You're Not Enough

Chapter 18

I miss my mom.

She texted me this morning telling me to have a wonderful day at school. I responded with a simple heart emoji. I never thought I would say this, but I miss her bursting into my room without knocking, and I miss her asking me every ten minutes am I okay.

I miss her being on her phone, always yelling at her co-workers about the case they were working on. "Keep digging, Keep looking" were the words she often used.

My mother is very passionate about her work. I know its because of her past life. Her life before having a big house, fancy cars, having a husband, having me.

She grew up on the south side of Chicago. From what she tells me, it's awful, she never goes into details as to how bad it is, but she always explained to me that she became a lawyer because of all the injustice she saw daily on the streets.

My dad told me once that one of her friends was shot and killed right outside of their home by a police officer. I remember him explaining to me that the friend hadn't done anything; it was a case of mistaken identity.

He also told me she had another friend who was murdered by a rival gang in the city. I've never asked my mother about it. I can never bring myself to ask her about her life in Chicago. I know that must have been a tough time for her, and I'm pretty sure she doesn't want to re-live it; I know I wouldn't.

I feel selfish when I get jealous of my mom's work. I'm jealous because it takes up so much of her time with me. She travels all the time going from this state to that state, all for a case. She works so hard to clear the name of her clients; the more time she spends with them, the more time it takes her away from me.

Her job is essential; I know that. She has saved so many innocent people from being thrown into jail, and I know she's worked hard to get criminals thrown in. But I can't help envy them sometimes.

I envy the time she spends with her clients; I envy how they get to see her every day, and yet I spend nights holding onto the memory of her face.

She saw me grow up, but she was never really here. In and out was this households norm. They would come back for birthdays; they came to my volleyball games. We spent some weekends together, and we always took a family vacation once a year. But for me, it was never enough.

Does that make me selfish? Or does that just make me a kid longing for the attention of her parents?

No, I'm not selfish. I always pretended like I was okay with them traveling, I acted like everything was ok because I wanted them to enjoy their life, I never wanted to burden them with my emotions and my problems. I wanted them never to regret having me, and while I allowed them to enjoy their lives doing what they loved to do, I was dying on the inside; I was crushed because I felt forgotten.

Instead of talking to them about it, I found relief in cutting. I always felt like cutting was my way out. Every time I cut, I felt like a different person; I was a person teetering on the edge of life or death. When I cut, I went into a trance with just me and my thoughts.

A high was what it was, just as Rachel described it.

I can't stop. I love the feeling; I love it, I do. It is an addiction.

I have an addiction.

"Jayda." My dad calls me from downstairs. I climb back into my room from the low roof that I occasionally sit out on. I shut my window then head downstairs. He's in his study. "Hey, Jay, I wanted to get your opinion on something. Come over," he says.

I walk over behind his desk. He points at the computer screen. There are two cars on the screen. One is a black two-door red Ferrari. The other is a two-door jet black Lamborghini.

"Oh my god. Dad, are you getting me a car!?" I jokingly ask.

"Uh, no. You don't even have your license." He says.

I knew he wasn't, but I just wanted to ask. "Just cause I don't have a license doesn't mean I can't drive. As a matter of fact, you let me drive your car that week mom went out of town." I say, smiling at him, reminiscing the past.

"We vowed to never talk about that again; your mother would kill me if she ever found out." The smile he once had on his face has now faded; he misses my mother; I can tell he looks back at the screen. "I'm supposed to present two cars to the Adams family in two weeks. Their son goes to your school. Ryder Adams, do you know him?"

I cringe just hearing his name. "Yeah, I know him. Well, I've heard of him; we don't really know each other."

"Hm, well good. I've heard things about him and his temper."

"His temper?" I ask.

"Yes. Don't worry about it, though. Just stay away from him." he says sternly. "Anyways, his dad is planning on buying him a car, something about him getting into UC Berkeley. His father, Josiah Adams, wants to buy from my dealership. So I just need your opinion on the two cars I'm going to present to him. he turns the screen around so I can get a better look. Is this something a teenage boy would like?"

"You want my opinion?" I look at him with wide eyes.

"Yessss." He draws out the word.

I look back at the cars on the screen."The black one.

"That's my girl. That's the same one I picked." He looks at me; his bright smile is back, his phone rings. He turns around and answers it. "Mr. Diesel, yes, right now is fine," he says.

Well, so much for bonding; thats my cue to go.

I walk away from his desk. "Wait a second!" he says into the phone, "Jay," he calls me. He removes the phone from his ear and covers the bottom with his hand. I stop and turn around. "If things keep going how they're going, I'll get you an even better car." I nod and smile. "I won't belong." He lies.

I exit the room closing the door behind me. Me and him both know he won't be getting off the phone anytime soon.

...

My phone rings for a second time. It's on my desk. It has to be like three in the morning. The first time it rang, I let it. I wasn't getting out of my bed to get it. Now it rings a second time; it won't stop. I crawl out of my bed and pick the phone up.

"Jayda." The familiar voice says.

"Ryder," I say groggily.

"Why didn't you answer?" He asks.

"Because it's three in the morning. What do you want?" I ask, with irritation in my voice.

"Um, the assignment," he says vaguely.

"Are you freaking kidding me? You called me at three in the morning; you had the whole night."

"I was busy." He shouts.

"Ok, well, so am I," I say back.

"You're not doing anything." He snarls.

"I am."

"What?"

"Sleeping." I remove the phone from my ear and hang up. I hold the button on the side and turn it off. For some reason, I feel like he will call back. Why would he call at three in the morning?