By about three in the afternoon, my body felt better, like I was recovering from a small head cold rather than feeling like I had been hit by a large load of bricks. Not being able to ignore the call of nature any longer, I trudged to the bathroom. It was odd how ill my body felt, almost like I had caught some strange body-ache bug. As much as I wanted to blame food poisoning for my illness, I wasn’t sick enough, and blaming body-aches on a pearl-like bead was downright silly. I tried to convince myself my problem wasn’t physical, only emotional. Who would have thought that a delusional letter from my father would have affected me so much? I collapsed back on my bed, my head throbbing with the collision.
My phone buzzed as a call came in. I reached for it, assuming it to be my mom checking in on me. I was shocked to see Ry’s name and a picture of us on top of his car on the caller ID. Ryland never called. Of course, we saw each other every day so there was never a need, but it was still odd. I stared at his name until the ringer stopped and the system sent him to voicemail. I could have answered and told him I was sick, but knowing Ry, he would be able to hear the lie in my voice alone, or even worse, he would rush over to check on me.
I sighed, my chest aching with the movement. I hadn’t changed since the birthday party; I had fallen asleep wearing the odd outfit I had been provided during dinner, the necklace Ryland gave me still hanging from around my neck. The ruby lay against my white sheet, looking like a drop of blood. I touched it with my fingertips, surprised by its warmth. The sincerity of the gift still surprised me, and staring at it stirred up a whole range of emotions that clashed with the bone-crushing depression I felt. I rolled over and lost myself in my thick comforter, falling asleep again.
I woke-up a few hours later, the light of day leaving my room, my mother’s hand pressed to my forehead.
“What hurts?” she asked, her hand moving to feel my glands.
“Everything,” I whispered.
“Hmm. Well, you don’t have a fever, so it’s probably just a head cold. Can you eat?”
I shook my head no. Even if I had wanted to eat, I doubted anything would stay down. Mom clicked her tongue at me, a sure sign she didn’t believe me.
“You’ll need to get liquids down, though. I wouldn’t want you to get too sick.”
I mumbled something in agreement.
“You’re just lucky it’s a Friday, that way you have the whole weekend to recover.” She stood and headed to the kitchen of our small apartment.
I could hear her banging around in search of cups. My mother spent so much time in the LaRue’s kitchen she often forgot where things were in our home. I guess that’s why I spent so much time there as well. When I was here, I was always alone. You would think I would be used to it, but it just made me feel more forgotten.
“Mette had to go out of town for some family thing,” my mom yelled from the kitchen. “I have to pick up her shift tomorrow, but Edmund and Ryland will be out tomorrow night, so I should be home early.”
I shifted my weight and my torso filled with deep tissue pain again. I mumbled at her and rolled over, hearing my phone buzz again.
“You better get that,” Mom sighed as she sat next to me, my body rolling into her.
“It’s just Ryland. I’ll see him on Monday.”
“He’s worried, Joclyn. It’s not like you to avoid him.” The parental scolding was dripping off her voice.
“Just tell him I’m sick.”
“You’re not sick, Joclyn.”
I knew she didn’t believe me.
“Now, are you going to tell him or am I?”
I didn’t move to the phone. I heard the click as she picked it up and began pressing buttons. I jumped up in anger, my body protesting my sudden movements.
“Mom!” I shrieked, “Give it back!”
“Not until you tell me what’s really wrong.” She continued to click buttons, staring me down out of the corner of her eye.
What could I tell her? I couldn’t tell her the truth; the truth would break her heart. Besides, how does one say “Dad’s gone crazy, thinks I am a witch, referred me to a cult, and sent me a rock that hurt me” without both of us breaking out in tears? Our eyes locked together as my mind scattered around, trying to find something to tell her. She snapped my phone shut, handing it to me as she sat back down next to me.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on now?” she asked, draping her arm across my shoulders. I leaned into her, the soft parental contact relaxing me.
I had to decide what to tell her. I hesitated, a frustrated breath shaking my chest as it left my body. I braced myself for whatever would come—yelling, screaming, crying—and prepared to tell her a limited form of the truth.
“It’s Dad,” I said. I felt her arm stiffen around my shoulders, and her eyes glossed over and looked straight forward.
I sighed, regretting my decision.
“He came and saw Grandma and Grandpa,” I rushed on, “but he didn’t want to see me.” I knew my voice would betray the lie, but hoped that her stunned silence would cover it.
My mom’s arm was rigid and stiff against my shoulder; it felt like a dead weight holding me down. I knew I was wrong to say anything, but now that I had begun, I couldn’t take it back. I didn’t know what else to say. We sat in silence for much longer than felt comfortable, my mom’s arm relaxing around me as she came back to herself.
“At least he’s alive.” She spoke barely above a whisper.