Life gets better.
That's what my brother always told me.When I was seven and he was twelve, after I lost the only friend I had when his family moved to a different state.
When I was nine and he was fourteen, whispering the words in my ear as he leaned in, turning away from the fresh dirt of Dad's grave.
When I was fifteen and he was twenty, his arms wrapped tightly around me from behind as he wrestled a towel against my bleeding wrist, tears streaming down our cheeks as he assured me it would get better, it would all get better.
I never knew how he managed to tell himself that.
Eventually it does get better, I guess. I'm still waiting to see that day in all its built-up glory. I can only hope it's at least half as wonderful as I've made it out to be.
Life gets better. Sure it does. But at some point on this roller-coaster of life, one of the drops is gonna be a little too steep, just enough to make your stomach sink.
In my case, it's more of a plummet than a drop.
Part One - Blue Skies
It's a busy day at the Gartner house. In a house as large as mine, it's not hard to scout out a place to hide to be away from everyone else, but it's seemingly impossible to do so today. Mom happens to catch me as I'm creeping along the second floor to the attic entrance.
"Jamie Gartner!"
I wince and turn to face her. She's halfway up the steps, glaring at me through the bars of the railing.
"Young man, you'd better high-tail it back downstairs and help your aunt with those boxes."
My fingers curl around the iPod cradled in my palm. I stuff the device into the pocket of my jeans.
"Mooom," I groan, "I've been helping all morning."
She finishes the climb up the stairs and heaves a sizable cardboard box to balance it on her hip, holding it with one hand while she fixes the other to point her finger at me. "And you'll continue to help until those boxes are off of the moving van."
She moves to pass by me, making certain to ruffle my unruly blond hair as she does so. I groan again, more at the hair-fluffing than the constant work I've been forced to return to.
I trot down the staircase that leads down into the foyer, The front door hangs wide open on its hinges, letting a blinding stream of midday sunlight into the hall. I'm out the door and halfway across the front porch when I hear my name being called once more from inside the house.
"I'm helping, see!" I shout, thinking it's my mother summoning me. I twist around, faded Etnies squeaking on the old wooden planks beneath them. Aunt Sara stands in the doorway, one hand acting as a visor over her eyes to block the sun, the other arm curved around an infant balanced on her hip.
"No more boxes for you," she says, padding barefoot across the porch to meet me. I often find it hard to take her seriously. Gramps has told her a thousand times that she's gonna get splinters in her feet if she doesn't at least put on some socks. She swipes a hand over her forehead, pushing thin strands of chestnut hair out of her face. "I have to help your uncle move some of the furniture and I need you to hold Andy. He starts crying every time I try to put him down, and I can't find your grandfather anywhere."
I extend my arms and take the three-month-old from her. Andy immediately grasps at the collar of my t-shirt.
"And don't stay out here," my aunt continues, brushing gently at the dark wisps of hair on the baby's head, "I don't want him to get sunburned."
I smirk at that. "Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to move in during the first week of summer."
She points directly at me, which might have been more threatening if she wasn't five inches shorter than me. "No sass, young man."
She moves past me and scampers off of the porch steps onto the dirt path stretching to the driveway.
"Don't drop anything on your toes!" I shout after her.
"Shut up, Jamie!"
I love Aunt Sara. There's a wide range of antics I can play at her without getting into trouble.
I take Andy back into the house, sighing in relief as a wave of cool air meets my skin. I had exaggerated when I said it's the first week of summer. Really, it's only two weeks into May. However, it's also the first week of the coming four months of seething, no-cooler-than-75-degrees weather. I shiver as the sweat on the back of my neck cools against the air conditioning.
Andy and I go into the living room, which branches off from the front hall. Really, not too much living goes on in here, other than Gramps reading or Mom dusting. It's kinda creepy. Back when Gran was alive, she'd insisted that all of the old family photos stay up on the walls and shelves. After she passed, not even Mom could find it in herself to take them down. It's still a cool room, if you don't mind the black-and-white figures watching your every move. I walk across the hardwood floor and pace in front of the big bay window looking out into the front yard. Through it, I can see Aunt Sara and her husband Tim wrestling with a ghastly paisley-patterned couch. Seizing the opportunity, I dig into my jeans pocket and retrieve my iPod. It's a struggle, but I manage to unwind the headphones with my free hand while keeping hold of Andy with the other. He watches me, hand still gripping my t-shirt, blue eyes wide.
"You wanna listen, too?" I say to him. I hold the other ear-bud over his small ear so he can hear the soft music playing from my iPod. He blinks several times over the next minute, then slowly shuts his eyes.
I make a mental note to tell Aunt Sara that babies like Radical Face and that her child has great taste in music.
"Hey."
I glance behind me at the doorway. Mom stands in it, her body angled away from me as if she's ready to continue walking down the hall.
"I left a grocery list on the counter. Add anything you want to it."
Before she can move away, I ask, "Can I drive you there?"
The family rule when it comes to cars or electronics is: if we want it, we have to buy it ourselves. I spent my middle-school years telling myself no, I don't need a car when everything I care about is close enough to walk to from home.
Yeah, I was stupid, shut up.
I'm seventeen now. For the past three years, I've been working to earn the money to get a car of my own. I have my license, but Mom won't let me drive without her in the car. Still, I want to keep practicing for when I'm finally able to buy a car for myself.
Mom thinks over my request before saying, "Grab your keys."
Aunt Sara passes me in the hall, returning to the area of the house that now belongs to herself and Tim. She obligingly takes Andy from me before I sprint upstairs to grab my key to the family van. I stuff my wallet into one pocket and my iPod into the other.
I find Mom in the kitchen.
"Ready to go?"
My question falls on deaf ears. Mom has her back to me, facing the counter. She turns to me but doesn't look up, her phone in one hand, the other hand covering her lips.
Sadness does nothing good for my mother. It makes her cheeks limp, her laugh-lines lost. She removes her hand from her face to run it through her silvery-blond hair. She glances at me for a split-second, but it's long enough for me to see the trembling shine in her hazel eyes. Then she disappears through the door leading to the other side of the house.
I sag against the sink, thinking nothing at first, then thinking too much. Scenarios swirl in my mind as I wonder just what was on her phone that made my mother cry.
My uncle a few states over is dead, the one who was diagnosed with cancer, the chemo doesn't work and he's dead and my mom need to go see my aunt and help her with the arrangements.
Amelia lost the baby. Something happened, something went wrong inside her, and she lost the baby.
Joel's hurt. Joel's dead. Working construction, anything could happen. One screw up, one accident, and he could wind up hurt or worse, oh god no not Joel.
I hear my mother's footsteps hurrying up the stairs. I fight the tears threatening to spill out as I shove the last thought from my mind. A few minutes later, my aunt walks in without Andy. Her arms hug her middle loosely, and she doesn't meet my eyes as she leans against the counter.
"It just doesn't seem fair, does it?" She asks me.
I glance over at her. She's just shaking her head slowly.
"My...my mom hasn't told me anything," I say in a soft voice.
My comment makes her hug herself tighter, sinking into herself as she shuts her eyes. She shakes her head once more before moving out of the kitchen. "I'm sorry I said anything."
This makes the tears return, confusion and distress urging them down my cheeks. I duck my head, trying to think of anything, anything but that. Anything but Joel.
I hear footsteps on the stairs again. They stop at the bottom of the staircase, hesitating. Then they hurry down the hall, towards the kitchen, towards me. Mom appears in the doorway, a large overnight bag hanging from her shoulder. She moves past me to the fridge, where she removes a couple bottles of water. She tucks them into her bag. When she speaks, she doesn't face me.
"Amelia texted me. I'm going to spend the night over at her house, so don't wait up for me." Her words come out thick, heavy. She finally looks at me, but I've fixed my gaze on my shoes. She takes the few short steps to me and places her free hand on my cheek. Her palm is still cool from the water bottle, chilling the damp tear-tracks on my face.
"I need you to be strong for me," she says, her voice gentle despite the thickness in it.
I finally look up at her, more tears brimming my eyes.
"What happened?" I ask simply, softly.
A sad smile paints itself onto my mother's face.
"Oh, baby," she tells me, "Joel's going back to prison."
((Don't even ask me where this idea came from, but it's one that I've been wanting to write down for a couple months now. The song Jamie and Andy listened to is "Ghost Towns" by Radical Face, which is an amazing song and you should listen to everything by Radical Face, literally, they're amazing. I have a few ideas for what happens after this, but I haven't thought out the order in which the scenes go in. I also can't promise it'll be on here anytime soon. But there will be PLENTY of explanation, don't worry about that. Sorry if it sounds stupid so far, just bear with me. This story has good intent, I promise. Also, sorry for any mistakes, it's late and I have zero effort for proof-reading this thing. ~Liz))
