Messed Up Vita

Chapter Twenty-Four

I know I'm dragging this story on and on and it's only been a week in the story. Sorry about that, but I promise it all leads up to something big and sweet in the story. No more hints, though. 

One more won't hurt. (she gets to see her mom, but i'm not saying how or where!)

thank you for your patience with my story line, and I hope you like it :) I need to add more Eliot fierceness in here. . . 

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Joey lets go and stands to his feet, straightening his jacket back over his shoulders. He has a black simple tee-shirt underneath with a pattern of white slashes across the front that looks like scratch marks. He looks more decent, except for his hair. 

   I point to his head. "Your hair."

   "What about it?" he asks.

   I shake my head. "Nothing. See yah later, Jo."

   He smiles and scrunches up his eyes. "Jo? That's like, the most simplest nickname there is."

   I huff. "Fine. See you later, Jellybean."

   "Too lovey-dovey," he says, scrunching up his nose. He turns the knob, and a rush of cold air sweeps throughout the room. "How about Death-head?"

   I chuckle. "Death-head? Because your hair is black?" 

   "Exactly," he says. "You have to start calling me that. See yah."

   "Wear your glasses!" I call out right before he shuts the door. "Did you hear me, loser?" But he's already gone, and I huff and turn away back to the TV. My Dad's going to be home soon, realizing I wasted ten minutes talking to him. It's five-fifty, and I still need to fall asleep. I lay my head back down and throw the covers back over me, huddling beneath it's warmth.

   The next thing I know I'm in darkness, the world blotted out temporarily in a peaceful glide.

   I dream that I'm in a long meadow, wheat brushing against my legs gently. I comb my fingers through them, the seeds all moving softly in the wind. In my dream, my hair seems to be short, around my neck. 

   But my attention is on the tall slender figure a few yards away. Her also brown hair falls in a braid around her shoulder, her hair escaping and blowing around her face. She had her big black glasses on, but you could clearly see her beautiful face beneath them. She was wearing jeans and a loose white shirt, which also flows in the wind like the wheat. She reaches out a hand, and I want to take it in mine. But my hands are tied around my waist. My struggles won't free them-- they make it even harder to pull.

   "Mom," I croak, my voice feeling a thousand miles away.

   She doesn't answer, but smiles. 

   "Come home," I plead. I step forward, but she gets farther away, and her image flickers like an old TV set. "Please. . . " My voice disappears completely, and I can't talk. She has one more painful expression on her face before she dissolved in the air. 

   "Eliot," a voice echos over the darkening meadow. "You left her!"

   I snap awake, my eyes opening with a quick pop. Instead of somebody sitting over me, I tilt my head to the side to see them a few feet away, arguing loudly. I quickly close my eyes and still my body. Okay, this was eavesdropping. But what were they saying about me?

   "She was sick!" my father angrily tells Linda. I can't see her reaction, but I know she's defensive. "But you left her here all by herself. What if she became more ill?"

   "She was fine when I went to pick her up!" Linda retorts. "I think she was faking to come home."

   That wasn't the purpose, but it was close enough. I keep my mouth shut.

   "She's never skipped school voluntarily before," my dad tells her. "That isn't like her to do that. You should've stayed home, or at least called me!"

   "You couldnt've came home anyways!" Linda snaps back. "You would've told me to stay, like my job wasn't as important as yours." Silence tells both of us that she's won that part of the quarrel. However horrible it was, it was true. It's not like he doesn't love either of us, but he need his job to get money.

   Dad's about to say something, but I want to stop this argument from further hurt. I groan and stretch, opening my eyes. They silence immediately, and Linda passes my Dad a glare. She turns around and walks into their room, shutting the door fairly hard.

   "Hey, El," Dad says, walking forward. He sits on the edge of the couch. "Feel better?"

   I shrug. "Kinda. I think the sleep helped a little."

   He manages a forced smile. "That's good."

   I pause for a moment, and then ask, "This week can I visit Mom?"

   "Of course you can," he says gently.

   "Who's going to take me?" I ask. He puts my backpack on the ground, and stands to his feet. He walks over to the kitchen and takes off a pan before answering.

   "She might have to come and get you," he replies. "If you really wanted to still go."

   "I do," I insist. I sniffle a couple times. "I haven't seen her in a month and five days."

   "You counted?" he asks, taking out some spices, eggs, and the milk carton and places them on the counter. When he reaches for the bread, I know that he's making french toast. He makes them at least once a week, mainly.

   "I know when I leave her house," I admit. "But I love you both equally. You know that."

   He doesn't pause to question me, thankfully. "Good. I want you to be in touch with your mother, Eliot." He doesn't continue, and I get the hint. No more of this topic. I look down and realize I haven't put away my pictures. I quickly reach for them, but he was closer. With a mischievous grin, he snatches them up before I can grasp them. He's never seen my pictures-- I've always kept them hidden away, only to be seen by few people.

   I glower at him. "Give em' back, Dad."

   "These are nice," he says, flipping through them with interest. He suddenly stops, and gazes at one. I look at the back of it and realize it's the one of Mom, where she's sitting on a swing with her hair over one shoulder. She had jeans and a big tee-shirt on that belonged to my dad. She was laughing at how he fell over, and I managed to get her bright grin. She had dimples that I hadn't inherited, and she looked like she was in her young thirties. It was my favorite picture of her.

   He falters and puts them back down on the table, clearing his throat. "I'll have dinner ready in half an hour." He turns around without a word and starts to mix them together halfheartedly. My heart breaks in half to see him like that, like he truly misses her. 

   I start to wonder if he still loves Mom. If he does, it's not too late. She's not married, but he would have to divorce Linda. Was that too much trouble, just to break somebody's heart to get back together with the woman that he ditched? After all, he was the main one who wanted a divorce. It took me and awfully long time to forgive him for that, and they've only been married for barely a year. Linda and Dad had their anniversary last month.

   "I'm going to bed for a while," I say, standing to my feet. I pick up the pictures with a scoop of my hand and walk back to my room, leaving him alone in the kitchen.