36
I'm home,” I call out into the apartment, dropping my keys on the hall table. There is soft jazz music coming from Sarah’s room, the distinct smell of Marcus’s aftershave in the living room, and a half-empty bottle of wine and two glasses on the table. I sigh, bristling inside, and ponder staying at Jake’s apartment for the night as he offered. I should have stayed over instead of taking the extra car journey home; we’d be watching a movie by now.
There’s no response from the closed bedroom, so I assume they don’t want to be disturbed. I don’t attempt to call out again. I just go to my room and dump my luggage by the bed, glad to be home, yet at the same time, the familiar pang of missing Jake is already washing over me.
We have worked together so much over the last few months, glued side by side, that being apart feels abnormal. Even though we occasionally spend weekends apart, somehow, the recent non-stop chaos of trips, and workdays flowing into each other, has meant a long few weeks of rarely being separated, and I guess that’s why I feel it more now than ever. I open my suitcase, discard some of the dirty laundry into the hamper, plug my technology into the chargers on my desk, and begin to change into nightwear.
My cell vibrates across my desk, and I glimpse the notification with Jake’s name lighting the screen. I pick it up with a smile that lifts my mood, and I warm at the familiar notification.
“Jake Carrero has sent you an iTunes gift.”
I swipe to open the screen and the email without hesitation, beaming stupidly.
“When You’re Gone” by Bryan Adams.
The grin spreads across my face widely, and I shake my head. I know the song well and laugh at his cuteness. I guess he’s feeling the same, like his right hand has been removed. I laugh at the pun as I scroll iTunes looking for an appropriate title while listening to the song he’s sent me. So very Jake with his love of crooning rock stars. Most of the music mirrors how I feel despite the love lyrics, so I gift him a song back.
“Are You Missing Me?” by Jim & Jesse McReynolds
I have never heard it before, but the title makes me giggle. I laugh at its cheesy country-ness, knowing he will be amused by it. I put my cell down and go back to unpacking my bags slowly, again interrupted by the vibration of my phone and another iTunes gift.
“Always” by Bon Jovi.
I can’t help the wave of warmth followed by the pang of sadness that overcomes me. The memory of what that kiss could have ruined shakes me inside and turns my blood cold. I really do miss him, despite only leaving him less than an hour ago; he just has a way of getting into my head and under my skin. I wouldn’t know how to carry on if he ever decided we were no longer to work together.
My cell vibrates again, and my mother’s number appears on the screen, instinct causing me to ruffle my brow. I take a deep, steadying breath, letting out a sigh. I hesitate but answer despite my reservations, that ingrained guilty conscience she has burdened me with. I don’t have time for her guilt trips tonight; I’m tired and fed up, and all she ever does is make me feel bad for never coming home.
“Hello, Mother,” I push out flatly.
“Emma, hi,” a strange, young girl’s voice answers, making me frown in confusion, surprised by the voice. “Is that Emma?” she asks with uncertainty.
“Speaking,” I reply tightly, unsure who she is or why she’s using my mother’s cell to call me. She sounds incredibly young, early teens young, which arouses suspicion.
“Emma, hi, my name’s Sophie. Your mom’s been helping me out.” She sounds scared, her voice wavering as trepidation moves up my spine. My sixth sense tingles that something is wrong.
“Mmm-hmm,” I snap, aggravation building up; somehow, deep inside me, I can sense her apprehension, and it’s raising mine. I can feel the emotion in her voice and that she sounds scared.
“Your mom’s in the hospital. You need to come home to Chicago. Someone really hurt her.” She all but bursts into tears.
***
Twenty minutes after I finally hung up with Sophie,
I’m sitting on my bed staring at the cell, numb and raw at the same time. My head is reeling. Somehow my body and mind are detached.
Someone has beaten my mother to within an inch of her life, left her for dead in her apartment, my old home.
Again!
Sophie found her, a young teen from the homeless shelter that Mom had taken under her wing and let stay with her. The poor thing had been the one to find her and get her help, just like I had so many years ago. She never changes.
I get up and walk to Sarah’s room, desperate to share my internal agony and find some calm in the chaos, but I discover it’s empty. They’re not even home, just the radio playing on low, and I snap it off in irritation. I sigh and walk back to my room with spreading pain, my brain running through a memory of my mother this way once before, and I choke it back down. I refuse to feel it.
When is she going to stop doing this crap to me? Is it not enough to go through all of this once? No. She has to repeatedly go back to the same kind of abusive relationships, like a moth to a goddamn flame.
My whole life, her choice of men has been just one long bad memory of violence and abuse. She has a type, and she attracts them repeatedly. She never stood up to them and never stopped what they did. She chose her men over me so many times, letting them in, letting them hurt us both. And never once did she put my needs first, nor even her own needs.
And here she is doing it all over again.
She is caring for a fourteen-year-old girl and has just subjected her to the same traumatic sight I saw at ten years of age, a sight which led to my being in a children’s home for almost a year. Child Protective Services invaded our life, taking me from an abusive environment and sending me to one that, in my eyes, was far worse, a children’s home, only to return me when she promised that her life was different. That particular lover was long gone, but we both knew that a new one was around the corner any day. I learned to lie after that to help cover up who she was. That year in the home taught me that there are far worse people in the world than my mother when it comes to parenting.
I stare at my suitcase and can’t stop the crushing weight from consuming me.
I’ll have to go back there. After being away for almost six years, I’ll have to go home to Chicago.
I want to cry; I want to lay down, open my mind, and let it pour away. I’m desolate and scared. An internal agony threatens to consume me, vibrating inside my stomach. I never thought I would be in this place ever again. I’m afraid, and fear is not something I ever wanted back in my head.
I pick up my cell and call Jake’s number. It’s an impulse, something I do without a thought. He always knows how to make me smile and make me feel better. Just his voice on the other end will make me calmer. I need to tell him I’ll be gone for a few days. Maybe he’ll let me use the jet instead of commercial airlines to save me the misery of facing people for this two-hour flight. I just need to speak to him so badly I can almost taste it.
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