My shoulders straightened, and I turned around.
Oh, what the hell?
“What are you doing here?” I asked my mother.
And then I remembered that her car had been in the garage when I got home from the race. I’d thought she’d been gone for the weekend as usual.
She was hugging herself against the evening chill, dressed in her jeans and long-sleeved cardigan. Her chocolate brown hair—same shade as mine—hung loose to her shoulders, and she wore brown boots up to her knees.
Since getting sober, my mom was beautiful all of the time, and as much as she pissed me off, I was glad I was the spitting image of her. I didn’t think I could stare at my father’s eyes in the mirror every day.
Lucky Jax.
“The front door was open.” She inched closer, her eyes searching mine for a way in. “I heard what happened with Tate.”
Not going to happen.
“How in the hell did you know I’d be here?”
Her small smile confused me. “I have my ways,” she mumbled.
I wondered what it was, too, because my mother wasn’t that clever.
She sat down next to me, our legs dangling off the small cliff with a five foot drop to the pond.
“You haven’t been here in years.” She acted like she knew me.
“How would you know?”
“I know a lot more than you think,” she said, looking down to the pond. “I know you’re in trouble right now.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t start acting like a mother now.”
I pushed off the ground and stood up.
“Jared, no.” My mother stood up and faced me. “If I ever ask anything of you, it’s that you listen to me now. Please.” Her tone threw me off. It was shaky and unusually serious.
I sucked in my cheeks and stuck my fists in the pocket of my hoodie.
“Last year, after your arrest,” she started, “and after I got back from the Haywood Center, I asked you to choose one thing—one idea—that you could focus on day to day. Something you loved or something that kept you centered. You never told me what it was, but then you snuck off around that time and got another tattoo.” She jerked her chin at me. “The lantern. On your bicep. Why did you get that?”
“I don’t know,” I lied.
“Yes, you do. Why?” she pushed.
“I liked how it looked,” I yelled, exasperated. “Come on, what is this?”
Jesus. What the hell?
Tate. A lantern. I associated the two, and when she was gone, I needed her.
Why a lantern? I don’t know.
“On your eleventh birthday, I got drunk.” Her words came out calm and slow. “Do you remember? I forgot about the dinner we were supposed to have at the Brandts’, because I was out with my friends.”
There weren’t many birthdays that sat well with me, so no, I didn’t remember.
“I forgot it was your birthday,” she continued as tears filled her eyes. “I didn’t even have a cake for you.”
Big fucking surprise there.
But I didn’t speak. Just listened, more to see where she was going with this.
“Anyway, I came home at about ten, and you were sitting on the couch waiting for me. You had stayed in all night. You wouldn’t go to the dinner without me.”
Me. In the dark. Alone. Angry. Hungry.
“Mom, stop. I don’t want to—”
“I have to,” she interrupted, crying. “Please. You were sad at first, I remember, but then you copped an attitude. Told me I was embarrassing and that other kids had better moms and dads. I yelled at you and sent you to your room.”
Madman whining at my door. Rain against the windows.
“I don’t remember.”
“I wish that was true, Jared. But unfortunately, that tattoo proves that you remember.” She’d stopped crying, but the tears were still on her cheeks. “About ten minutes later, I went to your room. I didn’t want to face you, but I knew you were right, and I had to apologize. I opened your door, and you were leaning out your open window, laughing.”
She paused, lost in thought as she stared at nothing. “Tate,” she finally said, “was at her open French doors. Her room was dark, except for a Japanese lantern lamp that you and her father had made for her as an early birthday present.” My mom let out a small smile. “She had the Beastie Boys’ Fight For Your Right song blasting, and she was dancing all crazy…crazy just for you. She glowed, like a little star bouncing around her room in her nightgown.” Mom raised her eyes and looked at me. “She was trying to cheer you up.”
As soon as I’d seen Tate at her doors that night, I didn’t feel shitty anymore. Mom was forgotten. My birthday was forgotten. Tate became more of a home to me than my own blood.
And I never wanted to be where she wasn’t.
“Jared, I’m a bad mother.” She swallowed hard, obviously trying to hold back more tears.
I looked off to the side, unable to meet her eyes. “I made it through, Mom.”
“You did… somewhat. I’m proud of you. You’re strong, and you’re not a follower. I know I’ll send you into the world a survivor.” Her light voice turned firm and serious. “I wouldn’t want any other son. But, Jared, you’re not happy.”
The air around me got tight, pushing me from all sides, and I didn’t know where to turn to get out. “Who’s happy? Are you?” I barked.
“Jared, I was seventeen when I got pregnant with you.” She folded her arms and hugged herself, more like hiding from something than warming herself. “I’m only thirty-six now. People I graduated with—some of them—are just starting their families. I was so young. I had no support. I didn’t get a chance to live before I had my world turned upside down—,”
“Yeah, I get it, alright,” I cut her off. “I’ll be out of your hair by June.”
“That’s not what I meant.” She moved closer, her voice raspy and holding out her hand as if to stop my thoughts. “You were the gift, Jared. The light. Your father was the hell. I thought I loved him. He was strong, confident, and cocky. I idolized him…” She trailed off, and I swear I could hear her heart breaking as her eyes fell to the ground.
I didn’t want to hear about that asshole, but I knew she needed to talk. And for some reason I wanted to let her.
“I idolized him for about a month,” she continued. “Long enough to get pregnant and get stuck with him.” And then she looked at me again. “But I was young and immature. I thought I knew everything. Drinking was my escape, and I abandoned you. You never deserved that. When I saw Tate trying to make you happy that night, I let her. The next morning you weren’t in your room. When I looked out your window, I could see you both passed out in her bed, just sleeping. So I let it be. For years, I knew you were sneaking over there to sleep, and I let it go, because she made you happy when I failed.”
The purest, truest, most perfect thing in my world, and I’d dumped pile upon pile of shit on top of her for years.
A knot of realization worked its way into my head, and I felt like punching my fist through a fucking wall.
“Jesus Christ.” I combed my hands through my hair, my eyes squeezing shut as I whispered to myself. “I’ve been so horrible to her.”
My mother, like Mr. Brandt, probably knew nothing of what I’d put Tate through, but she did know that we weren’t friends anymore.
“Honey,” she spoke up, “you’ve been horrible to everyone. Some of us deserved it, some of us not. But Tate loves you. She’s your best friend. She’ll forgive you.”
Will she?
“I love her.” It was the most honest thing I’d confided in my mother in a long time.
My father could kiss his own ass, and my mother and I would survive, for better or worse. But Tate?
I needed her.
“I know you love her. And I love you,” she said as she reached out and touched my cheek. “You’re not letting your father or me take anything else from you, do you understand?”
Tears burned my eyes, and I couldn’t hold them back.
“How do I know I’m not going to be like him?” I whispered.
My mother was quiet as she studied me, and then her eyes narrowed.
“Tell her the truth,” she instructed. “Trust her with everything, especially your heart. Do that, and you’re already not like your father.”