Suggested Listening: "Tuck the Darkness In" - Bowerbirds

Feel It in My Bones

~Tuck the Darkness In~

I wasn't even aware that I was shaking until I fished out my lighter and tried again to light a cigarette. Even with my shuddering, I managed to get the lighter to spit out a few sparks, but it wasn't working any better than it was earlier.

I kept trying, and the lighter kept sparking, and the world kept spinning.

Then the cigarette slipped out of my hand and fell to the blanket I was sitting on. I stared at it dumbly, my vision swimming in and out of focus.

I picked it up in a slow, controlled movement – then I threw both it and the lighter at the wall with a growl that felt almost primal, like it had been physically ripped out of my chest. Afterwards, I felt drained. I drew my knees up to my chest and clenched my hands at my sides, gripping at the blanket. I stared off into space. The edge of my bed, the dresser, the pictures on the wall of the person that I'd gotten into this mess for, and – directly in front of me – the image of myself in the mirror… They all stared back, spiteful and mocking.

I chewed on my lip.

This room that I had called my own for my entire life was suddenly…

Empty. Desolate. Meaningless. Lonely.

But then, not quite.

I shifted so that I was sitting on the edge of my bed, and then reached a hand underneath. It took a bit of searching, but eventually my fingers met the edge of a cardboard box. I sought out the handle and gave it a tug. The box slid out from under my bed and I heaved it up so that it was sitting on my lap.

I sat that way for a while, just feeling the weight of it pressing down on me.

There was a fine layer of dust coating the lid and I stroked a hand over it absentmindedly, my whole palm coming away grey. Finally, shutting my eyes, I took a deep breath and cracked the lid open. When I opened my eyes, what I saw caused my breath to catch. The paper sitting at the top of its contents proclaimed in bold lettering: "Certificate of Death." I took it out of the box and laid it face down on the bed beside me.

At least that told me that everything's as it was since the last time I opened it.

As I went through the box, the pile of things that joined the certificate grew and grew. Birthday cards, love letters, even a bill or two – these things didn't belong to me, not really, and so I left them alone. What I was searching for I knew with certainty was at the very bottom.

At last, I felt my fingers brush against leather. Hooking a finger on the strap, I pulled and out came a pair of kid-sized aviator goggles. I smiled at them as they dangled in front of me, much the same way that someone would smile at an old acquaintance that they don't have much in common with anymore. I set them down beside me on the opposite side from the pile.

Right underneath the goggles was a picture frame. A spider-web crack sprawled across the glass, so I lifted it out with caution. Then, turning it over, I undid the fasteners and removed the picture from inside. The back of it read in my mother's curly handwriting: "Merry Christmas! From Matthew, Angela, and Mail Jeevas."

I flipped it over quickly, like tearing off a Band-Aid.

In the picture itself, my mother was smiling. Sure, she smiles now – but this picture was evidence that she hasn't been reaching her potential for it for quite some time now. She was holding my hand. I was about three in the picture, and I had possibly the longest mop of red hair that I have ever seen on a kid, and my grin was so big that it made my cheeks hurt just looking at it. I wore the aviator goggles like a badge of honour.

And there, carrying me on his shoulders and looking at my mother like she was the focal point on which his world turned, was my dad.

I traced his features with my finger and left a smear of red behind.

I held up my hand in the light spilling in from the window and watched as another bead of blood welled to the surface. Belatedly, I realized that I must have cut my finger on the jagged glass. I grabbed a wad of Kleenex to clean the picture and bandage my finger with, and then set the picture aside. Leaning back against the wall, I let my eyes fall shut and felt alarmed when my eyelashes brushed wet against my cheeks.

I sat up again.

No – I can't. I promised.

It's funny how the things that we promise ourselves when we are five can make such an impact.

I lifted my goggles and wiped my eyes on my shirt sleeve; I only replaced them when I was sure the feeling had subsided. Looking around at the papers piled up like little walls all around me, I remembered the only time I broke that promise.

I was ten when it had happened. I'd been whiling away another mundane evening by trouncing the Elite Four in Pokémon Yellow for the fifth or sixth time (I still have that Gameboy Colour; its buttons are worn down so badly that you can't even distinguish the 'a' and the 'b' anymore, but I don't dare get rid of it despite the fact that I haven't played a game on it in years).

Up until what happened next, the day hadn't been any different from any other. I'd gone to school, played pranks on the Sixth Graders with Mello, stopped Mello from spitting in Near's lunch when he wasn't looking, hid a comic book inside of another book during reading time in the library, "reorganized" the books on the shelves when the librarian separated Mello and I because we were being too loud, did a half-assed job on my homework even though I could answer more than half of the questions in my sleep, and then – finally – helped my mom make supper when she asked and didn't complain because I knew she was tired from work.

Just a normal day in Matt the Fifth Grader's life. That is, until my mom had decided to go on a campaign.

I couldn't tell you the exact moment I had recognized the scent of smoke wafting in through the window. When I had, though, I jumped up and stuck my head outside to assess the situation, mouth already wide open and lungs full of air in preparation to yell down the stairs to my mom that we would have to haul ass out of the house. Instead, what I had seen was my mom schlepping laundry baskets full of clothes to the backyard, trudging through the snow in her pink slippers to feed the last physical pieces of evidence that my father had existed on earth to the hungry fire roaring away in our fire pit.

The air had rushed out of my lungs like a deflating balloon, and the only thought in my head was that I remembered watching my dad dig that fire pit and had even set some of the stones there with the help of his big hand covering and steadying my own. This thought quickly disappeared, only to be replaced with: "How could she?"

Before I'd even known what I was doing, I was down the stairs and out the door. My mom looked up and saw my expression, understanding what I was feeling from the look on my face without me having to say a word.

"Matt, it's time for us to move on," she'd said in a tightly controlled voice. "Your father wouldn't want us to live like this anymore."

I'd stared at her like she had sprouted an extra head before sputtering, "Mom, seriously, I've been fine!"

"But I haven't been, and you shouldn't have to deal with it anymore," she had intoned with a sense of finality. Then, she'd emptied the basket's contents over the fire.

At that moment, I had felt something inside me snap. Turning my back on the image of my father's clothes burning away into nothingness and my mother's dead expression, I had run back inside. On the kitchen counter, I noticed all of the pictures and papers laid out that I hadn't paid attention to the first time I had walked by. Grabbing the empty box next to them, I'd gathered the items together as quickly as I could and put them back in my box. In my haste, I had knocked to the floor the picture frame containing the picture of our family the day that my dad had taken me for a ride on his plane for the first time. Ignoring the glass all over the floor, I'd picked up the frame and put it in the box. On my way out of the kitchen, I grabbed the phone from its cradle.

Back in the safety of my room, I had sat with my back against the door in order to prevent anyone else coming in. I punched the number into the phone off by heart. I hadn't even given a thought to what I would do if someone else picked up as I waited; all I knew is that I was sinking and needed someone to throw me a lifeline.

The phone stopped ringing. "This better be good. I'm right in the middle of studying for the test tomorrow, and if I get a lower grade than Near on it, I'm going to blame you."

I breathed a sigh of relief.

There was silence on the other end.

Then, "Matt, you dork, I know it's you. If you're trying to creep me out right now, it's not going to work; I have caller ID."

"Yeah, it's me," I'd said. "Talk about something stupid. Distract me."

"… What the hell are you talking about? Are you okay?"

All of a sudden, I'd felt the door reverberate against my back as my mother pounded on it.

"Mail, let me in!" she'd called.

"No!" I'd screamed back at her, not even bothering to lower the receiver from my mouth. "You can't kill him! I won't let you!"

Everything went quiet after that. A few minutes later, I had heard my mother's footsteps retreating down the hallway.

"Oh," I'd heard Mello breathe. In response, a strangled sound that might have been a whimper had caught in the back of my throat.

Sometime later he asked, "Do you want me to come over?"

"No. Just… keep talking with me."

He'd chuckled, even though the whole thing wasn't really funny and he knew it. "I was kind of planning on it, Matty."

I'd cracked a smile despite myself, and then the tears finally came. For the next hour, I spent the time listening as Mello told me what his family was doing, what he was planning for a project that we were working on together for school, what Near or some girl had done to annoy him at school that day, and any number of everyday things. Every once in a while, I would interject and attempt to explain what had happened between my mom and me. These attempts were disjointed and incomplete, mostly because I would get too upset to finish, but by the end of it, I think he'd understood entirely.

And it was okay – because it was him.

Always because it was him.

In the present, I fought against the rising lump in my throat. My eyes felt like they were burning, but I persisted in resisting, anyways.

There was a reason I'd chosen my father's name to go by. Everyone had always called me Matt Junior when I was little (mostly because I shared my dad's flaming red hair), but it was more than that. He'd left big shoes to fill, and I'd thought that maybe if I'd tried in another way to be like him, his strength would somehow rub off on me.

My father had taught me many things – not just how to throw a ball, ride a bike, or tie my shoes. He'd taught me responsibility when I'd watched him go off to work each day to work shifts at two jobs just to keep a roof over our heads. He'd taught me patience all the times he'd put off obtaining his dream of becoming a full-time pilot because it made less money than what he had currently been doing. He'd taught me love when my mother would be having one of her down days and he would cup her face in his hands and say, "Hey, my beautiful. Have I told you lately how much you light up my world?"

And he'd taught me loss at the ripe age of five when he'd fallen asleep at the wheel after a long day at work and drifted into oncoming traffic, killing him instantly.

Sure, I'd been angry when he'd just suddenly waltzed out of our lives, but I learned how to deal with that, too. I held my tongue when the neighbour ladies would come by with casseroles and condolences, even as they pinched my cheeks and I heard all the things they said about my mom behind her back. I didn't cry when I found my mother falling to pieces on the bathroom floor. No, instead I sat down beside her and held her hand as she weathered the storm; I was the one to tell her things were going to be alright, not the other way around. I never blamed her even though I was scared and she was the adult.

Because she needed me, and I'd already decided that it was my job to fill my dad's shoes.

As for the goggles, I wore them as a reminder of what I had promised. As time went on, they became the barrier between me and the rest of the world, the shadows that allowed me to hide my true feelings – and maybe, the blinders that only allowed me to see what I wanted to see. Aviator goggles changed to rave goggles that fit my adolescent head better, but the intent hadn't changed. And maybe I kept them all these years because even now I believe they were the reason that Mello had approached me that fateful day, pulling them down and looking into my eyes like, "I see you. The real you. Do you see me, too?"

I'd always thought that he'd just understood everything about me, even though all I could wish for was to understand everything about him. He just had that way of listening to the little bit I offered of my deepest thoughts, and somehow putting together all the rest. He'd become a part of my family and I, his. Hell, his mother was the only woman that actually tried to get to know my mom. Furthermore, as she had a part in just about every committee around town, she'd shut the gossip up pretty fast, too.

It just seemed like he was everything I wasn't, like we completed each other.

But the idea of being two halves of a whole is pretty hollow when your other half seems to want nothing more to do with you.

And just like that night on the phone, the tears finally came.

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

There was a knock at the door. It had been maybe an hour or only ten minutes since I had gone into my room and shut the door behind me; it made no difference to me either way. I did not answer.

The door opened nonetheless.

My mom peeked through the small opening she had made, timid as a mouse. Then, taking one look at me, she let the door swing wide open and crossed the room in four strides, plunking herself down on the bed beside me.

Thankfully, I had the forethought to move the broken picture frame and goggles out of the way before she sat on them.

"Oh, honey…" she said, half to herself. She rested a hand on my shoulder and put a hand under my chin to tilt my head towards her. Even with my lenses obscuring her view, I instinctually averted my gaze. "What's wrong?"

I took a deep breath, considering the question.

Well… a lot of things, really. But I knew that wasn't the answer she was wanting. She wanted to know what was specifically upsetting me right now. There were two options: evade like I always had, or tell the truth and… Then what?

I had no idea what would happen. I had no idea how I could control this situation. But… then again, lying to myself and others hadn't really made things nice and orderly either.

I opened my mouth and looked up at her – and that did it. It just came spilling out of me. "Mom," I said, the word coming out on the crest of a dry sob, "I've really fucked up."

She wrapped her arms around me and drew my head to her shoulder. I didn't resist. "Tell me everything."

I did. Everything from the beginning through to today. I kept nothing out.

I told her how jealous it made me in junior high when Mello talked to anyone else. I told her about all the sleepovers and gym classes that I spent carefully staring at the wall, afraid that if I looked anywhere else he might think I was watching him get changed. I talked about the first day he showed up to school in leather, all the parties that I walked him home from, and that Valentine's Day that we spent together as "friends" even though I still got this enormous Hershey chocolate bar for him and he bought me a game I'd been salivating over for a month. I talked about the party, about the almost-kiss in his basement, about Wedy, about the two kisses at the club, and the argument we had today. Every thought, every spoken word, every action.

And my mom, she listened through the whole thing, stroking my hair and comforting me like she'd never been able to when I was a child.

Suddenly, there were no words left. I stopped abruptly, feeling like a rubber band that is so used to being stretched to its limit finally – slowly, methodically – being released. I waited for her response with dread.

She exhaled in one long breath and ceased the motion of her hand over my hair. "I see your dilemma. First of all, I must tell you that in a way I'm relieved – even though I really shouldn't be."

"Relieved how?" I asked her, incredulous. I straightened up so that I could look at her.

"Well…" She looked suddenly embarrassed and started fiddling with a loose thread on her shirt. "You see, Geneviève called me a few weeks ago, saying that Mello had been acting strangely and that she hadn't seen you in quite a while. In short, she was wondering if you two were having a fight, and if I knew anything about it. I told her that as far as I knew, no, you were not having a fight, and that you were spending all of your extra time with a new girlfriend. After that, she dropped it.

"Then, a week later, I called her back to explain where I'd been and say that I would try my best to attend the next book club meeting. We talked about that for a while, and then got on the topic of you two. She said that she was glad that you had come over for supper and that nothing too significant had changed in your behaviour towards each other. However, she told me that Mello's strange behaviour had continued after you left, and that he was becoming increasingly irritable and secretive.

"I told her what I had noticed had changed about you in particular and we…" – she paused for a moment, biting her lip – "we came to the conclusion that the two of you were secretly dating each other, using the made-up girlfriend as an excuse for the change in your relationship, and that you didn't tell us because you thought we would be angry."

My jaw dropped. "Mom!"

"I know! I'm sorry! It's just that you never had actually introduced me to your girlfriend, and I always suspected that you two would get together–"

"What?"

She rolled her eyes before looking at me levelly. "Mail, I know there have been times where I've deserved to get the 'Worst Parent of the Year' award, but I like to believe that I at least know my son well enough to know when he cares deeply about someone. I've known that you're gay for a long time now. I think I knew ever since you came home from the second day of school, talking my ear off about this boy you met that, 'kind of looks like a girl – but he's much cooler than one!'

"And I was happy," she said, looking down at her lap, "because when I saw you two together – the way he drew you out of your shell and stood up for you at every turn, and how you would slow him down so that he would think before he would rush into things or calm him down from a temper tantrum with just one look – I knew that you and Mihael would take care of each other."

This time I was the one to put a hand on her shoulder. She looked up at me, and I saw tears glistening in her eyes. "I'm scared," I said quietly. "I love him so much that it's tying me in knots, but I don't even know what to do about it."

She drew me into a tight hug – and that's when my phone went off. Pulling back, I looked at my mom, asking permission, and she nodded. I pulled it out of my pocket and flipped it open.

Wedy (11:25):

Matt, what the hell!? Why aren't you answering your phone?

I scrolled back further. The oldest unread message was dated the day that I went to L's.

Wedy (10:32):

So… Did you have fun last night? I hope you're not feeling TOO hungover at work today ;P Remember, Red, the Linda-monster has claws! MUAHAHA

Then, later that evening, there was another one.

Wedy (5:18):

Hey. My mom wanted to know if you would be available to have supper with us tomorrow. She's making spaghetti with that sauce that you said that you liked :)

Yet another one the next day.

Wedy (8:01):

Supper was fantastic, in case you were wondering. Thanks so much for getting back to me.

There was even one from earlier this morning.

Wedy (9:13):

Seriously, Matt, I'm starting to get worried. What's going on?

With that, I dropped my phone onto my bed and let it sink in how much of an asshole I really am. Yeah, that's right. Besides moping around for the past few days and completely fucking everything up, I also had been completely ignoring my girlfriend's existence.

My mom picked up the phone and scrolled through the texts, frowning.

"What should I do?" I asked, watching her go through my phone. It's not like I really cared at this point.

She set it down at her side and folded her hands on her lap. "What do you want to do?"

I buried my face in my hands and sighed. "Everything I do just seems to make things worse… I don't think it's up to me at this point."

"Maybe you're just going at it from the wrong angle."

I stiffened. "What do you mean?"

"Well," she started, and that authoritative 'mom' tone that she hardly ever used with me crept into her voice, "I think the first thing you should do is tell Wedy the truth. It isn't fair to keep stringing her along when you don't return her feelings. Also," – here her voice took on a stern edge – "you did cheat on her, and she has a right to know. Anything to do with Mello should wait until you've done right by her."

"I know," I sighed, rubbing at my temples. "I think half of the reason why I haven't talked to her yet is that I'm scared she's going to punch me in the face."

She patted me on the back. "Irrelevant. Here." She passed me my phone.

With my mom watching, I sent off a quick text.

TO: Wedy (11:30):

I'm really sorry. Lots of stuff's been happening. Can I see you tomorrow?

The reply was nearly immediate.

Wedy (11:31):

Yes. You can come to my place.

I sent back a generic reply and then closed my phone. I heaved another sigh. It felt like I'd been doing that a lot lately.

We sat in silence for a while.

Then, out of nowhere, my mom said, "Your dad would be proud of you, Matt."

I raised an eyebrow at her. "Yeah? How do you figure that?"

She shook her head. "Everyone makes mistakes. It takes a special type of person to admit to them and try to fix them." I noticed her staring at the picture of the three of us, the picture in which we looked like any other happy family, and as she carried on, her voice began to get choked up, "I know I wasn't always there for you when you needed me, and I'm sorry. You had to grow up so fast without hardly any help, and I've always worried about you getting overwhelmed. But you never said anything. And today, I realized how much I've actually missed."

Just like that the tears came back and I lifted my goggles to swipe at them angrily. I was starting to get sick of feeling like a leaky faucet.

I pulled my mom into yet another hug, and we made quite the pair, sniffling away. "It's not your fault, mom. I forgive you."

She let loose a sob and squeezed my hand. We sat like that for a while, and strangely enough, even though we were crying, I felt like something inside of me was mending.

Before too long, though, I could stand it no longer.

I burst out laughing.

My mom regarded me like I had lost my mind before she noticed what was bothering me. Then she was laughing, too.

With one hand, I reached up and tugged my goggles off. At once, my vision was clear again. "Frickin' goggles," I grumbled with a smile, rubbing them off on my shirt. "They keep fogging up."

Still laughing, she got up, wiping away what was left of her tears with her hand. "Alright, I think it's about time I went downstairs and made us some lunch, hm?"

"What about work?"

"'Already called in." She smiled at me and ruffled my hair.

I called to her as she reached the doorframe. "Our manager laid us all off today. The owner had a stroke."

She turned back, her features pulled into an expression of sympathy. "Oh… That's horrible…"

I shrugged. "I feel worse for the owner. I didn't even like the job."

"Still… That's a lot that you've had happen in one day."

I shrugged again. The next moment, I started laughing again for apparently no reason.

She shook her head and started off down the hallway. "Kids."

She probably thinks I'm crazy.

She's probably right.

High on adrenaline, I stashed all of my dad's stuff under the bed again before getting up and walking over to the mirror in the corner. I lifted the hand that I was still holding the goggles in and let the fingers fall open. The goggles fell to the floor. Then, without hesitation, I stomped my foot down on them.

They broke with a crunch.

I set them on top of my dresser as a reminder and then turned to look at myself in the mirror. Brown eyes peered thoughtfully, if not a little meekly, back at me. They weren't the bright, laughing green eyes that my father had or the piercing, expressive eyes that Mello has. They were mine, and I wasn't going to hide them anymore.

I grinned and the person in the mirror grinned right back.

It's time to make a new promise.