Off Book

16. Jade

16

JADE

“One sees more devils than vast hell can hold . . .” Act V, Scene 1

“Jade? Jade, are you okay?”

I think Ian is talking to me, because that’s his voice, but there’s concern in it, and when I look up and see that it is in fact Ian, there’s also worry in his eyes. I’m on the ground, but I was just standing? Now I’m sitting on the pavement, and even though my jacket feels too tight, I’m too cold to take it off. The ground is cold too, a chill seeping in through my jeans. Ian is crouching next to me, his dad hovering behind him. Far behind both of them, the sounds of a football game echo into the parking lot.

I don’t remember how I got to the ground. I just remember a series of text messages from my mother and the crushing realization that I need to go home right this second, but that my car is in the shop and I have no idea how I’m going to get there. It was too overwhelming for a minute, and I think I just needed to sit.

So I did. And I guess that’s how I ended up here.

“I have to . . . My mom . . . I have to go home, but my car is . . . Fuck.”

“What? Is your mom okay?”

“No. No, she’s not. She just got dumped.” I show him my phone screen—the messages from my mom. “I have to get home.”

“You should go,” Ian says.

“My car still isn’t working. I haven’t taken it in.”

My eyes meet Ian’s, and whatever happened between us earlier is gone. In this moment he’s zeroing in on me, not on whatever happened ten minutes ago.

“How far do you live from here?” Ian’s dad asks.

“Like, two hours,” I say.

Ian and his dad look at each other, and there’s some unspoken conversation that happens between them. Ian’s dad gives him a small but firm nod.

“I’ll take you,” Ian says. “Do you need to stop by your apartment first?”

“Yes,” I say. I didn’t even think of that. I’m laser-focused on getting to my mom before something bad happens. But I’ll be gone a few days and I’ll need a few things.

The first few hours are the scariest after my mom goes through a breakup. The first few days are the most precarious. If she makes it through the first day without doing anything irresponsible, stupid, or dangerous, there’s about a fifty percent chance she’ll be okay. The following three or four days are less concerning, and after the first week, if nothing has happened, she’ll usually be okay. There have been a couple of exceptions, but this is the pattern.

So right now, every second is precious, and I let Ian help me up. His dad hugs me and then Ian. I barely feel it. I think I say goodbye, but minutes after walking away, I don’t remember if I did.

The next few hours are like a movie montage. Ian walking me to my apartment. Ian helping me pack a bag. Changing into clothes I wore earlier in the week because they’re the easiest thing to get to. Riding in the car in near silence with Ian for two hours, with just music to fill the silence. The orange and purple of the setting sun painting a sky too beautiful for whatever awaits me at my childhood home. And all the while, my thoughts circle.

I have to get home. I have to get home. I have to get home.

Ian pulls into the driveway. It’s already dark, and there’s no porch light on.

I have to find my mom.

I swing open the car door and call my grandmother as fast as my shaking hands will let me. She picks up after one ring.

“Grandma, hi. Rob left Mom, and I’m home now. Where are you?” I cradle the phone between my ear and my shoulder as I dig around my purse to find my key.

“I’m on vacation, honey, remember?”

Fuck. I forgot she was going on a trip with her girlfriends.

My grandma and I have always tag-teamed helping my mom recover. It started when my biological father left. I was barely two and my mom stopped taking care of me. My grandma stepped in, and when my mom got back on her feet again—a.k.a. into another relationship—my grandma backed off, but not entirely. My childhood evenings and weekends were spent at her house while my mom went on dates. And every time there was a breakup, my grandma would be the one there to pick up the pieces and take care of me. Eventually, she helped less and I started to help more as I got older. When I was a teenager, Grandma started going to Al-Anon. She started talking to me about loving detachment, and I didn’t really want to hear it—I just wanted my mom to stop drinking, and I wanted to survive high school while trying to take care of my parent who should have been taking care of me.

“Right, when will you be back?” I ask.

“In nine days,” she says. “Are you at home now, Jade? Did you leave school to be with your mom?”

I can’t tell if she’s disappointed or glad that I’m here, but I don’t have the energy to dissect that right now.

“Yes, and I’m about to walk inside, so let me call you later,” I say, hanging up without a goodbye. Probably a bit unceremonious, but I’ve got a one-track mind right now, and I’m not interested in a lecture.

I find my keys in my bag but fumble and drop them as I try to juggle my phone, keys, bag, and purse.

“Shit.”

I reach for them, but Ian is there, snatching them up, unlocking the door with steady hands. My hands are too shaky, and I shove my phone into my pocket before I drop that too.

He opens the door for me, and I hold out my hand for my keys.

“I got it,” he says and nods for me to go in the house. “Go ahead—I’m right behind you.”

“No,” I say, standing in the doorway, blocking him from coming in. I have no idea what my mom is like right now, but I’ll be damned if Ian sees it. Not after meeting his dad and seeing how well-adjusted they are. Not after I’ve already been vulnerable with him in more ways than I meant to be. If I have any control over this—and I do—Ian is not coming inside.

“Jade, I?—”

“Thank you for the ride,” I interrupt. There isn’t anything he can say that will convince me he needs to stay. Maybe it was shitty to ask him to drive me up here just to send him away, but I’ll deal with the guilt of that later. I’ll find a way back when my grandma returns from her trip. I’ll miss a couple rehearsals and classes, but I have no choice. I have to be here for my mom.

“What if you need me?” he asks.

“I won’t need you. I can handle this on my own.”

I’ve always done this on my own.

“But you don’t have to,” he says.

“I want to. Text me when you get back to campus. Again, seriously. Thank you for the ride.” I snatch my keys out of his hand and close the door behind me.

I wait three seconds to see if he’ll try to just come into the house anyway, but when I see movement in the glass beside the door, I know he’s walking to his car.

Good.

“Mom?” I yell into the house. I check the key holder next to the front door. The keys are still there, which means her car is still here, thank god. I snatch them off the ring and stuff them into my pocket.

It’s eerily quiet. The stove light in the kitchen is on. The TV is going, with no sound. None of the lamps in the living room are on. The stairs are dark, and I don’t see any lights on upstairs from here.

I check the kitchen and the garage first, just in case, but my mom isn’t there. There’s an ache in the back of my throat.

Heart hammering, I wander back to the stairs and knock my toe against something.

An empty bottle of vodka. A fifth. I didn’t notice it when I came in, and the tips of my fingers go cold. I rush back to the kitchen, checking under the sink where she normally keeps part of her stash of alcohol. Empty.

That’s not good.

“Mom?” I shout, walking back toward the stairs and starting to climb them.

There’s no response.

And then I hear the faintest noise as I near the top of the stairs. It sounds like . . . running water? Is she taking a shower?

“ I do love a bath. ”

Oh god.

I charge up the rest of the stairs, taking them two at a time. A hard left at the top, and in seconds I’m in my mother’s room, the sound of running water loud and clear.

My first step into her room is . . . squishy? The carpet is soaking wet, but I ignore it and rush into the en-suite bathroom to find the bathtub full and overflowing, my mother passed out in the water, mouth wide open, water lapping at her chin. Her head leaning against the back of the tub is the only thing keeping her above the waterline.

My heart is beating too hard in my chest. I can’t decide if I want to throw up or scream or both. Tears leap to my eyes, and I don’t have the time or energy to fight them.

“Jesus fucking Christ! MOM,” I scream at her and splash through the bathroom. My hands tremble as I turn off the water. The deafening silence of the bathroom is interrupted only by the drip of the last few drops out of the faucet.

I have to get her out.

“MOM,” I scream again, inches from her face. The floor has a half-inch of water pooling on it—my shoes and socks are already soaked. Three empty half-pints of vodka float around on the floor. I need to count the bottles and figure out how much she’s had to drink, but I keep my eyes on my mother as I position myself behind her and the tub.

I have to get her out.

Her arms are in the water, and I plunge my arms in to dig hers out, but she’s too waterlogged for me to pull her up, and I can’t get the leverage I need to drag her out.

“For FUCK’s sake, Mom. MOM .”

I roll up my soaked sleeves and go around to the front of the tub. I slap my mom on the cheek hard enough that it should wake her. And it does for a second. She makes a noise, and her head lolls to the side again, her chin dipping further into the water. She starts to slide down in the tub with the shift of her head. Her mouth and her nose hit the waterline, and I panic, reaching into the tub again from behind to get hold of her. This time, I hook my wrists under her armpits and use the weight of my body to pull her backward. It should be enough, but the height of the tub isn’t doing me any favors, and my mom is deadweight, her clothes too wet, too heavy. She’s a smallish woman, 5’4” and maybe 130 pounds, but I’m not very strong, and I have to let her slide back into the water.

“Shit,” I say, my hands still hooked under her arms, holding her up. My arms burn with the effort, and most of my hoodie is soaked.

The bitter taste of regret sours in the back of my throat. I was a fucking idiot for sending Ian away. I need another person. I need help.

A sob breaks out of me like a clap of thunder. With my hands still hooked under my mom’s arms, I squat, my legs too weak to hold me. My chest aches with the loneliness of it all. Why do I insist on being so goddamn independent all the time?

I can handle this on my own.

I want to.

I could handle my mom when she was silly-drunk or even belligerent-drunk, but I have never had to try to drag my mother out of a full bathtub, and the horror of what might have happened if I hadn’t gotten here when I did makes it hard to breathe. My ribs squeeze my sides, my throat is too tight, and even though I can barely get in any air, another sob finds its way out of my chest. It echoes in the bathroom. A single drip from the faucet reminds me that I’m alone.

That I have always been alone.

For a second I’m five again, watching my mom drink herself to blackout and having no idea what to do with her. That was my first memory of my mom like this. She’d passed out on the kitchen floor and I couldn’t move her. She was a full-size human, and I was pint-size. I called my grandmother, but until she arrived, all I could do was wait. And I did—sitting next to my mom, holding my hand under her nose every minute just to see if she was still breathing. I’m as helpless now as I was then. My head spins, and I know I need to try again, but all my energy is gone. I’m barely holding myself together, much less my mom. But I can’t just give up.

I have to get her out of the tub.

“Jade?” Ian says, bringing me out of my memories and my own head. He’s out of breath and standing in the doorway.

I’m not alone.

Ian is standing in my doorway.

I’m not alone.

A fresh round of tears springs to my eyes. Ian is here. As if I manifested him. As if the universe brought my cries to his ears and he answered them.

He didn’t leave.

He didn’t leave. I’m not alone.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, surveying the room. Without hesitation, he walks in and sticks his arm in the tub, soaking the sleeve of his hoodie, and pops the drain.

I didn’t even think about the fucking drain.

The danger my mother is in subsides with every lost inch of water. Relief floods me too hard and too fast. I release all the pent-up emotion, sobbing as I hold my mother up until the tub is fully drained, only releasing her when the last drop of water disappears.

Her body slumps into the tub, her chin falling to her shoulder.

I don’t know who moves first, but I haven’t taken another breath before I’m in Ian’s arms and he’s holding me while I soak his hoodie with tub water and my tears.

“That was so fucking scary,” I say, my voice weak and muffled against the fabric.

“I’m so sorry, Jade,” he says, his voice so soft and comforting. It brings a fresh round of tears.

Being held by Ian, I feel safe for the first time all night. He holds me until my sobs slow, turning to hiccups; until my heart rate slows, my breaths coming in and out more evenly. He holds me until I loosen my grip on him, letting me decide how much I need.

“Come on—let’s go sit on the bed,” he says, taking my hands in his.

“But the water . . . and my mom, she— I need to?—”

“We’ll clean up the water in a minute. We’ll take care of your mom, but first we’re going to just sit for a second.” His eyes are kind, his voice firm.

Ian leads me to my mom’s bed, which is a mess, but we just sit on the edge.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“I came in the house and found her like this. I don’t know how long she was in the bath. When I got here, she was passed out. The tub was overflowing.” I gesture to the room and the bathroom.

“The water was still pretty warm. I don’t think she’d been in there long,” he says, rubbing his hand in a slow circle on my back. His touch is soothing, and among the raging wildfire of adrenaline and fear swirling inside me, a river of calm starts to fight its way through the chaos.

“It was so scary,” I say. “What if I didn’t get here on time? What if I’d been thirty minutes later? I mean, her head was barely above the water—” I choke on my own words, covering my mouth with my hand. Panic rises from my chest, stinging the back of my throat. The reality of what I could have walked in on, what I could have come home to—it steals whatever calm I’ve cultivated in the past few minutes. I get the feeling I’m going to float away, and I fold my arms across my stomach, holding myself so I don’t.

Ian wraps both of his arms around me, and I lean into him, letting him ground me.

“She’s safe. She’s alive. You got here on time. Thinking about the what-ifs isn’t going to help. Focus on what is happening right now,” he says, his voice low and soothing in my ear. “She’s okay, and so are you.”

A fresh round of tears falls from my eyes before I can stop them, relief leaving my body and streaking down my face. I shift to sit all the way up, wiping my nose with my hoodie sleeve. Ian takes my face in his hands, swiping at my tears with each of his thumbs, wiping them away as they roll down my cheeks.

I’m at war with myself considering the truth of his words. On the one hand, he’s right. Thinking about the what-ifs is not helpful right now, but I’m still haunted by what almost happened. I think it’ll stay with me longer than I want it to.

“It’s really nice to not be alone right now,” I say, my voice wobbly.

“I couldn’t leave you,” he says.

The sincerity in his voice, the low, gentle tone he uses, cracks open my already fragile heart, and I wind my arms around him. I couldn’t conjure the words to thank him even if I were a witch, so this hug will have to suffice.

He holds me again until I move away. Only after I’ve wiped my face dry and taken a few deep breaths does he say anything else.

“Should we clean up?” he asks, and I nod, leading him to the hall closet.

“Just use all the towels. If you want to start in the bathroom, I’ll get a box fan to start drying the bedroom floor,” I say as I point Ian to the stack of towels on the shelves.

“Do you have a blanket we can put on your mom? Just until we can get her changed and into her bed,” he asks.

“I’ll grab a sleeping bag when I’m in the garage,” I say over my shoulder as Ian piles towels of all sizes into his arms.

I make my way to the garage, down the stairs, through the living room and kitchen, and out to the connected room that houses my mom’s car. When I flip on the light and see it there, a wave of relief rolls through me.

I know she’s upstairs in the tub. I know the keys are in my pocket. I know she’s passed out and not driving anywhere tonight, but it still gives me a sense of relief to know the car is here.

A few years back, my mom dated a guy who was into camping; I find a box fan and an old sleeping bag in a corner of the garage with the rest of the items she bought when she dated him. It’s the only time in her life she’s been camping, and when she came out of her downswing of that breakup, she was able to admit that she wasn’t outdoorsy and was glad the relationship didn’t pan out.

By the time I rejoin Ian in the bathroom, it’s half-covered in soaked-through towels. Ian wrings one out in the sink and then takes the sleeping bag from me, unrolling it and covering my mom with it.

I set up the fan to blow toward the drenched carpet and get to work on soaking up the water in the bathroom with already wet towels, wringing them out and soaking up more water. When the towels are too wet to sponge up any more, I put them in the dryer and turn it on high. I’ve cleaned up after my mom before—messes that looked like some kind of mini tornado blew through our house—but she’s never made a mess this big. I resent that this is a marker of my young adulthood; that even if Ian and I never speak after the one-act is over, I won’t forget how this night was spent, even if he does.

When I turn to go back and help Ian, he’s standing in my way between the hallway and the door to the bedroom.

“Why don’t you help your mom get changed and into bed, and I’ll keep going with the towels and the laundry?”

I nod and find warm pajamas for my mom in one of her dresser drawers. She’s got a flannel nightgown that will probably be easiest to get on.

While I wrestle to change her, Ian goes back to the linen closet, finding some beach towels and starting the process over again: soaking the water up, wringing it out. I’m too proud to thank him in such a humiliating moment, but eventually, I will. Right now, I’m consumed by the embarrassment of it all, of my mom and her behavior, of the fact that we’re spending our Saturday night cleaning up after my alcoholic mother instead of celebrating the homecoming game with Ian’s dad.

Ian’s dad . . .

Ian left a weekend of hanging out with his favorite person to be here with me right now. A stab of guilt pinches my ribs. I have to convince him to go home tomorrow.

“Can you help me get her to the bed?” I ask once I’ve got her changed, knowing I won’t be able to do it myself and that even if I try, Ian will jump in to help anyway.

He drops what he’s doing and leans into the tub, cradling my mom in his arms. She stirs, making unintelligible sounds. He carries her over to her bed and puts her on her side, covering her with her comforter.

While my mom sleeps, Ian and I do our best to finish cleaning the bathroom. We swap out loads of mostly dry towels for wet ones, soaking and wringing and drying until the bathroom has no more water on the floor. Occasionally, we exchange glances. He gives me tight, kind smiles, and I try to return them, but my face feels hot every time I look at him. I reach for gratitude, but all I catch is shame.

Not only has Ian seen my mother’s rock bottom, but he’s also seen what I’ve been trying to hide. From everyone.

By the time we’re done, it’s 10 p.m. Not that late, but we’ve been at this for hours, and if I’m sore, Ian must be too. He looks as tired as I feel, and when the last load of towels has been loaded into the dryer, we stare at each other in front of the laundry closet.

“Want me to wash those clothes?” I ask. His clothes are soaked, as are mine, our shoes and socks also soaked but long abandoned.

“Oh god, yes, please,” he says, and without hesitation he pulls off his hoodie. His shirt lifts and goes with it, and then Ian is standing half-naked in my hallway with my drunk mother passed out in the next room, and for a moment, neither of us quite know what to do.

“I’ll go get you some clothes,” I mutter and go to my room down the hall. Not because I’m embarrassed to see him naked or anything—this is probably the least embarrassing thing that’s happened today to either of us—but we still haven’t talked about our fight today. We’re both pretending like it didn’t happen, but it did, and it’s bubbling up. Casual intimacy isn’t something either of us can handle right now.

It dawns on me as I dig around in my duffel bag for some bike shorts and a crop top that we packed stuff for me and nothing for Ian. I wonder if he thought he’d be dropping me off too, or if he just wasn’t worried about getting clothes since he could tell I needed to get home. I find some old sweatpants and a T-shirt for him, and after I change, I take the dry clothes to him and point to my bedroom so he can change too. I load our stuff into the washing machine, turn it on, and pop my head back into the room to check on my mom.

She’s sleeping soundly and breathing normally and not choking on her own vomit or anything, so the tight knot in my stomach eases a little.

The familiar sound of the washing machine brings me an odd, unexplained comfort. I’m suddenly so tired that all I want to do is crawl into bed under a pile of twelve blankets and sleep until Monday. At best, I think I’ll get a couple hours, and I only have two blankets on my bed, but I’ll take what I can get.

But Ian needs somewhere to sleep too.

I check the guest bedroom at the end of the hall to see if the bed in there is available. Last time I was home, it was packed full of junk and the pull-out sofa bed wasn’t even accessible. Upon opening the door, it’s obvious nothing has changed, and I close it again and shake my head. I’d hoped we could have separate rooms, private spaces to process the whole day separately, but I can see that’s probably not going to happen.

And if I’m honest with myself, I’m not sure I want to sleep alone.

“No spare bed,” I say, leaning against the doorframe to my bedroom, where Ian is sitting on the edge of my bed, typing something on his phone. He looks up at me and sets his phone down but says nothing, waiting for me to solve the sleep situation.

“We could share if you want?” I ask, pointing to my bed.

He glances at it and then back to me, his lips pressed together nervously. “I can sleep on the couch if you’re more comfortable with that?”

I take a seat on the edge of the bed next to Ian. My room feels weird, haunted by all the nights I worried about my mom and listened to her cry, scared she’d drink too much or do something dangerous if I wasn’t awake to protect her from herself.

I don’t often admit when I need someone else, because I don’t often need anyone. I like being independent. But as I realized earlier tonight, sometimes it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.

“Stay with me,” I say. “Please?”

Asking him to stay like this humbles me in a way I wasn’t fully prepared for. But can I really be any more humbled than I already am? With everything Ian’s seen tonight, I’ve been laid bare. Exposed. Ian has seen my deepest shame, and he didn’t run screaming. He stayed and took care of the mess with me. It isn’t surprising, because this is who Ian is.

He has always been open and honest with me, and I’ve been hiding. Now he knows the truth. He knows it all, in fact. He’s seen into the darkest corners of my life—to the hidden places, the rooms I’ve kept secret.

And still, he’s in my bed, crawling under the covers and opening his arms to me. Still, he holds me when I lie next to him, the press of our bodies a comforting warmth. Still, he tucks me against him, promising without saying a word that he is safe.

That I am safe.

And I think I might believe him.