Page 18 of Under His Control

Two hundred and thirty-nine dollars and sixty-six cents for a car worth thousands the previous day.

What a huge insult to injury.

Jacob and I leave the building. Outside, the cold metal of my licence plate seeps through my thin gloves. I stare at it, not really seeing the letters and numbers. I’m still struggling to process and accept what just happened.

“This is the tippity top of Suck Mountain and I hate it here.”

I like to play a post-apocalyptic game on my phone. I create underground vaults, and characters who want safety will show up to live and work in them.

These characters all have seven special abilities with points ranging from zero to ten. “Luck” is one of the abilities. If I were a character in that game, I’d be unique in the worst way. My luck would be negative ten points, and I won’t be let into any vault.

Surrounded by piles of cars in various states of disrepair, I definitely feel like I’m fending for myself in the wastelands.

“Come.”

I lift my head at Jacob’s voice. He strides away toward his car, his boots crunching in the snow.

“I’m not a dog,” I say under my breath even as I follow him.

“Get in the car.”

He heads to the driver’s side. I don’t move right away. What’s going on? I thought for sure he would’ve left by now. I open the passenger door slowly and climb in.

“Show me proof that your mother is dead,” Jacob demands the moment I shut the door.

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“Do you have her death certificate?”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t bring—oh, wait. I do.”

I take out my phone and find the scan I had to submit to just about every institution to settle Mom’s affairs. I hand my phone over and he studies the picture for a moment.

“How did she die?”

“She was in treatment for breast cancer when she got pneumonia and passed away.”

“That was a bad way to go.”

His tone is flat. It’s probably the closest he’ll ever get to showing sympathy for Mom.

Memories of taking care of her while she was sick creep into my mind. I push them back. It’s a period of my life I prefer to keep boxed up and forgotten, which a therapist probably won’t like to hear.

My relationship with my mother has always been like a seesaw, and it stayed that way to the bitter end. I had hoped for a movie moment before she passed. With tears in her eyes, she would squeeze my hands and tell me how much she’s always loved me, how she’s always been proud of me even though she never showed it.

“I like your blunt honesty,” I say. “It’s better than what people said at her funeral.”

“What did they say?”

“‘She will be missed’ and ‘My condolences’ and ‘Sorry for your loss.’”

“That’s what people normally say at funerals.”

“Yeah. I know they meant the words too, but hearing the same thing over and over got on my nerves after a while. Every time someone grabbed my hands and looked into my eyes, I kind of hoped their lips would glue together before they could say what I knew they were going to say.” I pause, nodding slowly. “What you said was better. It’s straightforward and true.”

“I felt the same at my mother’s funeral. I couldn’t wait to get out of there and be by myself.”

I’m surprised by the news and that he was open about something personal with me.