Crystal Lies - Melody Carlson [84]
He shrugged. “Not so good.”
“What do you mean?” I asked as I set a generous portion of lasagna in front of him. “What’s going on?”
He took a big bite, chewed noisily, then answered. “It’s not exactly easy living on the streets.”
“You’re really living on the street?”
“Pretty much.”
“Oh.” I sat down on the stool in the kitchen. “I thought maybe you were at Daniel’s.”
He shook his head and shoveled in another bite. “Not welcome there.”
“Why’s that?”
He was scraping his plate clean now, trying to get every last bite. Then he looked up at me with sad, empty eyes. “It all comes down to the bottom line, Mom.”
“You mean money?”
He nodded.
“He wants you to pay rent?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
I took in a deep breath. “There’s still rehab, Jacob.”
He frowned, and his face looked dark and tense, as if he might explode if I said or did the wrong thing just now. I knew that Dr. Abrams would be telling me to throw him out again. But somehow I couldn’t do that tonight. Not after having been so frightened to lose him, and not on the day before my best friend was going to bury one of her sons.
“Your dad asked about you.”
He made a laughing sound that had no warmth. “Yeah, I’ll bet.”
“He said he’s going to look into some other kinds of rehab places. He heard about something in Colorado.”
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that sounds like Dad. Ship me off and lock me up someplace far away so I don’t embarrass him.”
“You don’t embarrass—”
“Don’t bother, Mom.” He shoved the plate away so hard that it went sliding off the counter and crashed onto the floor. I bent down and began picking up the pieces, unsure as to what I should do or say to defuse this conversation. And since I’d taken to praying more lately, I breathed a little “show me what to do, Lord,” prayer as I picked up the broken pieces. Finally I stood up and looked at my son.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
“It’s okay,” I told him. “Those dishes are pretty ugly anyway. Sometimes I feel like breaking them myself.” His eyes seemed to smile at this.
“Do you want to spend the night here?” I asked. Somehow I felt certain this was the right thing to do—for today anyway. I had no idea about what I would do tomorrow.
He looked surprised. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Don’t get me wrong. I still want you to go in for rehab,” I told him. “But why don’t you go ahead and stay here tonight if you want.”
His face brightened a little. “Thanks, Mom.”
I looked at the clock in the kitchen. It was nearly midnight. “The service is at eleven tomorrow morning,” I told him. “But I’m going to the church an hour earlier to help get things set up in the kitchen. And I’ve had a long day.”
He nodded. “Me, too.”
“Feel free to take a shower,” I said, worried that it sounded more like a command than a suggestion. Still I couldn’t bear the thought of him sleeping in that condition. Although, judging by his smell, I’m sure he’d slept in filth plenty of nights before. “And put your clothes in the laundry basket in the bathroom,” I continued. “Maybe we can get them washed tomorrow.” I looked at his hair now. Jacob had always kept his hair cut short in the past, but he hadn’t had a haircut since last summer. So besides being greasy and dull looking, it hung limply in his eyes and down over his collar. I wondered if there would be time to get him to a barber before the funeral in the morning.
I was just about to say as much when I, amazingly, remembered something Marcus Palmer had said at the codependent meeting I’d attended a week or so ago. Had it only been that long?“Pick your battles carefully,” he had told us. Not that he was encouraging us to fight, but rather to draw the line. He said we had to let the less important things go and focus on the real issues, like reminding the addict in our life that he or she needed to seek treatment. As a result, I decided not to say anything more about Jacob’s personal appearance tonight. Besides, I had the distina feeling that it wouldn’t take much to erupt into a totally