The Man With Few Words
"When a deep injury is done to us, we never recover until we forgive." –Alan Paton
Chapter Seven
When Jacob Black was young, he used to whiz around the house, and pretend he's Superman.
He was just a normal kid, he supposes. He had a lot of joy and a lot of energy in him. He used to gather up all the neighborhood kids into a giant clan—Embry and Quil included, and go swimming in the beach. He'd slide down the mud ditch whenever it stormed. He was the boy that went into the 'haunted' house to retrieve the stray baseball.
He used to think he was brave.
And then on Saturday mornings, he would wake up early and watch Superman come to life; he'd sit there on the carpet shag, mouth agape with bewilderment as Clark Kent shed his glasses and sweater vests and became fucking Superman. It was life-altering, he thinks.
Ever since he was young, he's got the idea of being a hero implanted in his head. Being courageous and strong and fearless. Just like his father. His father, who taught him that a hero is someone who tries harder than everyone else. A hero is within all of us, he'd tell little Jacob. But being a hero is hard, he warns, because he sees what needs to be done.
Billy Black was Jacob's hero for a very long time. He's never told anyone this and he's sure nobody knows, but his father used to be a firefighter. He used to save lives. He used to come home and make Jake proud.
But that was a long time ago.
A long time ago, Jacob Black tried to be a hero himself. He tied a red cape around his neck and wore a grubby blue t-shirt with the infamous S insignia. He'd sprint down the block and stop everyone in his path. "Can I help you?" He'd ask them, youthful face serious, voice like a chipmunk high on helium. Of course, they would laugh, and ruffle his dark hair, and tell him, "No. But thank you for the offer, young man." Then carry on with their business as usual.
Mom doesn't like it when he runs out, he knows. She's always been a worrywart, and Jacob would come home to Sarah Black nervously twisting her apron, the telltale aromatic scent wafting from the kitchen. Mom baked when she was anxious. Pies, he remembers.
He always came home before dark, usually with nothing more than a scraped knee. But her eyes would still fill with tear as she tears through the medicine cabinet for some disinfectant and she'd make him feel so guilty that he'd swear fervently he'll never step outside the house again. Then she would smile and call him her special boy and cut him a slice of apple pie.
One week, when Jacob was on his way back home, tiny Andrea Watson sprinted to him, face full of tears, and sobbed for him to go save her cat. He wasn't so sure about it at first. After all, it was 6:30 and it was getting dark. He knows mom wouldn't like it, but mom was with dad at a banquet held by the fire station. And she would be proud of him once she hears of what he's done, he's sure. He was a hero. He saw what needed to be done.
So he follows Andrea to her backyard and he climbs up the big oak tree faithfully. He was confident and at ease; he's done this a thousand times. His small hands held onto the familiar branches as his legs maneuvered on their own accord. But it's drizzling lightly, and the water made everything slippery and wet.
Sherlock, the black-striped-white tabby, hisses at him from a precarious sprig. He extends a friendly hand and smiles shakily, pleading for the stubborn cat to jump into his arms. But when he wouldn't and Jacob was getting frustrated, he lunged forward and lobbed the tabby to his chest. Then he lost his balance, and tumbled gracelessly onto the ground.
His arm cracked open with a sickening thud. And he hollered in pain. Tiny Andrea Watson cried even harder.
He can't imagine why though. He's rescued her damn cat for her.
He remembers how all the noise seemed far away and how his eyelids felt heavy. He rolls around, shifting and trying to levitate the excruciating throb. He pushes his face into the dirt and screams. Then he heard Rachel's panicked gasps as she helped him into a sitting position. He sees Rebecca sniffing into the phone. And he dazedly wonders if he's going to be in trouble.
He doesn't exactly know what happened, but he can imagine it.
Mom frantically pulling dad out of the party and ushering him into the car. Dad assuring her that he was going to be fine because the Watsons' are on their way to the hospital. But she wouldn't have it. Oh no, her Jacob was hurt, and he needed her. And dad relents, clambering into the passenger seat because Sarah had already clicked on the engine herself.
It's dark on the highway. The rain is working up a heavy downpour. And mom was crying and driving way too fast.
Things like this happens, he supposes. And there isn't a thing you can do about it.
But that doesn't comfort Jacob Black. Not one bit. Especially not when he arrived at the hospital, hair tussled and damp, an icepack resting on his elbow, to the sight of his mother drenched in blood, breathing out of an oxygen mask. He tries to yell out her name but his throat feels too tight to speak. So he fights his way to her instead.
The nurses stop him though, blocking him and carries him away. He kicks and sobs and makes heart-wrenching sounds. His arm ached something fierce yet he doesn't seem to notice. Rachel catches a hold on him, pushing his face into her chest, as if she could hide him from all the horrors in the world. He can only watch, wide-eyed and confused as they roll her into the operating room and—just like that...she was gone.
He misses her.
He misses her warm arms and curly hair and her apple pies. He misses having someone worry about him and wait for him to come home. He even missed being called 'Jay-bear'.
Jacob gave up being a hero after that. Billy did too. The accident left him paralyzed from the waist down. Billy didn't talk for the longest time and the house grew silent and solemn with words they've never said. As if there was this huge gap between them that kept growing and growing with all the things they don't say to each other.
They healed, of course. The grieving stopped. Condolences were given. And the mourning was over. But Jacob couldn't stop running it over in his mind over and over and over again. The vague and distant suspicion that they never understood what happened that night; what their role was. Or maybe it was just like the thousands of people that lose their lives to car accidents each year. Mom was even more haunting, simply for being mom.
And so little Jacob Black tossed his cape into the trash along with his t-shirt and his faith. He pulled on his best tuxedo and parted his hair just like how mom used to do it. Then he put on his bravest face and watched as his mother was lowered into the ground.
Jacob Black cried. He cried for his father and his sister and Andrea Watson. He cried for his mother, who loved him so; who will never be here again. And he blamed himself, for he wasn't fast enough; strong enough; or brave enough. He was selfish, proud, and reckless. Jacob Black was no hero. He couldn't even save his mom.
Then, Superman was no more.
"...and she went and married that bloodsucker anyway! I mean-I mean, you know, if you've already g-got your fucking mind made up," Hiccup, "Wh-why are you fucking asking me?!" Hiccup.
Yes. Jacob Black was quite aware that he was drunk out of his goddamn mind. And yes, he fucking liked it. He liked how it made him feel. Light and numb and immune to any and everything.
He felt delightful. Why didn't he do this more often?
Janie's giggling, clutching her side. She's splayed out on the floor like a lazy cat, the scarlet hem of her tiny skirt pooled atop of the rug. She rested her chin in her hands delicately, smiling dreamily. Her stormy eyes are softer than he's ever seen, half-closed. She questions, she speaks louder when drunk, as if she's afraid he can't hear her.
"Why do you call him that?"
He pushes the bottle to his mouth but misses, dumping tequila up his nose instead. He inhales on instinct and felt the alcohol scorch his lungs. Deeply annoyed, he snaps, "Call him what?"
January lowers her voice by an octave and slurs in an angry baritone, "Bloodsucker." She kicks her legs up in the hair, and scrunches her nose, "Like he's Count Dracula or something." Jacob wanted to laugh. Oh, she had no idea. "He can't possibly as bad as you make him out to be. She did fall in love with him, after all."
Jacob grunted in frustration. He hated how she dismissed his flaws so nonchalantly. He hated how articulated she was. And he hated how she brought this topic up. "Well, he's a douche." He tells her matter-of-factly, much like the teenager he was.
January burst into laughter.
Her head looks like it's getting too heavy for her arms to hold up so she slides bonelessly onto the ground, midnight hair streaked with red ribbons fanning around her face. She rolls onto her back, "At least he loves her. That has to count for something, right?"
"Only because she's so eager to fall into his fucking lap." He spats bitterly, "And because she's the only person in the world who'll want to marry a leech." He glares hard at the ceiling with blazing sunken eyes.
Janie adopts a sardonic look, "Why do you love her, then?"
Jacob was taken by surprise, so there was nothing he could do but blink for several minutes. Then he frowned in contemplation. And a cold chill ran down his spine and his forehead broke out in sweat when he realized that he didn't know the answer. His throat squeezed as he shook his head in bewilderment. Why did he love her? Well, he means, there doesn't have to be anything, like, specific, right? He-he knew he loved her, and that's enough, right?
Flustered, he says, "You can't just...list things like that."
Janie stares at him with blank charcoal gray eyes, before focusing it on the ceiling once again. She takes a swallow from her bottle and announces, almost challengingly, "I can tell you all the reasons why I love Peter."
"Oh yeah?" He shifts closer to her, because—when did she get so far away? This list sounds promising and entertaining and Jacob was just glad to get the spotlight off of him.
She nods, knocking back other swig. Her irises turned glassy, and her lips twitched into a smile. "Sure." And she squints, as if she's trying to paint his picture with her mind. "He's got this silly piece of hair, right by his eye, you know. He always fidgets with it when he's nervous. And his brows crease...like this," She furrows her own, "whenever he's pensive. And his mouth goes crooked when he smiles because the nerve endings on his bottom lip are dead."
"Those are all physical stuff," Jacob complains petulantly. Psh, he can do that too! Bella has chestnut hair and...and she was short!
January huffs and rolls her eyes, "Fine. You wanna know how about his personality?" He noticed that her dewy voice softened when she talked about him. "He's quiet, but he's always got a lot of thoughts running through his mind. He's bashful and he doesn't like attention. He's a good baseball player and his favorite subject is chemistry. He wanted to be a doctor ever since he was 10 and before that, he wanted to join the Air Force. His doesn't drink and he doesn't like to swear. His first girlfriend is Sophia Silvers in the 7th grade and he goes to church every Sunday." She tosses him a superior look. "That good enough for you?"
The only thought running through Jacob Black's head is: what kind of guy goes to church every Sunday?
And...how the hell was he supposed to know all this stuff about Bella? Sure, he was her best friend. Yeah sure, they spent a lot of time together. And yeah okay, it's pretty basic knowledge but him and Bella weren't about that. They were about the thrill seeking and the excitement. They made plans to go cliff-diving and rode motorbikes.
But come to think of it, they only did that so that she could see her precious bloodsucker.
Jacob Black blanched. He knew nothing of the woman he loved—love? Loved?
January seems to catch onto this fact as well because she chuckled delicately, her elfish features all pretty and breakable, her mouth red and pouty. "Do you even know what color eyes she has?"
"Brown." He blurts without hesitation. Of course. He was sure about this. Yes. He distinctively remembers how her eyes matched her hair. Did it? "Green." Right. They were kind of hazel colored. They were most definitely green. Like emeralds. They were mesmerizing and light; silvery like tinsels..."Gray."
"My eyes are gray."
Jacob scowled at his hands, "Oh." He could've sworn—he studied January. January in her Riverside High School cheerleading uniform. January with scarlet ribbons wove into her shimmering black tress. Tumultuous like a silk waterfall. January with eyes like the rain.
January is kicking off her cherry red stockings because it was getting too hot. Her legs, bare and pale, are slender and surprisingly long. It's really a shock why she wasn't taller. She was very leggy. They were smooth and graceful and he promises himself he's going to kiss her there before the night is over. He's going to kiss her everywhere. Since when did elves get such nice legs? He couldn't take his eyes off of her. She truly had really nice legs...and feet the size of his hand...and this alluring scar running down her left knee.
He blinks.
He straightens in order to get a better look, peeking over Janie's curled, spidery limbs. She's starting to doze off a little, the pauses in their conversation longer. His brows wrinkle in bewilderment as he widen his shadowy irises and squints, thinking that if he squeezed them shut hard enough, the thin, wiry scar will disappear.
It was a furious looking thing. An angry pink gash that ran from the top of her knee down almost to her ankle. Faded stitches pulling the taut, snowy skin together, raised above the rest of her flawless leg.
Why did he never notice this before?
"Lord, will you look at that?" January smiles a miserable, fragile smile. The same smile he saw in the photo on the cabinet. It was such a sensitive, deep-rooted pain that Jacob couldn't even touch. She traces the ugly mark with a finger, "Four surgeries later and it still looks the same as it did half a year ago."
He now knows why she wears stockings all the time. He now knows why she stumbles with an awkward grace. He now knows why she was sad.
He considers asking her what had happened but he knows that prying doesn't work. It'll happen when it happens, so he settles for a simple, "I'm sorry." His hand reaches out automatically, wanting to feel the jagged line of the fire-red brand but then he curls his fist and retracts back as if he's been burned.
Janie tries to hide her pain behind a grin. She informs him, "I was a dancer."
His brows shot up. But again, it fit; like pieces on a puzzle. The way she moved, with all her colors and confidence. Her lithe, agile frame and eternal legs. "I'm not surprised."
"Professional ballet. That was why I went to New York. To attend Juilliard, then I joined the Company and we danced everywhere." There was light in her eyes. The glassy gray lifted until it was almost electric blue.
Jacob's stomach did tumbles. He couldn't stop himself from asking, "Then what happened?"
"Then a car hit me." January explains calmly, "And my knee shattered." She pursed her lips, pushing her raven hair behind her shoulder, "And I couldn't dance anymore."
Sometimes people are on a collision course, and they just don't know it. Whether it's by accident or by design, there's not a thing to do about it.
A woman in New York City was on her way to go shopping, but she had forgotten to set her house alarm—went back to set it. When she had finished locking up, the phone had rung, so she'd stopped to answer it; talked for a couple of minutes.
While the woman was on the phone, January Jansen had been rehearsing for a performance at the New York Metropolitan Opera. And while she was rehearsing, the woman, off the phone now, had gone outside to hail a taxi.
Now, a taxi driver had dropped off a passenger earlier and had stopped to get a cup of coffee. And all the while, Janie was rehearsing.
And this cab driver, who dropped off the earlier passenger; who'd stopped to get the cup of coffee, had picked up the lady who was going shopping, who had missed getting an earlier cab because of the phone call with her friend. The taxi had to stop for a man crossing the street, who had left for work five minutes later than he normally did, because he forgot to set his alarm the night before.
While that man, late for work, was crossing the street, January had finished rehearsing, and was taking a shower. And while she was showering, the taxi was waiting outside a boutique for the woman to pick up a gift for the friend she was meeting, which hadn't been wrapped yet, because the girl who was supposed to wrap it had broke up with her boyfriend the night before, and forgot.
When the package was wrapped, the woman, who was back in the cab, was blocked by a delivery truck. All the while Janie was getting dressed.
The delivery truck pulled away and the taxi was able to move, while Janie, the last to be dressed, chatted on the phone with Peter about where to head for dinner that night. Then she had to wait for one of her friends, who had broken a shoelace.
While the taxi was stopped, waiting for a traffic light, January and her friend came out the back of the Opera house.
And if only one thing had happened differently: if that shoelace hadn't broken; or that delivery truck had moved moments earlier; or that package had been wrapped and ready, because the girl hadn't broken up with her boyfriend; or that man had set his alarm and got up five minutes earlier; or that taxi driver hadn't stopped for a cup of coffee; or that woman had remembered to turn on the house alarm, and got into an earlier cab, Janie and her friend would've crossed the street, and the taxi would've driven by.
But life being what it is—a series of intersecting lives and incidents, out of anyone's control.
That taxi did not go by. And that driver was momentarily distracted. And that taxi hit January Jansen, and her leg was crushed.
End Note:
I'm really overwhelmed by the response I'm getting from you guys. Really, you guys are amazing. All of ya'll that took the time to write me the most beautiful and long reviews and you guys, I LOVE long reviews because it just gives me so much to work with but you guys know who you are and you are amazing.
I wanna give a shout-out to two of my highlight reviews from the last chapter which is from 'Morning-Sunset' as always and a new reader 'Runawayscribbler'. You guys rock and I give you both virtual hugs.
In this chapter, it's all about revelation and the peeling back of January's past. She's really such a mystery because she really do know nothing about her. And I'm having a lot of fun developing her character. I wrote the last part in a sort of omni-3rd person point of view and kind of a la Benjamin Button style for those of you who have seen the movie and I hope that you guys enjoy the effect of it.
Questions of the day: Are you surprised by January's past? About Jacob's? And since I have JUST posted the first chapter of the Peter/Jan fic, will you go and read and review?!
Love you all,
Kitty.
