“Howhegot put into foster care in the first place?”
I search my messy mind for that detail but fall short. “No, he never told me that.”
He inhales a deep breath, exhaling slowly before he says, “He made the call.”
I look at him blankly. "I don’t understand.”
“He called the cops, Claire. His mom went on a bender for three days. Three fucking days she left him…alone. No food, no supervision. He was nine-years-old.” He pauses, shaking his head in anger. “Jay would walk himself to and from school and on the third day, he walked himself home at lunch so he didn’t have to lie about not having food, again, and he saw his mother lying in the driveway. Bruised, beaten, covered in her own vomit. Someone just left her there. Three days of drinking and drugs and some guy dumps her off for her nine-year-old to pick up the fucking pieces.”
Tears stream down my face, my heart physically aching inside my chest, as I hang on to every word Ronan says.
“Jay ran inside and he knew. He knew what this would do. His mom always told him what would happen if the cops ever came, but he didn’t have a choice. It was call or let his mom die right there on the street.” He pauses, his nostrils flaring in rage for his best friend. “So he did. He called. The cops came, an ambulance, everything. And when Jay tried to lie, to say that this had never happened before, that she was only gone a few hours, they knew. Everyone knew. They took him that day and he spent the next forty-eight hours sleeping at the station until Mel came to pick him up.”
I stare at him completely destroyed and utterly dumbfounded. This. This is why Jay carries all of this so heavily inside of him. The weight of it all. All of the guilt that he must feel, drags him down every day because he blames himself.
“But it wasn’t his fault,” I say.
Ronan chuffs, “Well, I know that and you know that, but try telling that to someone who was repeatedly beaten down — never knew his father, neglected by his mother, always too much or not enough for foster families. Just passed around from one house to another until that one decided they were done with him too. And now, his brother, who also left him, shows back up right when he thinks something good is finally happening in his life. Right when he finds you, Claire.”
I’m suddenly so overwhelmed. By the story, Jay’s past, my own feelings. By the fact that Ronan thinks thatI’mthe good. I want to find Jay, hold onto him, and never let him go. Tell him over and over that I’m not leaving.Wherever you are, I think. I’m not going to wake up one day and just decide that I’m done, that he’s not enough. He’ll never betoo muchfor me.
“Did she ever come for him?” I ask, picturing my own mother who does everything for everyone. For me.
“Once. She visited him. Told him she was going to work on herself and do better. That she’d get him back when she was able to give him the care he deserved.”
“And did she?”
“Not even another phone call.”
I think of all the times my mom has called to check in on me. All of the “Call me when you get there” texts when I went out with friends or the “Get home safely” messages when I went back to school after a weekend home. And then I think of Jay. Waiting by a phone that never rang. For a mother who never came back.
“I have to go,” I blurt, wiping my tear-stained cheeks with the back of my hand. The feelings inside of me threaten to take me down completely if I don’t get out of here. I grab my things off of the table as Ronan stands, frazzled by my sudden exit. I’m halfway out the door when he calls out to me.
“Claire!” I turn to him, already bringing my headphones to my ears. “Just be there for him,” he says. “It’s always worked for me.”
I walk out the door before he has the chance to see me come undone once again.
I run all the way home, playlist on full blast, tears still leaking from my eyes. I knew when I met him that Jay had demons. It is written all over his beautiful face, but I never knew the depth to which he carried those demons with him. Now, when I picture that face, I see a little boy, mistreated, deserted, a casualty to the system. The face of anine-year-old who spent the rest of his life thinking he drove away the one person who was supposed to love him unconditionally.
The face sitting on the front step of my apartment building, sweating in the heat of the afternoon sun.
42
Jamison
“I’msorry,” is the first thing I say to Claire after thirty-six hours of silence. It’s not enough, but it’s all I can manage when I see her run toward her building, her hair tossed on top of her head, face wet, shirt clinging to her body slick from sweat — beautiful.
I’ve been sitting here for an hour. It’s the first place I came when I got home. I ran through the rest of my cigarettes in the first fifteen minutes, trying to calm the mixture of emotions threatening to choke me from the inside out. I have no idea what else I’m going to say. I’ve tried a hundred times to plan it out, but nothing does her any justice. She stops just short of me, hands hanging by her side, breath heavy.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat.
“You left.”
“I know.”
“Disappeared.”
“I went to find my brother.” She steps closer to me, leaning forward, then quickly pulls back crossing her arms over her chest like for just a second, curiosity beat out the emotions inside her.
