Blaze

10. Silence Chokes

I wipe my pearly eyes—nobody notices, I think—and turn away, all in the same motion, all with shaking hands. Resist the urge to sniffle. But the world keeps turning back to a smudge. My sight loses borders and focus.

Eventually, after blinking furiously, I can see.

Austin and Jackie are propping Mother up into one of the kitchen chairs, at her request. I watch them go about it with a raging head. Their arms are strong and sure, unlike mine. Unlike me. 

"Good," she says. She laughed so much her voice sounds used.

Jackie backs away immediately (she seems eager to), but Austin still hovers. He isn't shy about his wet eyes; he makes no effort to clear his tired, wet face.

Mother laughed. I told her Tim was dead. And she laughed.

She's insane.

I think.

"Cameron." We all tense at this. But her voice is even now, back to its usual half-volume. "What happened exactly?"

If there were tears in Jackie's eyes (she's looking at Mother, and there aren't), they would be boiling. They would evaporate. They would burn and make smoke.

Austin looks from me to Mother, and back again.

Dust in my nostrils. Dust in my mouth. I want to cough it up and out. Instead I inhale and swallow. Almost sneeze.

Say it. Say it. Say it.

I say it. I tell her everything. Words part a path between my lips and just fall out. Like vomit.

And when I tell her how Tim died, with the weight of meaning, all is silent.

She doesn't laugh.

She believes me.

---

Jackie fidgets in place, wanting to speak. It should worry me to see someone with bronzed skin so pale.

After shooting her a quick look, Austin leans in to whisper something to Mother, whose face looks like someone drew heavy curtains closed over it. Mother shakes her head, then nods. He doesn't dart off; he trudges (conserving energy is a must), and there's the distant sound of a cough.

"I'm sorry." Jackie teeters, blinking like her eyes are covered by a film. "I'm sorry, but I need to go."

Mother doesn't move or acknowledge her.

Doesn't laugh.

I'm sorry.

I'm the one who should be apologizing.

She teeters again. Then her legs fall into place, into motion, and her arms are swinging, and the room is still. She moves like a puppet controlled by thick metal strings; she moves like she's made of thick metal strings.

"Jackie," I say (she doesn't stop), "don't be selfish."

She's at the door.

"I'm not being—"

"Don't—" My voice is hardening.