Crystal Lies - Melody Carlson [62]
As I bent down to scrape the remnants of my soggy French toast from my plate into the garbage can beneath the sink (since we have no luxuries like garbage disposals), I totally fell apart. I lost it. I started sobbing so hard and uncontrollably that I collapsed onto the kitchen floor. And there I sat, knees pulled up to my chest, hunched over in a heap of flannel pajamas and bathrobe, and I cried.
“Mom?” I heard his voice. It was smaller now, more like the old Jacob or maybe even the little boy who used to pick me surprise bouquets of flowers when I was feeling down. “Are you okay?”
Despite my need to reassure him, to pull myself together so he wouldn’t feel bad, I was unable. I just kept crying.
“Mom?” he said again, his hand on my shoulder now. “Should I call someone?”
I continued sobbing.
“Should I call Dad?”
At the sound of that question, which felt more like a threat or a rude awakening, I looked up and shook my head. “No, I…I’m going to…to be o…okay I’m…just upset.”
“Yeah.”
I started to stand up, and he reached down to give me a hand. Then I stood and looked him in the eyes. “I can’t take it anymore, Jacob,” I told him. “I think I’m really losing it.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I can see that.”
Then I saw my brown paper bag, still sitting under the sink where I’d stashed it earlier. Out of sight, out of mind. I wished. I reached for the bag and pulled it out, setting it on the counter. “I believe these are yours, Jacob.”
He looked puzzled but then slowly opened the bag and looked in. I could tell by his expression that he was surprised. And this was a little confusing since he’d obviously seen that I’d looked under his bed. Surely he knew that I’d discovered them.
“Where did you find these?” he asked, still staring at the bag in fascination. Almost as if he liked what he was seeing in there, as if he was proud.
“Underneath your futon mattress.” My heart was beginning to pound. I knew I was getting in way too deep right now, but what choice did I have? I couldn’t pretend like this was nothing. Still, what if Jacob got angry? What if he was under the effect of some chemical even as we spoke? I’d read stories about people who’d done crazy things under the influence of drugs. How could I be sure he wouldn’t do something violent now? I glanced over to the phone, not far from his elbow.
“So you think they’re mine?”
I pressed my lips together. “Jacob, they’re not mine.”
“But someone else might’ve put them there, Mom.”
“Jacob, please, don’t lie. I don’t think I can take it.” I was trying to keep my voice calm, but it was hard to breathe, hard to think, infinitely hard to reason.
“But there are people who’re trying to get at me,” he continued. “They might’ve planted them there.”
“Jacob,” I said slowly. “Please, I need you to be honest with me this time. I can’t take any more lies today.”
He exhaled loudly. “Okay, you’re right, Mom. They’re mine.”
But here’s what took me by surprise. Instead of being relieved that he was finally telling me the truth, I felt my knees growing weak and my stomach knotting. I wondered if there were times in life when the truth was just too much to bear. Would I rather hear lies?
“Let’s go sit down,” I told him as I made my unsteady way into the living room, then collapsed on the couch. Jacob sat in the old rocker across from me. He looked uneasy, perched on the edge of the chair like a flighty sparrow, as if he was ready to bolt at any given second. I leaned back, picked up a pillow and clutched it to my midsection, and took a deep breath, bracing myself for honesty. “Okay,” I said,“tell me what’s going on.”
He looked down at his feet and said nothing. “Jacob,” I continued,“I need you to talk to me. Tell me why you have hypodermic syringes hidden beneath your bed.” Still nothing.
“Jacob,” I tried again,“I know you