Jess was a Bitch Ch. 03

Jess and Jon deal with their feuding parents but still find time for a little fun.

Thanks, yet again, to LarryInSeattle.

Please let me know what works and what doesn't.

Enjoy.

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"The door's locked. She has the bolt thingy on. I have a key but it won't open." Jess looks worried.

"Come on, follow me." I hurry down the hall and open the door to our room. I hurry past the beds and out onto the patio. I skip the path and hop over the waist high wall that separates the two patios. Jess follows. Dad is always fussing at mom about forgetting to lock the patio door. If she went outside this morning we might get lucky.

The door slides open. One of the beds has the covers askew. The other is covered with suitcases and clothes. I don't see mom. I head for the bathroom. If she's locked the bathroom door I tell myself I'm calling security. It's locked.

"Mom, open up. It's Jon." Despite my fear, I find time to chide myself for being stupid. It's Jon. No shit, asshole. Fucking moron.

"Will you two please, for the love of God, leave me the fuck alone for a few minutes?"

"No can do, mother," Jess calls through the door. "I don't what's wrong with you but I've never seen you like this. Let us in or I'll call security, tell them you're in there sawing away at your wrists or something. Open up. I'm not sure how much better the psych hospitals are here than the prisons. Even if daddy pops for an air ambulance you'd be in for a night or two of padded rooms."

I gape at my sister. "What the fuck?" I hiss at her. "Are you trying to make things worse?"

The door flies open. "You wouldn't dare do any such thing, Jessica Anne! When I got out of there I'd skin you alive!"

"Careful, mom. Talk like that will only extend your stay," I tell her, trying to smile. This is a test of how much of the old mom is lurking behind this new, strange, almost vulnerable being that looks like my mom. If 'old' mom equals 'true' mom; I'm fucking dead. Her mouth opens and closes a few times. She leans against the bathroom door. She looks old suddenly. I've never thought of her as old. That scares me more than anything.

"Come on, mom, lie down. You were sick, weren't you?" Now that the a little of the drama has faded from the room I notice the sour smell of vomit. Underneath that is the smell of orange juice. My stomach does a slow crawl.

"Oh, damn it all to hell," mom snaps, she pulls away and heads for the toilet and flushes it. "Get out and give a little peace, please."

"I'll pull the door closed but don't lock it. We'll wait for you."

"Jon, I think I like you better when all you did was scowl at me."

I lean against the wall. I want to tell her she's full of shit. She is full of shit, isn't she? Do I scowl at her? I know we rarely talk but I don't scowl, do I?

The woman who emerges a short time later from the bathroom looks more like the mother I thought I knew, but the new mother, the vulnerable, frightened mother is still visible. I don't imagine I'll ever see her in the same light again. That, on top of the change in my assessment of Jess, leaves me feeling lost. The twin stars that have guided my life have always been, one, my mother is a bitch, and two, my sister is a bitch. To have them both, in the space of a day, revealed to me as people as insecure and as desperate for love and approval as myself, is overwhelming. How can I have missed something, two somethings that big, that huge? Am I really so self-absorbed, so unobservant? Am I just a total dick? More important, what about dad? Is the man who told his wife he was leaving her this morning, as wrong, as clueless, and out to lunch as I am?

"I really wish you two would just give me some peace and quiet. I need to think." Mom shakes her head, disagreeing with herself. "No," she said, squaring her shoulders. "What I need to do is pack."

"Please don't do that, mother? I thought we settled that earlier?" Jess' voice is soft and gentle. I swivel my head to look at her; Jesus she's beautiful. I add that to the growing list of questions rattling around inside my head, how the fuck did you miss the fact that your sister is seriously gorgeous? We each take hold of one of mom's hands. They're cold as ice. "I agree with Jess," I tell her as I give her an awkward one-armed hug. "Don't go, not yet. Let dad settle down and talk to him."

"About what, exactly?" she snaps, in a voice that's one hundred percent 'old mom'. She seems to realize it. She tries to smile as she pats my cheek, a gesture every bit as awkward as my hug had been. "He was pretty clear, Jon. I don't see the point of talking." She shakes her head again. "No, it's probably best if I'm not here when he gets back. Assuming he gets back. For all I know, he skipped Tulum and headed to the airport himself."

"He wouldn't do that without telling us," Jess whispers.

"Besides, you have a lot to talk about," I insist. "Look at me. I've lived my entire life thinking Jess was a total bitch. It's only in the last day I realized how wrong I was, what a total asshole I was. And..." I look at my mother with more than a little trepidation. "You put on as great a show, if not a better one, than Jess does. How do you know dad hasn't totally missed that you're tough as nails act is just that, an act?"

"Sweetheart, if you think I'm not..."

I interrupt her, a rarity. "Of course, I know you're tough as nails but that's not all you are and you don't have to be around us. Don't you get that? I didn't, not until an hour ago at breakfast. Why are you so afraid of me, afraid of dad, of Jess, for that matter? We all love you, or want to love you. Some of us, me at least, where afraid to, afraid that was the last thing you wanted, not the thing you craved. What if dad is just as fucking clueless? Tell me the truth, mom, do you really believe thinks you're not very smart? Or that he even images you'd worry about that? Really?"

"Mom, I'm not claiming any credit, because it was an accident," Jess intercedes. "I let my guard down yesterday in front of Jon. I knew he thought I was a bitch and I thought he was a jerk and an asshole. I was mortified when I started to cry in front of him. I was waiting for him to rip into me. I was planning how to defend myself. You know what he did? He got a washcloth and cleaned the runny mascara off my cheeks. Crying in front of him was a total accident but what if it I hadn't? Would we still be walking around, totally misreading each other? Hating each other? I can't imagine dad is any bigger douche than my douchey brother." She tosses me a smile. I smile back. "Don't you think you should give dad a chance? Tell him you don't want him to go."

"I will not cry just to keep your father."

Jess stares at her. "Why not? If you really love him and don't want to lose him, why the fuck not? Besides, you don't have to cry, just fucking talk to him and in person, not over a shitty cell phone connection. Don't go."

"Let me think about it." At the sight of Jess' smile, mom frowns. "I didn't say I wouldn't go. I said I'd think about it." She flaps both hands at her children. "Now, shoo, I want to lie down."

"Mom?" She turns to look at me. "Promise me you won't run off if we leave. Promise you'll stay and at least try to talk to dad. Please."

She nods. "Okay, honey. Sure."

"Mom?" Her look has a lot of 'old mom' in it. I know I'm pushing my luck. "Would you tell us more about your dad, our grandfather. And," I hesitate. "Your mom?"

She sits down on the bed. "He was a lot like you, Jon. He loved to draw. He'd come home from work, take a bath. We didn't have a shower. Weird, huh? After my homework was done we'd draw on these giant pads of cheap paper that would tear if you tried to erase anything. My mom would snort that it was a waste of time and money." She shakes her head. She looks so sad. "I can't believe I've turned into her."

"Mommy?" Mom doesn't say anything so Jess pushes ahead. "What if your mom was sort of like us, scared?"

"Maybe, honey but I don't think so. She was mean and hard and cold as Lucifer's bare ass in a blizzard."

"Were you good at drawing?" I ask. I want to change the subject but mostly I'm curious. She'd never expressed much interest in my art work.

"I think I was," she answers softly. "I stopped after he died. Your grandmother tore down every drawing of his I'd taped to my walls and burned them."

Jess and I look at each other.

Mom looks up from her lap. "Kiddos, I'm beat. Why don't you take a hike, huh? I'd like to lie down for a spell."

I nod. "Sure, mom. Call the room if you need anything."

"Can I stay?" Jess sits down beside mom. "I won't pester you or anything. It was nice lying down beside you, earlier. I remembered how you would lie down with me sometimes to take a nap." She looks up at me. "Both of us, remember?" I nod.

"I remember, baby girl," mom says patting her on the knee. She scoots back in the bed. "One syllable, one burp, one fart and I'll kick you the hell out. Got it?"

Jess giggles. "Yes, mommy dearest."

Jess snuggles in beside mom. I don't really think about it. I dig in my pocket, pull out my phone and snap a quick shot.

"Later," I whisper. I go out through the patio. I leave the door open. I'm hoping the breeze, the smell of the ocean and muttering of the surf will help mom relax. Jess, too.

***

The guide, Hernando, is talking. He notices the tall American start to open his mouth. He mentally grits his teeth, ready for whatever it is the man wants to challenge him on. He's spent years studying to be a certified guide. He has a master's degree in archaeology and this tourist is about to question him. He can feel it. Instead, the man closes his mouth and shakes his head, frowning. Hernando continues the tour. At the end, the tall American, shakes his hand, tells him it was a wonderful tour and gives him a perfect tip. It's not so much as to be insulting but more than typical. Hernando tips his hat and the tall American wanders away to sit on one of the benches and stares out at the ocean. Hernando decides he's rarely seen a lonelier man. He wants to offer to buy him a beer but knows that's foolishness. He tucks his tips safely away and walks to his car. He smiles, imaging the supper his wife will have waiting.

The tall American, James Vandermach, sits alone on the bench. He's in the shade but he pulls his hat low to protect his face. The hat has a French Foreign Legion style curtain of cloth to protect his neck. He hates getting sunburned. He tries to focus on the beauty of the ocean. He finds the ocean, water in general, to be the most relaxing sound, sight, smell in the world. He can't find its magic today, however. Today, even with his sunglasses, it's too bright, too blue. Today, what he smells is seaweed festering in the heat. Today, all he hears is the hum of flies and the ringing in his ears, a souvenir from too many rock shows in the dive bars of his youth. He tries to focus, tries to find his balance but his mind hums and buzzes and refuses to shut up.

Gloria is right. I was going to quibble with the man and over some trivial, meaningless, difference I read in National Geographic. This is his fucking job. Is she right, do I really have to always make it clear I know stuff, stupid stuff maybe but still, that I know something they don't? No. That's not it. I'm curious. I want to hear what other people think. Bullshit, buddy, his wife's voice inside his head says with a snort. You aren't interested in what they think. You want to prove to them you know as much as they do. No! That's not true! I don't have anyone to talk to. Because I'm too stupid to talk to? No! Gloria, I don't think you're stupid but you don't seem interested...In talking? Of course, I am but you don't talk, you lecture, you pontificate. No, I don't, that's not true. Is it? Isn't that why you married me? The ignorant cornhusker, so you'd have a student for life, a built in 24/7/365 guaranteed audience? A life-long improvement project? You were more interested in being Professor Higgins than my husband, weren't you? The lonely man on the bench shakes his head. No, that I know is not true. I loved you. You were beautiful and funny and took no shit, never backed down and got shit done. You were magnificent, a god damn force of nature, just as beautiful, just as fascinating and just as scary. "Loved?" "Were beautiful?" "Were magnificent?" James Vandermach pulls his sunglasses off and rests his head in the palms of his hands. They smell like sun screen. He feels sick to his stomach.

***

I'm so engrossed in my drawing that I, at first, I ignore the tap on the door, as I would a fly buzzing around my head. The second time, or maybe it's the third, the knock is louder, the fly has landed on my cheek, and I have no choice but to deal with it. I'm shoving back the chair before it occurs to me it could be mom or Jess. I've been so lost in my drawing that the morning's events have been pushed to the back of my head. I don't waste time telling myself I'm a self-absorbed dick. I hurry to the door. It's not mom or Jess. It's my father.

"Sorry, dad. I didn't hear you at first." He looks terrible. Like mom, he suddenly looks old, which totally freaks me out. If they don't get old; I don't get old. The opposite is also true, which is what freaks me out.

He peeks past me into the room. "Is your sister here?" I shake my head, trying to keep my face neutral. "No, she's with mom, in your guys' room." He nods. "Okay, if I come in?" I step back. "Dude, you're paying for the rooms. Plus, you're my pater familias, why wouldn't I let you in?" He walks past me and I have nerve enough to ask his back, "Are you okay, dad? What's going on with you and mom? She said you told her you wanted a divorce and walked out."

"That's right. I did."

"You did? Or you do? Want a divorce, I mean."

"Jon, did you do this?" He shakes his head with a grimace. At first, I'm afraid he's grimacing at my drawing but, no, the grimace is aimed at himself. "Scratch that, stupid question. This is good. I mean really good. I've always thought you had talent but this is extraordinary." He's holding my drawing, tilting it this way and that in the light, examining it. It's pencil. He knows enough not to smudge it, so I resist the urge to tell him to be careful. I step closer and look past his shoulder. It is good. I hate judging my own work but he's right; it is good. It's the photo of mom and Jess lying in bed, at least that's what it started from.

I've changed the angle of the light on their faces. I've made them younger. In the process, I had to think, hard, about what it is in a face that denotes age. Why does mom look older than Jess? Her face is nearly free of wrinkles. She has a couple of small crinkles at the corners of her eyes when she smiles but she's not smiling in the photo or the drawing. It's hard to show gray hair in a pencil drawing, not that she would allow a gray hair to make an appearance on her head in any case. It's easy to make mom look younger; Jess is a mini-me of her. That's something else I've failed to notice over the past nineteen years, how much they look alike. Jess is harder to draw as a younger person. I summoned my memories of her as a teenager. Most of those are memories of how I hated her. I don't want to draw her as a child. I want to draw her, just as she's awakening to the fact she's on the cusp of leaving childhood behind, still clinging to her mother but about to let go. As I examine my own drawing, I can't recall some of the details I'm seeing in it. I don't remember putting that shadow there. Did I lighten that spot? I must have but I don't remember doing so. I was drawing in some sort of trance or something. I've head of automatic writing but automatic drawing? Fuck it. It's good. The idea for the drawing popped into my head as soon as I snapped the photo. Instead of going to my room I'd gone to the lobby. The gift shop had pencils, not drawing pencils, just plain old yellow No. 2 writing pencils. No one writes letters these days, so the only paper was a couple of yellow legal pads that were so old they had faded from yellow into more of a pale, dying, lemon color. I'd ended up asking for a few sheets of printer paper from the front desk.

"Turns out, what talent I have, probably came from mom. Did you know she used to draw? That her dad used to draw?"

He shakes his head as he lays the drawing back down. "No. I know the gist, the rough outline of her life before I met her, but that's it. I know it was tough."

"Did you ask?"

He gives me a sharp look, anger flickers in his eyes. "Of course, I asked. What kind of question is that? She'd shut down, close herself up into a little ball and change the subject. After a while, I gave up. Who was I to say what the best way for her to deal with her childhood was?"

I consider telling him, her husband, but don't. I nod at the drawing. "I never noticed how much Jess looks like mom. Weird, huh?"

"Weird that you didn't notice? Or weird that they look so much alike?"

"Both."

Dad nods. "Yeah. I noticed." He sighs. "They're a lot alike in more than looks."

"Yup," I tell him. "But not in the way you think." He gives me that sharp look again. I ignore it and go lie down on my bed. I was busy drawing and sent room service away. I don't want him lying in the bed Jess and I have been making love in. He sits in the desk chair.

"What do you mean by that?" he asks when it becomes clear I'm not going to say anything more.

"I grew up thinking Jess was mean, a bitch. I thought the same thing about mom. Yesterday, it finally got through to me that I was wrong about Jess. Yesterday, and last night, I kept thinking she was fucking with me. She wasn't on my ass. She wasn't riding me about something. She was actually being almost nice. Then, when we came over here, I was still seething about having to share a room and being a total dick, she broke into tears. I don't think I ever saw her cry."

"Why was she crying?"

"I was being a dick. And Alex has been cheating on her."

"I always hated that smarmy little fucker," dad snarls.

"Ditto, pops. Ditto."

"She cried? Jess?"

"Yup. She told me that Alex was the only one that was ever nice to her and that she loved him, that she wasn't pretty enough or smart enough for him."

"That's absurd!"

"Yeah, I agree. Does it sound like anyone else you might know?"

He stares at me, puzzled. Jesus why are smart people so fucking dense most of the time.

"Mom thinks you think she's an ignorant hick." I tell him.

"That's not true." He doesn't shout that statement; he whispers it. "I do come off as condescending at times, don't I?" He looks at me.

"Sometimes," I agree with a nod.

"I don't think she's ignorant. She just never seems interested in what I'm talking about."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. You're spot on about how she pulls herself into a, what did you say, 'little ball'. She does. So, does Jess. I think it's mostly because they're afraid if they open up, they'll be taken advantage of, hurt."

"Yeah? So? You're probably right but after nearly twenty-five years if she hasn't learned to trust me, what's the point? It's done. Time to quit wasting energy, both of us, and move on."

I shrug. "Then you really will have wasted your time. Oh, and she told me she always expected you to leave. That that is why she got her boobs done because you were always eyeing the women with big tits at the club."

"That's crazy," he snaps. "I hate that fake shit. I hate those ridiculous things she paid for."

"I agree but that's not what she thinks." I lean back on the pillow. "She was crying so hard she threw up." I leave out the mimosa detail.