By the time Jack comes into my bedroom, I’m rifling through my clothes trying to decide what to wear today. I can’t think straight. Clothes are flying all over the room, as are my feelings.
Fuck.
Why do mothers and spiders have to exist?
Well, only shitty mothers. I love the good ones like Mira. The rest should not be allowed to have children.
I look at Jack. “Is it dead?”
He nods. “It’s dead.”
“Good,” I snap, flinging a bra across the room. I meant for it to land on the bed, but my arm movement was a little jerky.
The look in Jack’s eyes morphs into compassion. Compassion I don’t want anything to do with right now.
“When you’re outside today,” I snap some more, “perhaps you could spray for spiders. Or at least hire someone who can take care of your infestation.”
The compassion in his eyes deepens. “I can do that.”
“Good.” More snapping because that’s all I have in me this morning. Then, “And honestly, Jack, your bathroom needs renovating. That door fell on my toe and it fucking hurt. Give me a list of things to order to fix that room.”
“I’m on it.”
I stare at him. Why is he being so goddamn nice? I could do with bossy Jack right now. I know I’m being a bitch, but I can’t help it. And when I get like this, I really do need someone to boss me out of it.
“Stop it,” I lash out. “Stop being nice to me.”
This is the worst thing I could have said to him because it inspires him to come close, open his arms, and take me into them.
Shit.
I’m going to cry.
“Sweetheart,” he says softly, cupping the back of my head, “Let it out.”
Damn this man for remembering what day today is.
Jack texts me every year on the anniversary of Mum’s death. Every year without fail. I never reply, but he hasn’t stopped sending those texts. I spend too many hours reading them, over and over. Wishing things were different. Wishing that instead of being an ocean away, he was with me like he was when she died.
Jack got me through her death. He cancelled what he needed to so he could be with me every second of every day until I didn’t need him there just so I could breathe.
I never saw that level of grief coming. Not when my mother was the worst human I’d ever met.
My father drank and gambled his way through life, and my mother hated him for it. She also hated him for knocking her up, and she took that resentment out on me. Dad might have had his faults, but he loved me in a way she never did. Mum left us repeatedly but always came back. I don’t know why because she was miserable every day of her life with us.
When I got the call that she’d had a stroke, I took a breath unlike any I’d ever taken. I felt free of the burden of her.
She was fifty-four when she died, and I’d spent the previous year running her to doctor appointments, and medical tests, and various treatments for her heart problems. She’d never looked after her health and that came back to haunt her at an early age.
I hated that I resented doing these things for her. I felt like I should want to do them for her. A person should want to look after the woman who birthed and raised them. Yet, she’d never wanted to do anything for me, so why should I want to help her? My inner conflict caused me to dislike myself in a way I never had. Jack talked me off the ledge many times during that year.
I thought her death would be the end of all that.
I also thought I wouldn’t be sad that she died.
It turned out it wasn’t the end of all that.
It also turned out I was sad that she died.
It was the beginning of a new cycle of inner conflict. One I’m still in. Seven years later, I still struggle to let go of all the tangled, messy thoughts and emotions I have over her.
My arms go around Jack and I cling to him. I don’t say anything. There’s no need. He knows what I’m feeling. Even after all these years of not being with me, he knows.
He doesn’t push me to talk. He simply holds me, running his hand over my hair every now and then exactly like he used to.
I let my tears fall. This isn’t something I tend to do very often. I’m not a crier. I keep my feelings locked down tight and I just get on with life.
I let him keep his arms around me for a long time. I don’t know how long because for the first time since being here with him, I’m not actively trying to get him out of my space. I don’t want him to go away. I want him right where he is.
This feels good, and for once, I just want to let it keep feeling good.
When I finally lift my head and look up at him, I say, “Thank you.” I don’t bother to wipe my eyes or try to erase the proof I let my emotions out. I just exhale my grief and express my gratitude for him being here for me.
His kind eyes search mine for a few moments before he cups the back of my head and presses a kiss to my forehead. Keeping his arms around me he says, “I’m going to make you a coffee. Do you want yoghurt and fruit for breakfast? Or something else?”
I don’t even bother trying to fight him. “Yoghurt and fruit please.”
He lets me go. “I’m on it.”
As he exits my bedroom, I call out, “Don’t forget your list, Jack. I’m going to hound you about that today.”
“I don’t doubt it, sweetheart,” he calls back.
I smile.
Goddamn him.
22
Jack
Jack: I ate three meals yesterday and saw my mother. I ran this morning, cleared my gutters, and am now pulling a bathroom apart.
Constance: Sleep?
Jack: Let’s not discuss that.
Constance: Meditation?
Jack: I’m considering macramé.
Constance: You should. It can be a form of meditation.
Jack: What are your thoughts on me exploring writing and producing?
She surprises me with a call instead of another text.
“This is a treat,” I answer. I do enjoy a conversation with Constance even when she spends most of it encouraging me to explore things I’d rather not explore.
“Talk to me about this.”
I’ve not mentioned writing or producing to Constance until now. Hell, the only person I’ve ever discussed this idea with is Jessica, and that was a long time ago.
“It’s something I’ve always wanted to do and I’m beginning to wonder if now might be the right time.”
“Why now?”
I inhale a deep breath and drop my ass down to sit on the ledge of the bath I’m about to rip out of Jessica’s bathroom. “Because this is the first time in my career where I’ve been okay with not working. Any other time I’ve taken a break, I’ve felt the pull to rush right back. I’ve felt that never-fucking-ending fear that if I didn’t get straight back to work, I’d lose everything.”
“You don’t feel like you’ll lose everything now?”
I laugh. “Constance, I’ve lost a fuckload already thanks to the choices I’ve made.”
“Yes, but there’s still a lot to lose, Jack. What’s different this time? Dig deep.”
Christ, ‘dig deep’ is one of her favourite things to say. If I never fucking dig deep again it won’t be too soon.