Page 17 of Jacob Michaels is Not Here

Lucas smelled like bacon, but not because he had eaten any—he had just been in the kitchen while Oma had made breakfast. He had planned to leave the house as soon as he got bathed and then head straight to work, but Oma had insisted that he eat something first. While he had been in the kitchen with Oma while she cooked breakfast, I had gotten bathed and dressed. By the time I had made my way into the kitchen, Lucas was wiping his mouth with his napkin and getting up from the table. When I entered the kitchen, Oma shot me a furtive glance and went back to eating her breakfast. Lucas attempted to pick up his plate to take it to the sink, but Oma waved at him as if to say: “I’ll take care of that.” He shot her a smile and a wink and turned to me.

“You clean up nicely.” He chuckled before grabbing me and pulling me into him. “Very nicely.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” I replied, giving him a quick smooch as Oma decided her food was very interesting. “You off to work?”

“Yeah.” Lucas sighed happily as he stared into my eyes. “Grandpa is needy. Are we having dinner?”

“Your house?” I suggested. “Seven?”

Lucas gave me a wink and a lingering kiss before finally forcing himself to let go of me. He thanked Oma for a delicious breakfast and headed for the door. He turned in the kitchen doorway, as though he forgot something.

“I love you.” He smiled at me.

“I love you, too,” I replied.

My boyfriend beamed at me, looking as though leaving was a struggle, but somehow managed to force himself to exit the kitchen and head for the front door. I turned to Oma, and we locked eyes as we listened for Lucas to actually leave. We listened to his footsteps through the living room, the foyer…then the front door opened and closed and we were left with silence. Oma looked up at me as I stood on the opposite side of the table, her face impassive as I looked down at her. Since there was nothing else that could be done, I slid into the seat that Lucas had vacated, pushing his plate aside. It had nearly been licked clean.

“You didn’t say anything to him,” Oma said.

It wasn’t a question.

“What’s for breakfast?”

“You made the right choice.” She said.

“What’s for breakfast?”

“So now you ain’t gonna talk to me?”

“I’m talking to you,” I said. “I’m inquiring about breakfast.”

“Look here—”

“You told me not to talk about it,” I said, then mimicked her. “Not even to you. Don’t even think about it if you can help it. So…what’s for breakfast?”

“Biscuits, gravy, bacon…or you can have biscuits and jelly like Lucas did if you want.” She snapped.

“I wish I had a nice bagel with cream cheese.” I sat back and stared at her. “I wish there was a decent coffee shop within ten miles of this town. I wish that—”

“Oh, shut the hell up,” Oma growled.

“Why?” I shrugged. “No one’s listening anymore anyway.”

“We don’t know that.”

“So…what now?” I asked. “We go on like this until whatever happens…happens? Wait until shit goes down?”

I wasn’t dumb enough to reference him directly.

“I mean, I’ve had a decade of practice,” I suggested. “I can act like everything is a-oh-fucking-kay for as long as it takes, I guess. But that’s not really a plan for the long-term, is it?”

“Ya’ got a better one?” Oma seemed to deflate as she set her fork alongside her plate and looked at me from across the table.

Oma was never one to look defeated or at a loss—she always had a plan or scheme of some kind or at least a smart retort for anything anyone said. Looking across the table at my grandmother with absolutely no guidance from her made me feel more nervous than I had felt in a very long time. Of course, I hadn’t exactly taken her advice to stay away from the well in the cellar, so how could I expect her to guide me along for whatever came after? Suddenly, I very much felt like the asshole I had been for many years.

Visiting the cellar and the well the first time—a decade prior—had been my choice, even though Oma had warned me against it. Going back to the cellar and jumping into the well in the middle of the night had been my choice, too, even though she had warned me against it. Oma didn’t have a plan for what would happen if I came back to Point Worth and reversed what I had done in the first place because she never thought it would happen. She had stuck with the route of going along with the whole “Rob was a teenage runaway who became a big Hollywood star” scenario for the rest of her life if she could have. She had known that not all magic was powerful enough to shield us forever, but she had hoped. She certainly hadn’t counted on wishes having an expiration date, either.

“I’m sorry,” I said.