Terribly sorry for the delay. I really struggled with this chapter. I'm still not thrilled about it, but I wanted to get it up. I apologize if you find it subpar.
[Friday, April 24, 2020]
Early the next morning, Chris scrambled through his morning routine so he could sneak out of the house to check on Jake. The boy was, as expected, alone in his room, struggling into a shirt using only one arm, his other trapped at his side by his cast and bunches of fabric. With a quickly tucked away grin, Chris set down his knapsack and helped him pull the shirt over his head and feed his casted arm through the sleeve, then straightened the hem at the bottom. The bruises on Jake's face looked slightly better in the morning light that streamed around the edges of his curtained window, but to Chris every outline still stuck out starkly on his pallid skin.
"Are you sure you're ready to go back to school?" he asked as the boy knelt to tie his shoes with awkward, slightly swollen fingers. "No one would blame you if you took off one day."
But Jake shook his head with surprising earnestness. "I want everyone to sign my cast!" he chirped.
"Well, I have something that might help with that." Half-anticipating this response, Chris had come prepared. Kneeling in front of his knapsack, he fished inside the smallest pocket to retrieve a fistful of colored sharpies, which he had scrounged for in the cabinet of art and school supplies somewhere in their basement. He had wrapped them with a large rubber band to keep them bundled together. Now, he wiggled one of the markers—the red one—free. "They should all work," he said, handing the rest over to his charge.
Eyes lighting up, Jake yanked open his bag to stuff them inside. When he extended his hand for the red one, Chris withheld it, twirling it around his index finger with a smirk. "I promised I'd sign it," he reminded him.
"Cool!" Jake said, and raised his arm palm-up between them. Chris selected a small swatch of the pristine cast on the underside of Jake's wrist. Uncapping the marker, he scrawled his name in neat script.
"There, your first signature." He clicked the cover back on the sharpie and handed it to Jake, who thanked him before stowing the marker with the others, zipping the pouch shut again.
From the other side of the bedroom door, Carmen called, "Jake, are you almost ready to eat?" The door inched open. "Breakfast is—oh." She paused. "Chris. I didn't realize you were…"
While Jake shifted uncomfortably beside him, Chris smoothly lied, "Jake let me in."
"Right. Well, did you want some pancakes? They're hot."
Chris cast his gaze down to Jake, whose eyes had grown wide with unspoken pleading that he wouldn't voice aloud. With a smile, Chris said, "That sounds nice," and watched Jake's face split into a grin.
The two trailed after Carmen into the kitchen, where she rushed to set out a third plate at the table. The kitchen had only two chairs, but Carmen ushered Chris into the second one without giving him the chance to protest, then dragged over a stepstool and perched herself on top of it.
As the plate of pancakes steamed away in the center of the table, Carmen leaned over to pile two onto each person's plate, leaving two in the center. Beside them stood a bottle of syrup, which Jake reached for to shyly pass to his mother.
"Person of the hour goes first," she insisted. "Take as much as you want."
At first Jake didn't appear certain of how to respond beyond a mute blush that crept up his neck to his ears. But when she nudged the bottle back in his direction, he accepted it, tilting it briefly over top of his plate to dole out a teaspoon of syrup before hurriedly capping it again. But Carmen stopped him. "As much as you want, baby," she repeated, so with one eye on her he carefully opened the bottle again. After a long hesitation, he poured out several more dollops until the syrup oozed off his pancakes in every direction.
When, after Jake had finished, Carmen passed it next to their guest, Chris felt distinctly out of sorts. In all his time knowing Jake, he had never expected to one day play house with the boy's mother! And yet here she sat, offering him syrup for his breakfast.
The pancakes were dry and a bit dense, a far cry from the fluffy, perfect coin shapes his own mother could produce, but it was clear Carmen had tried her best. Clearer, still, that Jake appreciated the effort.
Once they were done—Jake and Carmen each ate one of the last two pancakes—Carmen sent her son off to pack up the rest of his knapsack for school and get ready to leave. Chris stayed behind to help her clear the table.
As soon as they were alone, the cheerful façade she had plastered on her face slipped into a furrowed brow with eyes that crinkled into a perpetual wince. She grabbed the frying pan from where she had deserted it on the stove and set it down on the counter beside her. As she turned on the tap and squeezed soap into the sink, she murmured to Chris in a hushed voice, "He doesn't know." Bubbles expanded and floated into the air as the basin filled.
"Doesn't know what?" Chris asked. He handed her the silverware he had collected, which she dunked beneath the surface of the water.
"That I'm going to leave him." After a sharp glance cast at Chris beside her, she looked quickly away. "I called a hotline last night to ask about… They said rehab could go as long as three months. Maybe longer." He saw her swallow as she began to viciously scrub the first plate. "I haven't told him yet. He'll think I'm abandoning him."
Despite the conversation they had shared the afternoon prior, not once had Chris dared to believe that Carmen planned to follow through on her commitment to get help. People said all sorts of things in the heat of the moment, when they were scared, when someone's life was potentially at risk. He almost didn't believe she had placed that call, and yet… that forlorn, anxious expression suggested she very much had and that now she was turning to, of all people, a random teenage boy for support.
Not knowing exactly what to say to assuage her concerns, Chris offered, "It's for a good cause."
She did not appear reassured as she rinsed the first plate and set it down on the counter between them. "Still. How will he forgive me?"
To confront her with the reality of her behavior was a risk, Chris knew, but she'd have to face it at some point or another and he felt it important she not dance around the truth. Bracing himself for backlash, he said frankly, "If he can forgive you for everything you've done to him so far, he'll forgive you for this, too."
Just briefly, her hands stopped their repetitive scrubbing motion. Squeezing her eyes shut, she croaked, "You're right," before setting down the second plate with a clink. "I have to do this. It's the only way forward."
For want of something to do with his hands, Chris grabbed a dish towel off the counter and started to dry the plates sitting between them. Once he finished the two, Carmen handed him the third, and then last, plate with a soft, "Thanks." As she was starting to scrub the cutlery beneath the suds, Jake returned with his backpack slung over his bad shoulder. Carmen took the time to rinse the cutlery and then set the pan in the sink to soak before she wiped her hands on a second towel and turned to face him. "You ready for us to head out?" she asked.
Blinking in surprise, Jake asked, "You're coming with me?"
Carmen's expression was set with grim determination, a hardness to her pursed lips. "I'm not letting you walk alone."
Part of Chris's intention in visiting this morning (if Jake insisted on going to class) had been to orb the boy to school; he had no desire to let Jake take that perilous route again. That Carmen planned to walk with her son thwarted Chris's plot, but he couldn't very well explain to her his reasoning. (Besides, Carmen did not look open to changing her mind, no matter if he promised to tail the boy between classes.) If he'd had time for an extended walk before his first class began, Chris would have joined them on their hike. Still, at least Jake wouldn't be going alone.
The three of them exited the house together, and as Carmen locked the door Chris and Jake said their goodbyes. Chris made a show of heading in the opposite direction down the sidewalk until they had turned out of sight, at which point he ducked behind a row of bushes and orbed to school.
The cramped kitchen was quiet except for the muted ticking of the clock that hung on the far wall. The dishes and cutlery that Chris had dried lay out, piled high on the counter, where the trio had abandoned them when they left the house, the pan still soaking in the sink. Since returning home, Carmen had been sitting rigidly at the table, where she stared at the cordless phone, stood innocuously before her on the table within reach of her neatly-folded hands, for the past forty-five minutes. She had even dialed most of the digits, stopping just before punching in the last one. The phone waited patiently for her to finish.
What if he had moved, changed his number? An eternity had passed since she and her brother had spoken last. And maybe he would be angry, would blame her for the long silence. He had always been supportive in the past, but who knew how much had changed since their last communication? Surely she could get assistance elsewhere…
"Just call," she growled to herself. Before she could lose her nerve, she dialed the last digit, hit "on," and pressed the receiver to her ear.
It rang three times before a high-pitched voice answered. Carmen had to try twice before her own voice emerged. "Hi, is, uh, Michael there, please?"
At the top of its lungs, the voice hollered, "Daaad! Someone's on the PHONE for yooooou!"
After several seconds elapsed—to Carmen endless—a familiar baritone picked up the line.
Carmen clutched the phone to her cheek, her voice nearly a whisper when she said, "Michael, it's—"
"Car-Car?" he choked. "Is that you?"
With her free hand she grasped the rim of the table in a vicelike grip, so tight her knuckles blanched. "It's me," she affirmed softly.
"I can't believe it!" he cried, "How long's it been?"
Six years, five months, she thought instantly but, aloud, said only, "I know."
"Well, I mean, geez, how've you been?"
She thought it would be difficult to admit her struggles—this man could have been a stranger for how long ago they had lost touch—but the moment her brother's soothing voice asked her the question she found the story gushing out of her, the alcohol, the accident, the years of pain and panic, all of it. He listened in his warm, quiet way to every word until she felt almost breathless with how much had spewed out of her.
The hardest part came at the end, when she had to force herself to expel past the lump in her throat, "I need your help."
"Geez, Car, that's all just so awful. I wish I had been there. I wish I could be there now. Is Jake doing okay?"
"The doctor says he'll heal," she said. "But I can't wait. I have to do this now. Before I…" She swallowed hard. Chicken out. "It just has to be now."
"I understand. But well, Car, I'm not the one who can help you—no, listen. It's not that I don't want to. I absolutely would if I could. It's just that we don't have any space to take him. The boys already share a room. We don't even have a guest room."
Carmen's heart sank to her stomach. All that effort, all the guts it took to place this phone call, for nothing. She had no one.
"—Did you hear me, Car? I know you don't want to talk to her, but she can help."
Carmen's mind scrambled to catch up in the conversation. "Who?" she said dumbly.
"Mom."
Silence hung between them for a long stretch. At last, Carmen choked out, "You're joking."
Images flooded her mind of that stern, pinched face bearing down on her, that clipped tone berating her every step. Stupid for trying to bathe her turtle, selfish for wanting a furry pet, short-sighted for marrying Adam. You will never amount to anything if you act like this, Carmen, and, You'll clearly never be mature enough to make healthy decisions for yourself, and, As if you'll ever be able to provide for that boy.
Michael's cajoling voice broke her from her reverie and guided her back to her kitchen table. "Car, she's changed. Like, a lot. She has wanted to call you for years, but we didn't have your number. And she feels terrible about how she acted when Jake was born. Just give her a chance."
Carmen couldn't think of anything to say beyond a strangled, "How could you suggest—!" and then, "She would be thrilled to rub my failure of a life in my face!"
"I told you she's changed." She heard him sigh. "Look, you may not want to admit it, but she's your best bet. She has the space, she has the time, and she wants to help. To make it up to you. Just… let me give you her number, okay?"
It was by rote that she scrounged for a stray scrap of paper and a pen, that she scribbled out the digits he recited to her. After he told her he loved her and hung up the phone, she simply stared at the slip of paper, feeling hollowed out.
After school, Chris returned to a very different scene than the one he'd left that morning. He thought it best not to orb straight into the house this time—too often appearing out of nowhere was bound to raise Carmen's suspicions eventually—so he knocked on the front door and waited. When several minutes elapsed with no answer, he tried the knob. The door was unlocked.
Inching inside and seeing no one, he padded down the carpeted hallway and stopped outside Jake's door. From the other bedroom he heard muffled sobs, but Jake's room was silent. Chris rapped gently just above the knob, calling the boy's name. No response.
When he pushed the door open, he found the room inside in complete disarray. The drawers from the dresser had been upended, their contents strewn across the floor. A folder on the desk had been emptied of paper, which, like the clothes, were scattered all over the room. The blanket, usually neatly taut across the mattress, had been torn off the bed and tossed in a lump at the foot of the bedframe.
At the head of the stripped mattress, with his knees bent up to his chest, sat Jake. With his chin resting on his knees, he glowered at the door, seeming to not even notice Chris's entry.
"Uh, Jake?" Chris said. "Everything okay?"
Chris had never seen Jake angry before. Seconds ago he would have asserted the boy didn't have it in him. Even when he had mistaken Benjamin for social services—the closest time he had come to embodying true anger—Jake had expressed panic and hurt more than anything else.
But as soon as Chris addressed him, Jake's glower folded into something thunderous. "This is all your fault!" he exploded. "You told her to, didn't you? You never even cared about her!"
Chris threw up his hands. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up, please. What are we even talking about?"
"You know!" Jake accused.
Chris began to pick his way across the room, stepping over and around crumpled fabric and overturned homework. "No, Jake, I really don't," he said calmly, coming to a stop when his knees bumped against the bedframe.
Jake wrapped his arms around his legs, linking his fingers together. "You really didn't do it?" he asked, his small voice practically begging. When Chris sat down at the edge of the mattress, saying nothing, Jake continued, "Mommy. She's leaving. She's just leaving."
Ah. Chris set a hand on Jake's knee. "Did she tell you why?" he asked carefully.
Scowling, Jake turned his head away. Finally, with great reluctance, he replied, "She says she's leaving to get better." His fingers disentangled from each other so his good hand could ball into a fist, clutching the fabric of his pants. "She doesn't need to get better. She needs to stay here. With me."
"Come on, Jake," Chris said, "You know that's not true."
His head swiveled back to glare at Chris. "What do you know? You always hated her," he snapped.
"I don't hate her," he replied, and was surprised to find that he meant it. "Actually, I think she's very brave." He tightened his grip on the bony knee as Jake burrowed his face into his legs. "Do you know what your mom loves more than anything in the whole world?" Jake didn't respond. "Well, do you?" Chris wheedled. "Because I do. It's you."
When he got no response, he playfully shook the boy's leg back and forth, though his voice, when he spoke, remained solemn. "She was so, so scared when you had your accident, you know. And now she wants to do what's best for you, even though going away will be the hardest thing she ever has to do. So that she can be the mom you deserve."
He saw the boy's shoulders hitch, trembling. When he finally looked up, his eyes were red-rimmed and glassy. "How come she has to abandon me to do it?" he pleaded. "How come everyone who's supposed to love me goes away?"
Something tightened in Chris's chest, painfully so, enough that it took him a moment, gazing into those glistening hazel eyes, to catch his breath. Even once he did, he could not immediately retrieve his voice. With the softest of touches, his hand shifted off the boy's knee and grazed across his cheek, pausing when Jake, almost imperceptibly, leaned into the stroking gesture. Into the silent air, he murmured, forlorn, "Oh, Jake. She'll come back. I know she will. And I promise I'll be with you the whole time she's gone. Just a call away."
The first tear Jake swiped away, but the others, which began to cascade in earnest almost immediately after, he left to dampen his cheeks. With a hard sniffle, he clamored to his knees and crawled across the mattress to slot himself into Chris's extended arms. For several long minutes, enough for Chris to lose track of the time, they sat together in that position, unmoving and silent.
Chris was not with Jake the next day when his mother dropped him off one state away in Silver Springs, Nevada. He wasn't there for the five-hour bus ride or for the moment when a strange old lady picked them up at the bus station and helped them feed their suitcases into the trunk of a dilapidated gray Honda. He wasn't there when Carmen mumbled, "Hello, Mother," and awkwardly kissed this woman on either cheek. Nor was he there when, after Carmen had piled into the front passenger seat and Jake into the back, the old lady had twisted around with her hands still on the wheel to say with a too-wide smile, "Hello, Jake, I'm your grandmother."
Jake had always wondered about his family, most specifically his father, whom he had never met and his mother had never spoken of, and occasionally his uncles, whom his mother had mentioned often enough over the years. This woman, his mother's mother, with her wrinkly folds of papery skin and dyed-brown short bob and grey eyes and burgundy lipstick—well, Jake had never once, in all his years, daydreamed about her.
When they arrived at her single-story house forty-five minutes later, she pointed Jake to the guest bedroom near the front closet. The walls were beige and barren, save a single hanging photograph of a haystack. In one corner stood a wooden rocking chair with floral cushioning. The bedspread, vibrant blue, green, and red stripes adorned with different sports balls, looked entirely out of place here.
His grandmother, though it was beyond strange to think of her that way, had lined up a whole spread of toys along the top of the dresser like a row of soldiers keeping guard. There were cards and board games and a remote control racecar and a science kit and even, propped against the wall beside the dresser, a red and silver hula hoop.
Jake marched right past all of it, dumping his suitcase by the foot of the bed and going to stand before the window. Across the street was an elderly couple ambling by, the woman on a three-wheeled walker, the man with his arm around his wife, his eyes scanning the sidewalk ahead of them for anything that might trip her. Without a word, Jake watched them slowly shuffle by.
His whole life, Jake had feared that he would wake up one morning and his mother would have vanished. Gone. Just like he imagined must have occurred with his father. And now exactly that was happening, wasn't it? And how would she survive without him around to protect her? He swallowed hard, but something in his chest made it difficult to draw a breath.
A few minutes later, Carmen and her mother joined him in the bedroom. In a falsely cheery voice, Carmen asked, "So what do you think?" When Jake turned to pin her with a stony glare, her smile waned. Forcefully, she continued, "It's much bigger than your bedroom at home. That'll be nice. Oh, wow, look at all these toys."
"Michael picked out some stuff for me," his grandmother explained. Then, to Jake, she said, raising her voice a couple octaves and decibels as if speaking to a deaf toddler, "Michael is your uncle! He's very excited to see you again!"
Without a word, Jake turned back to the window.
After a long pause, Carmen suggested her mother give them some time to unpack, and she left them to it. Hauling Jake's rolling bag onto the bed, Carmen unzipped the largest pouch to flip the cover open. Pile by pile, she began to transfer his clothing to the austere dresser.
At last, behind him, Jake heard a hefty sigh and the squeak of the mattress as Carmen sat down. In a much less cheery tone, this time sounding downright deflated, she remarked, "You haven't said a word since we got on that bus." When he maintained his silence, she added, almost inaudibly, "Baby, please. I can't take this."
And even after everything, Jake was struck with a pang of guilt. His whole life he had focused on caring for and protecting his mother. Though he wanted to cling to his anger (to the protection it gave him from the wild wrench of fear beneath it), holding a grudge, causing her pain, did not come easily to him. From his vigil at the window he grunted, "How long are you leaving me here?"
"Just a few months," she said.
Just?
He ran a finger along the ledge of the window sill, then inspected beneath his nail; it came away devoid of even a single speck of dust. "What about school?" he said numbly.
"Your teacher said we could work something out," Carmen replied. "I'll probably have to pay for you to take a make-up class over the summer, but… I'll figure out how to make that happen. Maybe they have scholarships for these things or…" Her voice trailed off.
So along with everything else, he was costing his mother still more money. As if he didn't feel awful enough.
A clicking sound stuttered its way across the hard wood floor of the hallway, drawing both Jake's and Carmen's attention to the open doorway. About a foot and a half off the ground, a furry head appeared, poking a curious nose into the room.
Carmen stared open-mouthed as the small creature waddled into the room, revealing the rest of its white body and a short, stubby tail that wagged cautiously as it entered. Almost without his volition, Jake knelt as it inched up to him and extended a palm that it began to sniff. A rough, warm tongue darted out to bathe his fingers, and he smiled.
"Sorry!" cried a voice from the hall. Jake's grandmother leapt into the doorway, looking bashful. "I should have closed the door. Sorry. Come on, Bonno, get out of there." She clicked her tongue at the dog, who perked its pointy ears at the sound but didn't turn around.
"You got a dog?" Carmen asked in shock.
Looking uncomfortable, her mother said, "Well, yes."
No you can't get a puppy; they shed everywhere and make a mess, and who's going to clean up all that? "But you always hated animals."
"What kind is it?" It was the first time Jake had uttered a word to the women; she jolted to finally be addressed.
"Actually," she said in that saccharine voice she had used when she first greeted him in the car, "we don't know. He's a rescue."
"You got a rescue?" Carmen said even more loudly.
"Well, yes," she said again.
With nothing better to do with her hands, the woman hurried over to Jake and tried to take hold of the dog's green collar, but Jake wrapped an arm around its fluffy back. Almost defensively, he said, "He can stay."
She stopped, a flicker of uncertainty darting across her face. "Oh, um, all right. I'll get started on some lunch, then. You two must be hungry after your trip." As she backed out of the room, Jake ran an affectionate hand along the creature's muscled haunches. Bonno wriggled with delight.
Once a lunch of mac and cheese had ended, Carmen reluctantly said goodbye. From his bedroom window, Jake watched her climb into someone's car—an uncle, his mom had informed him—with a suitcase of her own. Heart rattling painfully in his chest, Jake pressed his hand to the window pane. When Carmen glanced back his way, she raised a hand up to mimic his. Only after everything, after the car pulled away from the curb and rumbled out of sight, did Jake close the bedroom door and call Chris's name.
His whitelighter came at once in a shower of orbs. The teen's mouth was already open to speak, as if he had prepared a speech to attempt once again to convince Jake of his mother's altruism in her decision, but with a frown he snapped it shut, peering around the unfamiliar bedroom. "Where are we?"
Dully, Jake supplied, "It's my grandma's house."
"Oh," Chris said. "I didn't realize you had a grandma. You never mention her."
"That's because I never met her 'til today," Jake said bitterly. Breaking away from the window at last, he dragged his feet to the bed and plopped himself down.
Chris's eyes widened in silent realization. "Ah," he said softly, and came to join the boy on the mattress. "Is your mom…"
"She just left," Jake said, staring hard at the carpet until he was certain his eyes wouldn't begin to water.
Taking his cues from the boy, Chris said nothing. But he did carefully drape an arm around Jake's shoulders, pulling him into a gentle, sideways embrace.
Twice, Jake's grandmother knocked to check on him. Both times, Chris hid in the closet filled with hanging, old lady winter clothes until she wandered away. Before he left that evening, Chris and Jake agreed that he would come by way of the front door the next morning, introduce himself to Jake's grandmother so he wouldn't have to sneak around anymore.
So come Sunday morning, Chris found himself on a block in the town of Silver Springs, waiting for a stranger to answer her door. When she finally revealed herself, it was through a crack in the doorway only a couple inches wide so that he caught a glimpse of only one gray eye, a thin, arched nose, and half of her strongly-painted lips.
"No solicitors."
Chris threw out a hand to prevent her from shutting the door. "No, I'm, uh, here to visit Jake." The single eye in the doorway narrowed. "I'm a friend of his."
After a moment, the door opened a touch wider, revealing a cream and salmon blouse tucked into a gray, pleated skirt. Eyebrows raised, the woman scrutinized him from top to bottom. "Friend, huh?"
"Well, sort of," Chris amended at her skepticism. "It's a program at the school, where older students mentor younger ones."
"So you go to his school."
"The high school associated with it, yeah," Chris said, praying she would accept this. He couldn't very well feed her the lie that they were cousins, could he?
With pursed lips, she demanded, "And you drove all the way out here to check on him?"
"I'm, uh, very dedicated."
After some internal debate that Chris watched war across her features, the woman pressed the door all the way back and waved him inside. As he passed, Chris tried to silently swallow the gust of a relieved sigh that he released. She led him down the hall, a small dog pattering behind them, to the room Chris had seen from the inside the day before.
The first time the woman knocked on the door, she got no response, though from her unblinking expression she seemed to have expected this. Knocking more insistently, she called through the door, "Jake, you have a visitor." As soon as she finished her sentence, the door was thrust open so exuberantly it slammed against the inside wall of the room. Jake's grandmother winced but did not rebuke the boy.
Staring past her as if she weren't even there, Jake cried to Chris, "You're here!" and beckoned him inside.
Though his grandmother appeared somewhat relieved to learn Jake did, in fact, recognize the teen, she still insisted, despite Jake's protests, that they leave the bedroom door ajar so she could check in every so often to make sure all was well. Each time she did, Jake remained sullenly quiet until she left again, but in her absence he seemed very willing to talk. Mostly to complain.
He complained about being away from his classmates. He complained about the unfamiliar town and the strange noises his grandmother's house made when it settled. He complained, with simmering frustration, about how he would need to make up the last month of school over the summer.
While Chris couldn't do much to ease Jake's circumstances, that last one he was pretty sure he could rectify. It would require a chat with Jake's teacher come Monday, but if he could ease even a small part of the boy's transition he had to try.
The entire morning, the one thing Jake didn't complain about, the one topic he carefully danced around, was his mother's absence. Chris took his cues from Jake and didn't mention her either.
When noon approached, Chris nudged Jake's shoulder with his own and asked, "Would Tony's Pizza cheer you up?"
Jake's face brightened at the question. "You can do that? Even though we're so far away?"
Chris scoffed. "I took you all the way across the Atlantic Ocean, remember? A couple of states is no sweat." Somehow, their brief trip to France had not felt as great a distance as Jake felt from home now with a five-hour bus ride under his belt.
Eagerly, he clamored off the bed, leading Chris out to the hallway. When Chris recommended they inform his grandmother of their intention, Jake scowled but didn't try to stop him (though Chris would have put his foot down regardless). They found her in the kitchen over a bubbling pot of noodles on the stove. She turned as soon as they cleared the threshold, her eyes painfully eager, though she waited for one of them to speak first.
Knowing Jake wouldn't do it himself, Chris cleared his throat to say, "Hi, Mrs. Porter. Jake and I were going to go to a nearby pizza place for lunch."
At first, her expression sank in disappointment as she peered into the pot she was stirring. The water swirled around her spoon, steam fogging around her face. "Oh, I…" Giving a sharp shake of her head, she set the spoon down on the counter, letting starchy water pool beneath it. "That sounds fun. I'll drive you!"
"Oh, uh…" Chris hesitated. "We were just going to walk."
"Don't be silly," she tutted as she shut the flame, "There's nothing within walking distance here. It's no problem. Just let me get my sweater."
After wiggling into a beige cashmere sweater, she grabbed her keys and a bulky purse from the table beside the front door and led the two outside to the driveway, where they climbed into the back of her Honda.
As she started the engine, Chris mouthed to Jake, "Sorry." The boy made a face.
"Does everyone have a seatbelt on?" his grandmother chirped. Only after receiving confirmation from Chris did she back out of the driveway and start down the road.
"You'll love our pizza shop," she chattered brightly as she eased to a stop at the corner. "They make wonderful calzones, and they have great salads, too." Out of a sense of politeness, Chris tried to maintain the conversation while Jake slouched in his seat and turned to stare out the window.
After nearly twenty minutes, they pulled into the large parking lot of a strip mall. She eased up to the curb in front of a store called Pizza & More! and let the two boys climb out. Scrolling down the passenger side window, she called, "I'll just be parked once you're ready, so you just come on out."
"Oh, uh…" Chris felt torn between good manners and wanting to give his charge the time and space he desired. "Should we, uh, order to go?"
"Nonsense," Jake's grandmother said. She patted her purse overturned in the passenger's seat. "I always bring a book with me when I go out. I'll be fine. You kids take your time."
Thanking her, Chris placed a hand on Jake's back and led him toward the door. The store they entered was much cleaner than Tony's Pizza, though it had significantly more bustle. While Jake found them an available table, Chris waited on line. None of the tables sat opposite the brick oven, which was Jake's preferred location, so Jake picked one in the far back, away from any windows. Once his turn came, Chris ordered an olive slice for his charge and a plain slice for himself, then stepped aside to wait.
When the food came, Jake ate slowly, frequently pausing to check the giant clock erected on the far wall. "It's not as good as Tony's," he commented, but he seemed willing enough to eat it.
Afterwards, they got ice cream from the large chest freezer. This, Jake polished off quickly, but when Chris suggested they leave the boy said quickly, "I want something else."
"No problem, what do you want?" Chris asked, but Jake didn't have an answer. After a long pause, where Jake tried to come up with a justification for his demand, Chris sighed. "You don't want to go back, huh?"
Biting his lip, Jake averted his gaze to the smooth table surface. Just within reach lay his napkin, smudged with grease stains in the shapes of finger marks and rumpled around the edges. He focused very carefully on ironing out each corner until the napkin lay flat, then picked it up and began to shred it, all without a single word, into smaller and smaller pieces. The remains floated back down to the tabletop, abandoned.
After a stretch of silence, Chris sighed, "We've got to go back sometime." But Jake only shrugged. "I'll still be with you," Chris promised.
Thought it took some time, eventually Chris managed to cajole Jake back outside. When they slid into the backseat of the car, Jake's grandmother did not appear the slightest bit put out by their extensive time away.
The stilted conversation over the ride home was again sustained exclusively by her and Chris. As soon as they arrived, Jake bolted inside. Chris felt compelled to say something so,before following, he paused long enough to tell the woman, "He just needs some time to adjust. He's really a sweet kid."
Chris found Jake curled up on the bed with Bonno, his casted arm propped against the dog's haunches, fingers raking back and forth between his ears. The stubby tail whacked against the mattress as his head lolled in Jake's lap.
Snagging the deck of cards from the dresser, Chris plopped down in front of them and suggested a game of Crazy Eights. They didn't talk about anything of importance for the rest of the afternoon.
Before Chris left at the end of the day, he promised, "I'll be back after school tomorrow." Jake watched him climb to his feet with a painful pleading in his eyes. Ultimately, Chris knew his charge would be okay. The boy was resilient—hadn't his calm, accepting reaction to his accident proved as much?—but still Chris couldn't bear to see that yearning in his expression. He wished his powers allowed him to speed up time so Jake would not have to suffer through this extended period of transition, so that he could skip to the point when he had grown accustomed to his circumstances or even to the point when his mother returned to take him home, sober and ready to build a new life for them both.
But the most he could offer was to lean down and accept a one-armed hug from his charge before heading out through the hallway. Back in the kitchen, he said goodbye to Jake's grandmother, exited through the front door, then trekked around to the backyard to orb home out of sight.
During his lunch period the next day, Chris stopped by Jake's classroom to talk his teacher into sending with him the class's school- and homework on a daily basis. Given Jake's unusual circumstances, she agreed that Chris could return the work each morning for her to review. This way, Jake would not fall behind and would be able to receive full credit for the end of the year. It was the greatest consolation Chris had to offer.
He had to wait for Jake's teacher to run down to the copier and was a bit late back to his first class after lunch, but he successfully managed to transport the first batch of work that afternoon. Jake's enthusiasm made the just-dodged detention worthwhile; he shooed Bonno off the bed and spread out the work in front of him immediately, stopping only begrudgingly when his grandmother knocked to let him know she had made dinner. When she saw how he sat half folded over while he worked, she offered him the kitchen table for his schoolwork, but she didn't press the issue when he refused.
The next day, Tuesday, at some point she peeked her head inside the room to timidly ask, "Are you two at all interested in taking Bonno for his walk?"
Bonno, who was curled up at the foot of the bed, perked up at the familiar word, his tail beginning to thump against the carpet. When the woman held up the leash, he leapt to his feet and padded over to let her latch it onto his collar.
After a pause to consider, Jake set aside the work Chris had brought over that afternoon and climbed off the bed. Bonno raced back to prance around his legs, trailing the leash behind him. With a grin, Jake knelt to retrieve the loose end. Chris followed him to the front door as Jake's grandmother handed the teen an empty shopping bag for picking up after the dog and waved them off.
The air was warm and balmy, just slightly overcast. Heading down the sidewalk, they let Bonno set the pace. He stopped at each tree and streetlamp for a brief sniff, sometimes stopping for longer to relieve himself. Eventually, the dog squatted in the middle of a strip of grass between the curb and sidewalk. Jake waited, then cleaned up after him with Chris's shopping bag, tying it afterwards with a tight knot. They meandered until Bonno, tugging eagerly, led them to a large park.
To the dog it was clearly a familiar locale, a large verdant expanse surrounded by a neat row of pine trees and a dirt path that encircled a small, bereft playground. Wooden benches were spread out all along the path.
Jake threw out the shopping bag in the nearest bin, situated at the entrance, before continuing on. "Hey, you want me to pick up pizza from Tony's before we head back?" Chris suggested. "We can find somewhere to sit and eat."
Off Jake's enthusiastic agreement, Chris checked that no one was around as witness—the entire area was deserted—and orbed away, returning shortly with a slice and fries for the boy. They wandered to the nearest bench, where Jake wrapped the end of the leash around one of its wooden legs and took a seat. Bonno seemed content to splay himself out and watch Jake begin to eat with a fervent, ravenous stare.
As Jake inhaled each cheesy bite, Chris fed the dog fries one by one. When Jake had finished most of his slice, he tossed the crust straight up above Bonno's head, watching the pup stare at it through its descent until it came close enough for him to open his jaws and snap it up.
Once again, Jake seemed reluctant to return to the house, but when they resumed their walk, Bonno tugged them in the right direction and padded all the way back to his home walkway without giving Jake much choice in the matter. His grandmother seemed disappointed to hear that they had already eaten but did not complain, though she did watch the duo trek back to Jake's room with a longing gaze piercing their backs. Chris felt her stare, reminiscent of Bonno's hungry eyes that watched Jake bite into his pizza, and couldn't help but writhe in discomfort. What had she done wrong, truly, aside from offer her grandson a place to land while his mother got the help she needed? Though Chris didn't blame the boy an ounce for his reaction, it seemed a bit unfair to treat her so harshly.
Back in the bedroom, Chris gently broached the subject. "I don't think I'll be able to do dinner tomorrow." At Jake's crestfallen expression, he rushed to assure, "I'll still be here. I just think it's important to your grandma that we stick around sometimes."
"We just ate here yesterday," Jake pointed out petulantly.
"Yeah," Chris acknowledged, "But I think we should be staying more."
Jake turned away to climb across his mattress, stepping over the classwork he had left there. Carefully, he began to collect the papers into a single pile. Though he said nothing, his disappointment lay palpable between them.
"How about if I take you out to brunch on Saturday?" Chris offered as consolation. "It could be our thing. You can get pancakes."
Jake's head shifted ever so slightly to indicate he had heard. "Our thing? You mean, like, every Saturday?"
Chris shrugged. "Sure. If you want to."
A pause. "What if she doesn't let?"
Chris couldn't picture this woman, who had so far allowed Jake to do pretty much everything he had requested, refusing them this, but he didn't want to say as much without confirmation. "I'll talk to her," he assured, "See if she's okay with it."
Jake's grandmother was okay with it, albeit a bit confused by the request. "But we don't have any brunch places here."
"I researched some sort-of local restaurants," Chris lied.
She was busy putting away the three plates that she had laid out earlier on the dining room table, but she paused long enough to ask, "Don't you need me to drive you?"
"No, I, uh, have a car." He didn't recall mentioning to her his age, too young still for a permit, much less a license, so hopefully this would not strike her as suspicious.
Come Saturday, Chris orbed Jake to a small café back home, where they indulged in chocolate chip-rainbow sprinkle pancakes (much fluffier and more scrumptious than Carmen's, even by Jake's reluctant admission). Afterward, Chris took Jake to a nearby beach. They waded through hoards of people, mostly families with kids and groups of twenty-somethings out with their friends, to find a small patch of unclaimed sand. Together, they dug a shallow hole wide enough to fit Jake's prone body, then filled it back in with him inside, leaving just his head exposed. Chris found an discarded feather nearby, left by a passing gull, and used it to tickle the defenseless Jake's nose. Jake laughed until he cried.
After he got free and they filled in the hole, they climbed out to the jetty, seating themselves at the edge of the jagged rock formation. Removing their shoes and socks, they stuck their bare feet out over the edge, where waves crashed up the sides, spraying their toes with foam.
Chris reached behind him for a few stones and handed one to Jake. "Want to try skipping rocks?" he asked.
Whether due to their own lack of skill or whether the tempestuous surface of the water played a part, they failed, quite spectacularly, in fact. But this did not deter Jake, who kept catapulting them out to the ocean until every loose pebble had been discharged. Then, giggling, he leaned into Chris's shoulder and watched the waves come.
Chris found that the more Jake fell into a routine, the better he seemed to acclimate to the major changes swirling around him. Every time he arrived in the afternoon—Chris tried to make it the same time each day—he found his charge hard at work on the previous day's lessons. Once he finished, they took Bonno for a walk, often stopping at the park. By the time they got back, Jake's grandmother usually had dinner set at the table. This was the starkest difference for Jake, whose own mother was rarely present at dinnertime since starting her job at the grocery store.
(A job she had left in order to go to rehab, which made Jake queasy whenever he found himself wondering how they would continue to afford their home once she returned. He tried not to think about it. Another worry that wouldn't have arisen if his accident had not driven his mom to leave. This, too, he tried not to think about.)
Though he came to it reluctantly, he did grow accustomed to these dinners with his grandmother. Her cooking was foreign to him. She produced dishes like teriyaki-baked salmon and Asian chicken salad. His mother's meals usually came from a freezer, got scattered across a cookie sheet, and baked in the oven for fifteen minutes. He preferred his mom's fish sticks to this woman's salmon, but he politely choked down everything on his plate each night. He even began to respond to questions when his grandmother asked them.
One morning a week and a half after his arrival, after he had finished his breakfast, she invited him into the living room. While he wandered over to the dark green, paisley sofa, she went to grab something from her bedroom. She returned shortly, arms laden with large books, which she carefully slid onto the coffee table.
"What are those?" Jake asked dubiously.
They were, as it turned out, albums. From when his mother was young. She had found them in her closet and thought he might be interested. Sitting gingerly down beside him (his skin prickled with her proximity), she flipped open the cover of the top album, and Jake wiggled forward on the cushion to get a better look.
Page by page, Jake met the little girl his mother used to be. There she was with two older boys, wrestling on the floor. There she was peeking her head out out of a blanket fort sagging in the center. There she was riding piggyback with her arms squeezing a man's neck as they both laughed.
"That's your grandfather," she said, tracing her finger along the man's outline. "He died many years ago."
Unsure how to respond, Jake said, "Oh."
He found himself unable to avert his gaze. These photographs tapped into a dormant part of himself that he rarely ever thought of but was always aware of in the back of his mind, a deep yearning for family that simmered just below his breastbone. He turned the next page and the next, letting his grandmother's voice wash over him with stories from years ago.
That afternoon, the woman offered again to chauffer Chris and Jake to Pizza and More! When they arrived, Jake paused before crossing through the glass door Chris held open for him. After a beat, he dashed back to the Honda still idling at the curb.
As his grandmother scrolled down her window, he scuffed his foot against the concrete. "Is everything okay, dear?"
Jake bit his lip. "Do you, uhm, want us to order you anything?"
The woman's eyes lit up. "That's all right, dear. But thank you."
Chris smiled, patting Jake's shoulder as the boy passed him at the threshold. For the first time, the teen felt confident his charge would get through this, too, unscathed.
Struggled with this one. I hope you're able to leave a review!
I anticipate the next few chapters being equally difficult to get out. A combination of poor real-life timing and less finished drafts means they may take longer to publish. I'll try to be as prompt as I can while still delivering work up to my own standards.
Guest - Glad you enjoyed Mrs. Winterbourne's presence. I always get tickled by including little nods to the original show.
