Chapter VI
In the hospital's lot, Luke makes it into the car before he opens Jess's grammar book. He saw other items in there when Jess took out the checkbook and pen. Obviously they are worth discretion. He moves the check pad and sees a note, written on a small paper marked with the hospital's seal on the top. It reads in neat, semi-cursive script:
Hi Uncle Luke,
Luke takes a pause to roll his eyes. It's Luke. Just. Luke. Mister Luke if you must. He continues on.
I was wondering how long it'd take you to open my book. Nothing worth investigating, or I wouldn't have asked you to get it for me. I hope you took the check I gave you; I'm giving it a fifty-fifty shot. Just wanted to give you a heads-up. Keep it on the down-low. It's a good idea if I go back to New York once I'm released. It'll be hell for both of us if I stay, and you know I'm right.
-J
From under the note, Luke fishes out a couple postcards from New York, probably from Jess's friends at home, then a rubber-banded stack of coupons and receipts from bookstores. Beautiful. Luke sighs and lets his forehead drop onto the top rim of the steering wheel. He isn't familiar with the term 'down-low', but he has an inkling Jess wants this to be a secret, for now. They need to talk about this, but he can't bring himself to process it right now. Moreover, he has no energy to get out of the truck, much less to initiate a discussion with his nephew. And Jess figured that would be the case, damn him.
Half an hour later, Luke jolts awake. He tries to rub away the mark imprinted by the steering wheel under the band of his hat, then starts the truck. It is already dark outside.
Lora picks up the phone. "Hello? Yes, he's here. May I ask who's calling? Sure, one moment please."
Jess stares at the receiver in Lora's hand as she holds it out to him, not making a move to grab it. Luke was here just a couple hours ago. He asks, "Uncle?"
She shakes her head, pushing the receiver at him again. "Mother."
"Tell her I'm dead." Jess mutters, leaning back onto his pillows, away from the phone.
"Unless you died in the last thirty seconds, it's a little late for that. C'mon, take the call, pay the ridiculous rates, and I'll steal you some hot chocolate from the lounge."
Jess returns her steady gaze with a raised eyebrow until she rolls her eyes. "With marshmallows."
With a satisfied nod, he finally takes hold of the receiver and presses it to his ear. At first, nothing comes out. Is it his lungs? His ribs? Does something hurt? Something should start hurting, right now. He doesn't want to talk to her, to discuss what happened. Does she even have the right to care? Thus commences ten seconds of listening to her breathing. Somehow, he developed through his childhood the ability to tell that she breathed differently depending on how much alcohol she drank. Jess doesn't consider his mother an alcoholic; he's seen much worse. He grew up with people who were much worse. When she has a couple glasses of wine, her breathing is quick and giddy, mimicking the happy beat of her tipsy heart. When she has a bottle of wine, everything starts to slow down, lulling her breath to a deep, slow, muffled sound. Like the thick red liquid left residue in her throat as it made its way down to her stomach to relay sensations of false security and painlessness. Now, listening to her breathing on the phone, states away, she is completely sober. Anxious-sounding, if anything.
"Hey," he forces out after those ten seconds. He hears the reverberation of his voice. He must be on speaker phone, and he can just barely hear the sound of music on low volume. 70s music, and not the good kind.
"Hi, honey. How are you?"
Jess thinks about hanging up, then realizes that Lora moved the base to the small counter next to the sink before she left the room. Traitor. He doesn't have the energy to be angry. Let his mother think she cares. He replies, "Been better, Liz."
"I'm really glad you're okay. Do you want to talk about what happened?"
"No."
That single word comprises most of their conversations. 'Did you do this?' No. 'Just dump him already.' No. 'Do you want to try another school?' No. 'Did you do the grocery shopping?' No. Jess wants to explode as he hears the syllable over and over again. 'Do you want to leave New York?' No. 'Do you think you have a choice?' No.
"Alright. I got the gist from Luke, anyway." At his silence, she continues, "Do you know when you get to leave the hospital?"
"No," he replies, then hearing the sound of his own voice echo in the telephone, he elaborates, "Probably Friday."
"That's good… I wish you'd be more responsible, Jess."
He rolls his eyes. He has heard this so many times before. How hypocritical can one person be? He wishes she'd be more responsible. Just like all the other kids, he banked his hope on stars, invested his faith in clovers, that his mom would grow up, do better. But stars don't mean anything. They're just bunches of plasma held together by gravity and surrounded by emptiness. And four-leaf clovers? That one's just stupid. How could he put trust in a half-inch tall plant to change his birther? It's true, they want the same things for one another. Grow up. Do better. Be responsible. He doesn't understand her, and she doesn't understand him. Although, Jess is starting to comprehend why Liz is so eccentric, unreliable. Being raised in Stars Hollow would drive anyone to the brink. She had to get out. Jess is going to get out.
Jess replies, "Yeah, well, now you have a new wish for your birthday next year."
She sighs loudly, but she doesn't remind him. Jess doesn't even need it. Liz's birthday is in a week, and for now, he is going to let her think he forgot. The truth is, he's pretty good at remembering birthdays. So is Luke, apparently. They agreed, begrudgingly on Jess's part, to sign a card to mail ahead of time and a birthday call to mother dearest on the day of. Since he's going back to New York, maybe he'll actually pay for her to buy herself a new clothing item, or do something with whatever dipshit she's dating. He doubts it's the same dipshit that helped get him kicked out. For now, though, she'll believe he forgot her anniversary of birth, just like she did for him three years in a row.
Liz switches gears. "How is school going?"
"Peachy," Jess snaps back.
"Jess… " she whispers. There is a sadness, an exhaustion, in saying the name of the son she never planned, never knew.
Jess wants to groan, to drop the phone into a hole in the floor. He hates it when she says his name like that. He wills the tiles to open up to reveal an infinite abyss that Liz can talk to instead of him. He asks, "What do you want me to say? Stars Hollow High is swell, just like school in Brooklyn, in Queens, in Harlem. Remember that one in Jersey when you married Mike? This one is so much better."
He can practically hear her pinching the bridge of her nose. "Jersey wasn't that bad."
"Yeah, before the fifteen million eviction notices."
No defense. She gives it another go. "And the diner?"
"Peachier."
She cries, "Well thank you for the enthusiasm!"
"I live to please," is what rolls of his tongue, but it lacks the usual charisma. His energy absorbing into the bed. Maybe there's a way he could absorb into the bed. Melt in his feverish cold and hot flashes, soak into the sheets, fade away until there is nothing left.
"Jess…" she says again in the same way. "I'm trying here."
Then we have different ideas of trying, he thinks, but he knows underneath that she actually is. She is staying calm and collected, not plummeting towards dramatic outbursts nor exploding into eccentric nonsense. This is the second conversation they have had since he moved to Connecticut. The first was a few weeks ago, when Jess realized one of his Hemingway books was missing from his collection. He had no choice but to make the sacrifice, call Liz, and tell her to look for it. It had been a difficult call, just like this one. But she is putting forth effort, and Jess prepares to meet her less than halfway.
"I know," he murmurs. "Thank you for calling me."
Her smile is evident in her voice when she returns, "You're welcome. I wanted to make sure you were okay, see how you're doing. Guess what?"
"You've gotten into palm reading?" Jess hurls out a guess, though knowing the rate at which Liz finds her new 'passion', it may not be far off.
"No, although that could be a good idea. I got a hamster!"
Jess is not religious, but he says a miniature prayer to whatever is up there, or down there, if it is anywhere at all. That fluffball is as good as dead.
Jess stares at the ceiling, willing the sleep to come, but it refuses. While he was on the phone with Liz, he felt exhausted. During their conversation, especially when she started telling him about her hamster's play habits, he could see Sleep beckoning him. She was wearing a pale grey dress that complimented her stormy eyes, and she had that 'come hither' look that girls sometimes give. Then she walked away as soon as he got off the phone, evading him once again. He has barely slept since he got to the hospital, even though he spends all day in a bed. He got two hours last night, added up from several intervals. It's too quiet here. It's too quiet in Stars Hollow. That's why he needs music to sleep. He is from the city, where there are cars and people and animals and sounds all the time, day and night. At least back at the apartment, he can turn on music to drown out the silence, to drown out his own thoughts. Here, he doesn't even have that.
He sits up after several minutes of failure, grabbing the small notepad from the side table. The top page has been ripped out, the one he put into his grammar book for Luke to find. He'd bet money that his uncle has already seen the note. It was just easier than bringing it up in person, and Luke is a snoop. He starts to write,
Rory,
During my twelfth birthday, my mother Liz was with her boyfriend Mike in New Jersey. She did not call. I spent that birthday with my friends. I accidentally got locked out on the fire escape until the next morning. The ladder was less than trustworthy. The day before my thirteenth birthday, Liz smelled marijuana on me. She pushed me out the door without my key, and I was too high to care. I did not come back for three days, and after that we did not talk about it. I went to a big party the night of my fourteenth birthday. I didn't drink until midnight, but my friends were wasted by eleven. I had waited all day for Liz to call, so I figured a few more hours couldn't hurt. She never did. When the clock struck midnight, signalling my birthday officially over, I took three shots of gin. No one knows these things about me, but it's nice to have someone to address this to.
-J
As was the initial plan, Jess crumples the paper into a tiny ball and shoots it into the trash can. No rim. All bag.