Page 52 of Jacob Michaels is Not Crazy

“If that’s okay?”

“Of course, it is, Robbie.” She was gob smacked.

“Okay.” I nodded. “And I need space. And I need truth. So, tell…Lena…and the other Kobolds around here to stop scurrying around here like crazy and just do things like they would if I wasn’t here.”

Oma chewed at her lip. “Well, don’t bother them too much. They like their space, too, ya’ know.”

“I wasn’t planning on bothering them,” I replied. “I’m just tired of all of the shadowy creepy shit in my peripheral vision.”

She nodded.

“Are you a witch?”

Oma was blinking again.

“And is that what I am?” I asked. “Whatever the male version of that is, anyway? Is that why—is that why I am the way I am?”

“What do you mean by that, Robbie?” She frowned.

“I became Jacob Michaels so easily,” I said. “You should see me in an interview. I can charm the pants off a journalist or reporter, make a television host fall in love with me. Heads of studios and record labels—producers, directors, agents, managers—they adore me. I’m not that charming, but for some reason, people think I am. And I don’t even have to try. I was an ugly kid and then I hit puberty, the worst time in a kid’s life, and now…please tell me the truth.”

Oma sighed and set her dishtowel down on the counter, her arms coming to rest over her chest.

“You ain’t no witch.” She said. “You’re just Robert the youngest. You ain’t got no reason to think you’re a witch, Robbie.”

“But…I’m something,” I said softly. “Right?”

“You coulda been.” She said it as though it pained her. “But ya’ ain’t. So, just get that out of your head.”

“Why am I not?”

“I said just stop it.” She said firmly.

“Please, Oma?”

“Look here.” She pointed a finger at me. “You are just Robert Wagner. And that ain’t gonna change. Ya’ hear me? You want to stay here? Well, we’d love to have you. For as long as you like. But you drop that shit right here and now.”

“But—”

Oma stomped her foot. The walls shook. The house groaned. I should’ve been shocked. Instead, a tear slid down my cheek. I felt something inside of me, something in my chest that I couldn’t explain and didn’t have a name for at all. It felt like something was missing from me and I didn’t know what it would be.

“And you stay out of that goddamn cellar.” She frowned at me. “Ain’t nothin’ in there for you.”

I nodded. Oma gave a sharp nod and went to pick up her dish towel.

“You know you’re eventually going to tell me, right?” I reached up to wipe the tear off of my cheek. “You’re just delaying the inevitable. The only thing I don’t know is why, Oma.”

“Robbie,” She growled, “I’m sick of this shit. You’re not here for none of that. And I won’t hear it. Fine. You know about Ernst and the rest. That’s good enough. You leave the rest of that be! I want you to tell me you understand what the fuck I’m sayin’ to you.”

“But why?”

“Why does it matter?” She waggled her head. “When have I ever led you astray, Robbie? Trust that I know what’s best.”

I wanted to spit out some retort about something awful Oma had done to me that had caused me grief in the past. But, when I thought about it, there was absolutely nothing. Oma was right. She had always done right by me.

“Fine.”

“Good.” She gave that sharp nod again. “Now, do you want to wash or dry?”

I laughed wetly, my eyes shiny with unshed tears.

“Dry.” I shrugged. “I guess.”

“Well, get over here and make yourself useful.”