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I didn’t want to continue to hold eye contact with Jay, not while sharing this. Saying things out loud I’d never said all at once before. But it was weak, cowardly to move my eyes from his. With effort, I keep my gaze locked on his.
“She lives on her own now,” I continued. “But she has someone come and check on her daily. To make sure she takes her medicine, stays with her if it’s a bad day. She’s been having a lot of those lately.”
I didn’t tell Jay that it was almost certain that my mother was going to have to be put in to some kind of facility in the near future because it was becoming clear that she was going to be a danger to herself or others soon.
I also didn’t tell Jay that I’d only recently learned of this, having had to all but yank the news from my father. He hadn’t told me because the type of care she needed wasn’t likely to be covered under the insurance he had, so it would have to come out of his pocket. Although I was ignorant of regarding the prices of such facilities, I reasoned it would be quite expensive. Enough to make sure my dad had to live bare again, to work even harder at a time in his life when he should’ve been slowing down, enjoying the benefits of living a frugal and sparing life.
I also didn’t tell Jay that the reality of my father having to sacrifice his lifestyle and his retirement for my mother sickened me and was one of the reasons I was now saying yes to every single job that came my way. I’d planned to start sending money to him as soon as I figured out a way to do it that didn’t involve his knowledge or permission. I knew, no matter what, my father wouldn’t take money from me, but no way in hell did I plan on him having to care for my mom alone.
And finally, I definitely did not tell Jay that approaching my twenty-ninth birthday absolutely terrified me to the point I could barely sleep through the night anymore. My mother had been twenty-nine when her symptoms presented themselves. Her illness was genetic and there was no cure for it. Sure, there were drugs and behavior therapies, some of which had been beneficial to patients, but I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. I’d done all the research and was on a cocktail of vitamins including melatonin, b-vitamins and omega-3 to help ward off the disease before it presented itself.
No, I did not tell Jay any of this. Because of the arrangement, to be sure. And if I followed the rules of the arrangement, I shouldn’t have said a thing about my mother, my father or my upbringing anyway. But I had. And he’d seemed interested, in his own way.
I could’ve said more. If I’d been brave enough. If I hadn’t felt consumed by shame, even though that made no sense. Mental illness, both my mother’s and potentially my own, was nothing to be ashamed of. It was something that needed to be talked about and acknowledged far more. I was more ashamed by the fear that practically crippled me. The uncertainty in my ability to survive such a diagnosis. The dread over being sentenced to a life similar to my mother’s.
In addition to all of that, speaking of all of my fears was far too intimate. I’d given Jay free reign over my body, he had command over me for forty-eight hours every week. But he did not get my fears. That was too personal. You did not share fears with someone you were sleeping with. Fears and wildest dreams were reserved, saved for the man I was going to marry. I hadn’t saved my virginity for him, but he’d get something of me. A large part, since my fear made up almost the whole of me.
I was not going to marry this man, of course. There was absolutely no future here. Regardless, I fought against my instincts. Something inside of me wanted to share everything with Jay. Spill myself at his feet and hope he picked up all the pieces of me.
So I didn’t let myself say anything more. Didn’t let Jay’s silence coax me in to disclosing more. It was a journalism trick, one I’d witnessed many times. Find comfort in awkward silences that most people scrambled to fill, that was where the juicy information was. That was where people shared more than they’d intended because they were so desperate to fill the world with sound.
The silence between us wasn’t awkward. I let myself relax into it, even though parts of me waited for some kind of response from him. Not sympathy or pity, but something else. Maybe a part of him. Something that showed he appreciated me sharing this, something to show he trusted me.
