Crystal Lies - Melody Carlson [7]
“Making pickles?” the cashier asked after I set my bag of cucumbers and nothing else before her.
“Yes,” I snapped at the poor woman. “That’s right.”
But I’d eventually adjusted to the idea of alternative school and had even been fairly impressed with their curriculum. “Well, I’m glad you went to school today, Jacob,” I said, trying to start all over again. “But that still doesn’t take care of everything. Your dad and I both suspect you’ve been using drugs again.”
He took in a deep breath then and just held it as if he was waiting for me to finish. But his eyes were still on the TV.
“Okay, we’re not even sure what kind of drugs, or maybe it’s alcohol, but we know you’re doing something. Maybe it’s pot, but that’s still a serious—”
“Pot?” He laughed. “Is that what you guys called it back in your day?”
“Well, marijuana, grass, weed…” I shook my head. “I don’t know what the popular term is right now. But we’re concerned—”
“I’ve already had the lecture, Mom.”
“I’m not lecturing you, Jacob. I’m worried that you might have an, well, an addiction problem, and your father and I would like to see you get some—”
“Mom!” He exploded now. “You just don’t get it. I am not an addict.” He stood up and began pacing, pounding his fist into his palm as if he really wanted to hit something or perhaps even someone. “You people are all alike. You think everything is about drugs.” He turned and glared at me. “Well, it’s not. Some people just have problems, you know? But does anyone want to listen and help them out?” Then he began to stomp from the room.
“Wait, Jacob,” I called after him. “I want to listen. Just give me a chance.” But it was too late. He was already bolting up the stairs. The banging of his bedroom door still rang in my ears as I collapsed onto the sofa and stared at Marge Simpson’s big blue hair. Where had I gone wrong? I wondered. Besides everywhere, that is.
“I see how that Al-Anon meeting of yours really helped you deal with your son.” Geoffrey poked his head into the family room. “Makes me really wish I’d gone too.”
I wanted to throw something at my husband right then, but instead I just shrugged. “One meeting isn’t going to change anything,” I replied.
“Obviously.”
Just the same, I didn’t go back after that. I decided it might be better to just play Geoffrey’s game—pretending as if nothing were wrong. Well, most of the time anyway. But like a kettle that has been left on the stove too long, Geoffrey would also boil over on occasion. And his rages didn’t help matters. If anything, I think they gave Jacob another excuse to go out and get stoned, or high, or whatever the popular terminology of the day was.
Afterward Geoffrey would be sorry, and I know he felt guilty, although he never actually admitted as much. I remember the time I saw him looking at a photograph right after one of these blowups. He didn’t see me watching him, but I could tell he was staring at Jacob’s soccer picture from seventh grade. It was the year Geoffrey had helped coach, and their team had gone all the way to the finals. But I’m sure I saw tears in his eyes that day. I almost said something to him, but I knew it would’ve embarrassed him and made him uncomfortable.
Geoffrey had always made it clear to me that he felt it was a sign of weakness for men to show emotion. Early in our marriage I’d assumed this was simply because he was an attorney, but over the years I began to suspect it was more than that. I think he’d learned to shut down his feelings as a child. Maybe it was because of this suppression that he was prone to his little rages. Occasionally I’d worry that the neighbors would hear him ranting and call the authorities. And sometimes I even reminded him of this possibility, which was always a sure way to quiet him. There was no way he, the respected city attorney, wanted a police car showing up in his driveway.
But it was usually on one of those same nights that he would stomp out of the house, not to be seen again until the following day. Oh yes, we were quite the loving