I glance between them. “Jackson kept me sane.” I haven’t met someone’s parents at this level of face time since yours, and it feels really weird. “I think it’ll take a few more flights before I really get used to it, but it wasn’t the worst thing. Going home to that weather is going to really suck.”
“Ah, if I could go anywhere right now, it would be New York during the winter. I miss coats and walking down the street and my toes numbing because of the slush. Traveling has been admittedly frustrating since the accident. Rolling through the streets of New York would be difficult.”
I don’t ask about the accident that landed her in the wheelchair, even though she seems like she’d be open to talking about it. Jackson never told me. It still feels like her story to offer and not one I should ask just because I’m curious. It’s a lot like when people at school were asking around to hear how you died. Just because people are curious doesn’t give them the right to an answer.
“I like your setup here,” I say. “Your house is awesome, too.”
“It’s home,” Ms. Lane says.
I want to study Jackson’s reaction, but I don’t want to give him away in case he hasn’t talked about this discomfort with his mother. I would be a little surprised since they seem so close, but you and I were close and that didn’t stop me from withholding stuff to protect your heart. Maybe that’s what’s happening here.
She turns to me. “I hope I’m not out of line, but Jackson mentioned you’re also taking a break from school at the moment. Something happened at school?”
It spills out of me. I’m not sure why, maybe because it’s so exhausting to bottle it all up, but I tell Ms. Lane everything. I let her know about all about my compulsions, their rules, and how they rule me. I let her know about the freak-out where I bolted from the library and got home and threw off my uniform and banished it to my closet. I let her know about how my parents want me to commit to therapy outside of my guidance counselor. I let her know how helpful her son has been for my recovery.
Ms. Lane smiles briefly, proud of the son she raised, of the boy you loved—even if she doesn’t approve of how he handled my surprise visit. She wheels over to the refrigerator and pulls out a strawberry birthday cake shaped like the letter J. Jackson is smiling so wide, kind of kidlike, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get over how surprising it is to see happiness in someone who’s lost someone they love.
Ms. Lane bursts into “Happy Birthday” by herself, but I jump in midway—again, surprising—and what’s even more surprising is when Jackson jumps in and sings happy birthday in his own honor. We’re all laughing by the end . . . and man, Theo, I really wish you were here to add your voice to the chorus.
The latest shocking thing to happen in this universe, the one I live in, not one you created: I’m walking into Jackson Wright’s bedroom with my bag, to stay the night. I’m tempted to ask him everything you’ve ever done in this room, like where you studied if you ever studied here, or if you ever sat on the ledge of his window when you talked on the phone, like you did in my room. But that could lead to something too intimate, something that will cross a line.
His walls are rust-orange, a shade that might look red when sunlight isn’t pouring through his white-framed windows. I’m pretty sure the gigantic bed in the center of the room is king-size. What goes without question is I’ve never seen any bed piled high with a mountain of clothes like his is. I notice his closet door and dresser drawers are wide open; packing for a trip while grieving must suck. There’s a little bed in the corner, which I’m guessing is for Chloe and not guests like me. There are bookshelves with very few books but plenty of card games and their expansion packs.
“This is it,” Jackson says, tossing his bags onto the floor. “Bedroom one of two. What do you think?”
There are five movie posters on the wall from classic films, but I’ve only seen Edward Scissorhands (which I hated). The other four—The Goonies, The Shining, Scream, A Nightmare on Elm Street—I haven’t, so when I group them like that, it’s not bad. Still, the fifth movie poster haunts me. “Guess I’ll be sleeping in the living room.”
“Why? There’s plenty of room on the bed . . .”
“Once you move every article of clothing you own? I have a thing against Edward Scissorhands.” I’m actually not entirely making excuses for my OCD; that poster is seriously creepy, and so was the movie.
“What is this thing you have against my favorite Johnny Depp movie?”
“I saw it as a kid and it scared the shit out of me. I had a nightmare he came to my school cafeteria in a straitjacket and wanted to cut me,” I confess.
“But he’s in a straitjacket.”
“First off, anyone approaching me in a straitjacket is scary enough. Let’s factor in the fact that Edward has blades for hands, and what you’re left with is ten-year-old Griffin so scared his parents had to give the DVD away to a neighbor because he couldn’t stand having it in the house.” I point at the poster. “And now I’m faced with my enemy again, twenty times bigger than the DVD case.”