fun!"
"Learnt." He corrected her. "And who the hell is Hannah Montana?"
"Don't say hell Jess." Doula scolded her thirty year old brother.
"You tell him baby." Jess looked up and saw Liz propped up against the kitchen door, a gold star drawn on her cheek.
"Hey, hunny." She smiled at her son, crossing the room to them. "You look good." She ruffled his hair. "You want a drink?"
"Sure," he nodded, "a soda would be great. Thanks Liz."
She smiled and turned back to head to the kitchen.
"Jess? Why do you call mommy 'Liz'?"
Liz spun on her heel and Jess glanced down at his little sister, her blue eyes searching his brown ones.
He lifted his gaze and was met with the same blue eyes.
His mother's. Only these eyes were pleading.
And he could read them like his well worn Hemingway's.
'Don't tell her. Please don't tell her.'
She'd been a crappy mom, and he'd long since stopped refering to her as such.
He was younger than Doula when 'Liz' had replaced 'mom'.
When she's come home drunk, or stoned, or both.
'It's a party baby, and mommy's the hostess.'
She was always the centre of attention.
Dancing, drinking, drug taking.
Overdoses and overbearing boyfriends.
Hospitals and home alone.
And then the cycle would start again.
The dance they did.
Vicious.
Until he was seventeen and she got sick of the dance.
Or he did. And he spoke up. Out.
So she kicked him out.
But, Doula never knew this 'Liz'.
She knew of a mom who made her petty pink necklaces and matching bracelets.
A mom who danced when vacuuming, who drank nothing stronger than coffee, and who kept only aspirin in the house.
"Jess?"
He wouldn't shatter her world. Destroy it as his once was.
"I'm just really disrespectful."
"Well I know that." Doula rolled her eyes. "Mr. Doose tells me all the time."
Jess caught Liz as she mouthed 'thank you' before she retreated to the kitchen.
"Did you bring me a present?"
"Yeah." He pulled a small pink box out of his messenger bag.
"Is it a book?"
"Just open it."
"It's a book. I'll never know what you see in these things." She pouted as she flipped through the copy of 'To Kill a Mockingbird' he had given her.
"Words." He grinned as Liz sat a glass of lemonade beside him.
"Funny." Doula rolled her eyes, "But I don't get it. How do you think this is fun?"
Jess thought back to when he was eight, and the escape he found from his own pathetic world, sailing with Huck and Jim, or trying to destroy the Ring in Mount Doom.
This little girl didn't need an escape. The worlds created within the pages weren't necessary for her to imagine a happy life.
She has one.
And for once, Jess is glad that someone doesn't understand the pleasure he finds in the written word.
And, he vows, he'll never let her understand.
She'll always be 'mom' to Doula.
Review, s'il vous plait?