We got a runner!
The taunt ran through Jason’s mind as he parked in the driveway of his childhood home, the suburban San Diego neighborhood coming to life with the dawn of a new day.
He didn’t bother arguing with himself. He was running. Like the devil was nipping at his heels. Rightfully so, too.
He wasn’t like the rest of them. His teammates. Dedicated operators first, but family men too, with devoted wives who baked banana bread and still gave head. Operators with cute kids who stood knee-high and clung to their legs like monkeys, screaming bloody murder when they left for deployment.
It was spooky how those kids knew.
Knew they were going to a place where a distracted thought, a wayward step, or a heavy breath could get them shot, maimed, or straight-up dead. All for Uncle Sam. And for other countries too. Some rich, some poor, but all forsaken. Where sunken-eyed children would gaze at an American servicemember as if he were a god, then train mightily as they grew into premature manhood, so they might one day kill him.
His teammates, Luke included, were spending this rare leave with their loved ones, enjoying quality time and everyday normal life. Either eventful or mundane, any day home was precious. If there was banana bread and head involved, then the mood when they went wheels up would be decidedly jovial.
Jason understood the importance, but knew it wasn’t for him. Never would be.
And if, in the dark recesses of his mind, he contemplated having those things—a family of his own—he just needed a reminder that he was wired differently.
That reminder was this house. And the shell of a woman who resided here.
The running was about the woman residing naked in a purple bed, blissfully sleeping off her drunk, with no clue she had him tied up in knots.
Mind reeling, he couldn’t stop thinking about her, even as he repaired the warped rollers on the garage door, then replaced a handful of sprinkler heads so the grass of a home fit for the family he’d never have would literally be greener.
The irony was not lost on him.
The chores delayed him from dealing with what was in the house, but it didn’t do shit to distract him from what was in the purple bed.
Christ, he might never not think about her. Or those pretty pink nipples, upturned and pouty, with mouthwatering peaks he could curl his tongue around. She’d flashed him those amazing tits and he’d caved. He’d even stood in the doorway of her motel room, wondering if she made banana bread. Hence, the running.
But, after spending an hour on landscape repairs and another thirty minutes cleaning the garage, there was one situation he could no longer run from.
Entering through the back door, he stepped into a kitchen frozen in time.
“Mom?” he called out, the habit from boyhood ingrained.
Rooster-themed wallpaper, an avocado green refrigerator, and silence greeted him.
Jason knew not to expect a warm welcome. That was a lesson learned when a beat-up ten-speed was his primary mode of transportation.
He could still remember it, though. Having a mom who hugged. He also remembered being a typical twelve-year-old when an innocent knock at the door brought two uniformed police officers and news that his life would never be the same. That was when the hugs stopped. When his mom, at least as he’d always known her, simply… stopped.
The physical fact that she still had a pulse and breathed air meant absolutely nothing.
Tightening a leaky pipe under the kitchen sink with a pair of channel lock pliers, his head and shoulders were inside the cabinet when sneakers and scrub pants approached.
“Hey there, stranger. You’re a sight for sore eyes.” Katie leaned down to wave, then backed up when he slid out.
“How’s it going?” Turning the faucet on and off, he tested for drips, barely glancing at her. “Everything fine?”
He knew it was. His mother’s patient log was updated throughout the day, then emailed to him for review at week’s end. If any emergencies arose, they’d email that info as well. If he was in the field, they’d call his CO. No outside communication was standard protocol during missions.
“Status quo, for the most part,” she said breezily. “Her blood pressure spiked yesterday, but it’s leveling out today. Odd, but nothing to worry about unless it happens again. These days, we’re eating a lot of pudding and watching a lot of game shows. Not much more.”
There wasn’t anything odd about his mother’s BP spike. She was coherent enough to read a calendar.
“Good to know.” Small talk wasn’t his thing, especially when it involved a flirty nurse.
His obligatory visits were infrequent, but he tried to time them during Betty’s shift. The home health care agency had four primary caregivers and two secondary backups on a twenty-four-seven rotation, assisting his mother with everything from nutrition and personal care, to administering medicine and escorting her to doctor’s appointments.
Years ago, just after BUD/S and before he left for six months of SQT—SEAL Qualification Training—Jason set up the detailed care plan with the agency, covering the staff, services, and supplies required to keep her functioning comfortably.
Given his long absences, it was the only option beyond an assisted-living facility, something his non-communicative mother had made clear wasn’t happening. She couldn’t be trusted not to make a break for it, an unstable escapee with a pudding addiction.
“Okay, well…” She hesitated, then gestured toward the sink. “Thanks for fixing that. And the sprinklers too. She likes to sit on the porch swing in the evening, and the brown patches in the yard were upsetting her. How long are you in town?”
“Not long. A few days.”
She followed him into the dining room, where tall stacks of mail sat on the bureau. He managed the household bills remotely, but the agency was instructed to set aside all mail delivered to the house, allowing him to sort through it personally. It’d be easier if he switched to a P.O. Box instead of the traditional mailbox at the curb, but forwarding through the Postal Service only lasted a year. That meant any letters would be returned to sender.
Her letters.
“If you’re bored, I’m hosting a barbecue at my house tonight. You could come, if you want. There’ll be cold kegs and short ribs. Maybe a heated game of darts.”
Flipping through months of junk mail, he looked for an envelope addressed to him specifically, his name written in a familiar script. There it was, in heavier card stock than usual, the envelope a pale shade of pink.
Postmarked yesterday, July twenty-ninth.
“Jason?”
Tearing his gaze from the letter, he shrugged. “No time. Sorry.”
She smiled, unfazed. It was the same answer he always gave.
“More beer for the rest of us.” Pointing to the ceiling, she headed for the back door. “I’ll give you two some privacy. My shift ends in twenty minutes and Betty’s on her way to relieve me. She’s bringing strawberry pie as a surprise.”
Distracted, he murmured his thanks.
His usual urgency to slice the envelope open and devour the contents wasn’t there. A radical change that occurred sometime around the moment a bride walked into a bar. Instead, he waited, planning to read it once he finished with his mother and hopped back in his truck.
The unprecedented hesitation could be explained in one word.
Tessa.
But right now, he had another woman to deal with.
Jogging up the stairs, he headed down the hallway, passing his old bedroom without a glance. An undisturbed layer of dust covered the bittersweet memories, that time in his life a thousand years ago.
“Mom, it’s Jason. You home?” It was a rhetorical question.
He knew he’d find her in the master bedroom, sitting in an upholstered armchair that should’ve seen a landfill years ago. The fabric, once a red cabbage rose print, was worn through, the cushions flattened with age. The TV was tuned to the Game Show Network, the volume so high he didn’t think she could hear herself think.
She didn’t seem to hear anything, for that matter. Hadn’t for a good, long time now.
Leaning over her frail body, he touched her shoulder softly. “Mom?”
Her movements wooden, she looked up and for a moment, her vacant eyes brightened, coming back to life. Her dry lips formed a little O, enhancing her grooved cheeks.
He knew what she was thinking. They’d been through this before.
Her brief show of emotion was a cruel trick of her mind, far removed from reality. She wasn’t seeing her son.
She was seeing someone she loved considerably more.
Within seconds, lucidity—loosely defined, in her case—returned, and she looked back at the game show without a word, dismissing him with an owlish blink.
Jason always wondered whether it was his appearance spurring her coldness, or if she simply didn’t have enough love in her heart for another human being. Not even her own flesh and blood. Certainly not herself.
He assessed the bedroom, the usual combination of eucalyptus and moth balls permeating the air. The bed dipped in the center and he made a mental note to have a new mattress delivered before he deployed again. Hopefully, it would be easier than replacing the chair. Turned out his mother could give a tree hugger in Berkeley a run for her money, because she’d held tight to that worn-out, ratty chair and refused to move, the confused delivery men unable to replace it with the new one he’d purchased.
Now there was something she loved. A goddamn chair.
Looking back at her, he saw a lone tear roll down her cheek and he cursed under his breath, wondering for the hundredth time why he bothered. If his presence didn’t hurt more than help.
This was the way every visit went, and he’d long ago hardened himself to the rejection. There would never be joyful hellos or tearful goodbyes in his life. Hadn’t been in a damn long time and that was fine. It made life simpler.
No banana bread, no monkeys, no complications.
Which didn’t explain his need to find Matilda. Or his even greater—and growing—need for the train wreck known as Tessa Johns.
He was a fairly smart man, skilled in biological and chemical warfare, and advanced military tactics. He had complex explosives and weapons knowledge, with a little emergency medical training thrown in. And he was fully aware his childhood had fucked him up royally, screwing him over for any chance of a permanent relationship, healthy or otherwise.
“How’re you doing, Mom? Feeling okay these days?”
The mattress groaned when he sat down, speaking to her as if she’d asked him how he’d been in the months since his last visit.
“Been out of the States mostly, in some God-awful countries. Some where there isn’t enough food to go around. Some where the air smells like a sewer, which is a relief since it covers up the stench of dead livestock. Some where women aren’t allowed to talk or show their skin. Can you believe that? A person isn’t a person if they’re born female. You’d hate it.” Unsolicited, Tessa flashed in his mind. “I just met somebody who’d hate it too. She’d probably stage a revolution.”
He should’ve grabbed aloe vera gel along with the Pepto. Her skin would sting this morning, sunburnt from her walk to the Last Stop.
“Ran into a few snags along the way,” he continued, filling her in on his last deployment, as if she were listening. “A near-miss or two, but that’s part of the fun. Happy I won’t be stuck in any dust storms for a while. Eating sand isn’t as bad as it sounds, but it jams my weapons. The muggy air in a Columbian rainforest isn’t much better, though. It’s heavier than coastal humidity. You take a shower, but you never dry off. Kicks my ass every time.”
He waited for her reply. Maybe a pop to the mouth for swearing.
No such luck.
Running an impatient hand through his hair, he allowed the bottled-up frustration to show. Would a fucking acknowledgment kill her?
“Has Katie been taking good care of you? Your sheets are clean and your hair’s brushed, so she must be. She’s getting you to your doctor’s appointments, right? Making sure you eat?”
Silence. Barely the blink of an eye.
Her attention never left Vanna White, watching as she turned letters to a word puzzle.
Biting back a vile curse, he left the house in favor of the garage, tinkering until Betty arrived and he could bounce. She was his mother’s favorite, and the only one she spoke to. Not long conversations, but enough to communicate her wants and needs, so her goddamn mouth wasn’t broken. Betty sent the weekly emails, updating him on her mindset, and rare, lucid moments when reality broke through.
The reports were always benign and predictable. She was stable, meeting regularly with her doctors, and taking her medications. There’d been no more incidents.
Once retirement came, he planned no changes to her care. Consistency was key.
He hung around long enough to greet her when she arrived, getting a rundown on the mental health of a highly-depressed, barely-functioning woman.
Guilt brought him back to the bedroom one last time. “Mom?”
Nothing.
“I’m heading out. Probably won’t be back for a while. Months, maybe.” Longer, probably, her snubs taking a toll.
Not so much as a peep.
“Betty’s downstairs. She brought strawberry pie today.” That netted him an inquisitive look, but no verbal response.
“I’m not supposed to tell you that, though, so when she brings you a slice, do me a favor and act surprised.”
A musical sound effect drew her attention away, a new puzzle starting.
“Fuck,” he mouthed, wondering why it was so goddamn hard for her to say something to him. “Her name’s Tessa, in case you’re wondering. The woman I just met. She’s a funny, beautiful wreck.”
One he’d walked away from.
“Maybe—” he stopped short, swallowing hard. “Maybe she’d be someone you’d want to talk to? She makes it easy. I think you’d like her.”
If you were still you.
Giving up, Jason turned to leave, pausing in the doorway. “Take care, okay? I’ll see you later.”
Only the high-pitched, tinny sounds of Wheel of Fortune answered him.