Breathing (14 page)

I hear the front door open and close and the car start. That ain’t a good sign. It’d be better if she came in here yelling about respect and punishment. I am up a serious creek.

I promised myself I wasn’t going to call Jackson again until he called me like he said he would. But this situation here calls for drastic measures. I dial his number, which my fingers can do all on their own without my brain pitching in at all.

“Hello?” his mama says. Her voice always sounds so pinched and tight, like she’s got a stick up her butt.

For a flash of a second, I think about telling her about Jackson’s painting, but I hold my tongue. “May I speak to Jackson, please?” I ask all polite.

“Young lady, Jack needs to get on with living a life in Greenville.

These phone calls are not helping.”

I’m struck dumb, and I feel my temper roiling. But while I’m fuming, trying to find my tongue, she’s apparently passing the phone along anyhow. Just as I’m fixing to spill my fury, I hear Jackson’s soothing voice.

“Hey, baby,” he says, and damn, but I just melt into tears, bawling my dang head off. “Don’t worry about her. She don’t know what I need. What’s wrong?”

“Everything,” I squawk.

“Cain’t be all that bad,” he murmurs.

I want to tell him I’m all tore up inside, that I can’t stand that he left, that I can’t handle him not calling me when he says he will, that life just pure T sucks without him and I don’t care about nothing else, that I want him to realize how important it is that he take that painting job, that I don’t care about anything or anybody anymore, ’cause all I can think about is him.

But I know I can’t say all that. I know he doesn’t want to hear it. And that makes it hurt all the more. So I just keep bawling. And he hangs in there with me, saying things like “I’m here” and “It’s okay.”

Finally, when I’ve calmed down, I tell him about the fight I had with Mama. “I said some wicked terrible things. She ain’t never gonn’ forgive me. And I’m scared what’s gonn’ happen when she gets home.” I start bawling again.

“I wish I could be there, help you straighten this all out.” He takes a big, deep breath. “I used to fight with my dad sometimes. Seem to me he appreciated it when I owned up to my mistakes and said sorry first.”

I’m happy to hear him opening up about his daddy. But I don’t think sorry is going to cut it here.

“Look, I got to go,” he says.

“Jackson.” I want to ask him why he didn’t call like he said he would, when he’s going to come visit, what I’m supposed to do without him. But I don’t want to be a nag, one more leech on his energy. So I don’t say anything at all.

“It’s gonn’ be okay, girl. You hang in there.” And then he clicks off, which bugs the hell out of me. I reckon he doesn’t like good-byes. And then I come to realize he hasn’t said he loved me but that one time on the beach right before he left.
Does
he love me?
Does
he wish he was here? Or is he just saying it? If he really wanted to be here, wouldn’t he be?

There ain’t no use letting my mind wander off into that kind of dangerous territory. So I just close the door to those thoughts and get to work on what I can deal with, which is figuring out what to do about Mama. I reckon writing her a note might be the best solution. That way I don’t actually got to go look her in her hurt eyes.

I pull out my clipboard and some notebook paper.

 

 

I believe that part about the punishment was a good idea, makes it seem like I put some real thought into it
and
gets her mind off restricting phone calls with Jackson instead. I set the note on the kitchen counter where she’s likely to see it when she gets home. Then I hide out in my room, so I don’t have to face her. Time ticks by real slow. I write all my feelings down in my journal, then pick up my current romance novel,
Pirate of Paradise,
but somehow I just can’t get into it. I keep looking at the clock. It sure is quiet. The crickets and the wind are about all I hear, not hardly even any cars going by.

I must have drifted off, ’cause when Mama’s car pulls up, the clock shows it’s 1:30 a.m. I’ve been having strange dreams, none too peaceful. I sit up to listen. She’s giggling all weird and saying “Shh.” I wonder if Gina’s with her. But that’d mean that Dog and Dave are alone at Gina’s house, and that doesn’t seem likely. Something crashes in the kitchen. I jump up and run out into the living room.

“Oopsies,” she giggles, a glass shattered across the counter in front of her. She is drunk as a skunk. And there is a man with her! Mama ain’t never brought a man home, not ever. This one looks all greasy and creepy. His hair’s too long, and so are his beard and mustache.

“Mama,” I say, all tentative.

She busts out laughing. Then she sees my note. “Look, Rick, my baby done wrote me a letter. Ain’t that sweet?” She picks it up, shaking bits of glass off it. Then she reads it out loud.

“Mama, don’t,” I say. But she ain’t listening. She’s embarrassing me, and herself. She’s reading it word by word like she’s in the third grade.

“She loves me. Awww. What do you think, Rich? A week of dishes and laundry sound like the right price for insulting your mama? Sounds pretty light to me.”

“I thought you said it was Rick,” I say, though I don’t know why I care.

Meanwhile, poor, scummy Rick/Rich is looking back and forth between the two of us like he doesn’t know what to do.

Mama hears my words and slowly looks back up at him as if she’s realizing she doesn’t know who he is, and starts to cry.

“Now, now, ladies,” he says. “Ain’t no reason why this needs to turn south. You just go on back to bed, little miss. Your mama and I just gonn’ have a bit of grown-up time.”

Aw! That is disgusting! Mama can’t seriously be considering doing you-know-what with the likes of this dude. He don’t even look clean. Uh-uh. No way. Not because of something I said. I ain’t having it.

Except I ain’t got a clue how to get rid of him. Then it hits me. I start rasping and wheezing all the sudden like I’m about to die. Of course Mama knows I ain’t having no asthma attack ’cause of the way I’m hamming it up to the hilt. Lordy, I’m pulling it out full on, sounding near about like a donkey. I pretend to take a hit off my inhaler.

Suddenly, Rick looks like he’s about to be hauled off by the police. He don’t want no part of anything messy. “What’s wrong with her?” he asks, staring at me like I’m some sort of mental defective.

Mama meets my eyes. Then she turns to Rick, really looks at him, then smiles back at me. “She’s sick. I’ma have to take her to Wilmington. You want to drive us? The emergency room ain’t that bad this time of night.”

His eyes bug out of his head.

“No? I believe I’ve had too much to drink to drive out all that way, but I can call a girlfriend,” Mama says.

I love that she’s playing along, so I get even more dramatic, falling down on the couch, clutching my throat, until Rick hightails it out the door, and Mama and I bust out in giggles.

We laugh until our sides hurt. Then I get her some Advil and put on a pot of coffee. It’s been a long time since Mama came home drunk. She used to do it more often when she and Gina were newly abandoned, but that was years ago. I still remember, though, they’d always take Advil and drink coffee. I clean up the broken glass while the coffee’s brewing, then pour Mama a cup and add two sugars and milk till it’s white. I set it on the coffee table in the living room and plop myself down right beside her.

“I really am sorry,” I whisper, feeling like I might cry again.

She turns to me and strokes my hair. “It never happened,” she says. I give her a big hug for that one. “Go on to bed.”

“Mama,” I say, getting up to obey, “you set me a better example than you think. You showed me that true love is what it’s all about and that the likes of Rick over there ain’t even worth the trouble.”

Her eyes fill up with tears and feeling. She doesn’t need to say anything, though. I understand. I turn back to my room, knowing now I can sleep in peace.

S
omething sure did shift after the Rick incident. Me and Mama are getting along better than we have in a long while. She’s even talking about saving up some money to build on an extra room, so me and Dog don’t got to share no more. Somehow, I seem to be getting used to the idea that Jackson is staying in Greenville. I don’t like it one bit, mind you, but I guess you could say I’m tolerating it.

It was seriously embarrassing having to call the guy at the construction site, telling him Jackson wouldn’t be able to take the job after all. Not only did it make me sad as hell to say them words out loud, but the dude laid into me, thinking I’d pulled some kind of prank on him, hollering about how falsifying documents is a felony offense and whatnot. He said if I show my face around there again, he’ll call the cops!

I wanted to tell him to quit taking himself so seriously and to have a little sympathy for a girl whose heart was breaking. But instead I just suggested Jackson might be available at some point down the line and that I didn’t mean no harm.

 

 

On my way to work, I stop by the junior college and find the Living Through Literature group. I listen in at the back awhile. Today they’re discussing
Great Expectations
by Charles Dickens. As much as I love to read, what I ain’t too keen on is the way teachers insist on picking at the natural beauty of a story, tearing it up to see what meaning might be hidden, which seems to be exactly what they’re doing today. Maybe it’s for the best I didn’t join their program. I bet it would have driven me crazy.

I slip back out of the auditorium and still have some time to spare. As I wander around the campus, I notice the art gallery and poke my head in.

“Need something?” a man arranging some pottery asks me. He’s got Albert Einstein hair and granny glasses perched on the end of his nose. His bright yellow smock stands out even in a room so full of color.

“No, thank you,” I reply, heading back out.

“Look around. Take it in,” he says, waving his arms around the room, then letting them come to rest on his belly.

So I stay and admire all the different types of artwork—pots and sculptures and drawings and paintings.

“You an artiste?” he asks me.

I look right into his deep brown eyes. He looks kind. “No,” I say, “but I have a friend who paints beautiful pictures. He’s out of high school already and works at a body shop. But he’s very talented.”

I don’t know why I spill my guts like this. I reckon it’s something to do with missing out on that Living Through Literature program—even if it might have irritated me—and not wanting Jackson to miss out on possibilities, too.

“Talented, huh?” He scratches his head under all that hair. “Tell your friend to come on by, bring in some of his paintings for me to peruse.”

“Really?” I ask.

“Absotively. I’m always interested in meeting
talented
young people.” He winks like maybe he doesn’t believe me about Jackson’s abilities.

“Thank you, sir,” I say, anyhow. “I’ll tell him.”

 

 

It’s my day to read to the little kids at the library. It turns out to be one of the good times. A bunch of adorable, drooly toddlers sit on their mothers’ laps, their sweet smiles as big as if it were Christmas. Something about being around their joyful spirits brings mine up a notch. After the kids disperse to look for books to check out, I slip into the computer area and go online. I look up the Blue Ridge Mountains and the University of North Carolina, Asheville. Then I search for information about that program for high-school students. It looks real cool, like a sneak peek at college. They have all these different tracks to choose from for your semester courses, like political science and pre-med. They even have journalism and creative writing! I wish there was some way for me to try to get myself into it. But all you can do is wait and see if you get accepted. With little likelihood of Jackson returning anytime soon, I may as well find me some way to get out of this town, where everything reminds me of how much I miss him.

I go find a copy of
Great Expectations
and check it out. I haven’t had to read that one for school yet, and I have to admit, I’m curious. Taking a quick look, I find that it ain’t at all easy to read. I’ll have to switch back and forth between it and maybe a good Danielle Steele novel, just so my brain doesn’t rebel against having to work so hard in summertime.

 

 

When I get home after work, I call Jackson, anxious to tell him about the art guy.

“Hey, it’s me,” I say.

“Me, who?” he asks.

“Jackson?”

“Tyler,” he says.

“Oh.” I can’t hide my disappointment. “Is Jackson there?”

“He’s working.”

“Can you please tell him Savannah called?”

“Savannah?” he says. “You the one from the beach?”

“Yeah,” I reply, not sure if I’m pleased he’s heard my name or distressed by the way he put that statement. “When will he be back?”

“I don’t know. I’ll tell him you called,” he says, and hangs up, just like his brother. Didn’t anybody ever teach those boys to say bye first?

 

 

Stef and Joie invited me to the movies tonight. I reckon I’ll go, even if it will mean an entire evening of listening to all the “hilarious” things Jimmy said at camp.

Mama is so excited I’m actually going out, she’s acting like I’m going to the prom or something.