Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) (42 page)

Chapter 38

Why did I let Aidan do this to me? 

“
Bastard
,”
I whisper, all my childhood insecurities rushing to the surface and taunting:
yo
u’
re not good enough
.
 
“
How could you do this to me
?
”

For the few hours I spent in Aida
n’
s arms, I believed I was someone other than the Goshen Gimp, Berta Colb
y’s“
Crip
.
”
 
I thought I was right.  She was wrong. 

“
Last night meant nothing
,”
I say, sorry for myself.  It did
n’
t.  I was just bait he used to get Robin. 

I watch him walking away, the way his strong shoulders look like the
y’
re challenging the world, the ones I kissed last night.  H
e’
s a stranger now. 

Yo
u’
ll find a way. Trust me. 

He greets his buddies, lobbing a parting shot at me over his shoulder.
 “I’
ll call you soon as I can, Alaina
.
”

“
Go to hell
!
”
 
I dry spit, one of my mothe
r’
s favorite trash behaviors, and then kick the front doo
r’
s glass panel.
 “
Ouch.  Dammit
!
” 

Several LEOs shoot me suspicious glares.

“
Arrest me
,”
I scream, hoping my glare conveys my message to the
m—
and to Aidan.
 “
Big lying-ass cop
,”
I shout.
 “
You used me to get at my brother.  My mother was right.  Never trust a freaki
n
’ LEO
.
”

Like Ang said, I should have Googled this . . . this . .
.“
Pig
,”
I say, hissing toward Aida
n’
s retreating back. 

My cell phone in hand, I call Robin.  Like always, he does
n’
t answer. 

I punch in his speed dial, call again. 

No answer. 

I’
ve got to get to his overnight bag before the LEOs find it, so I make a run for my apartment, and then I do the unthinkable. 

I call Berta Colby.

* * *

This is the phone call
I’
ve been dreading since I first moved away from Goshen.  I had my diploma in one hand, my scholarship in the other, and Robin in my beater car
I’
d bought with money scraped together waitressing at the Fried Pickle, my grandmothe
r’
s restaurant. 

This is the first time
I’
ve spoken with her in four years, but I have no choice.  I
t’
s possible Robin might be hiding at her place
.“
Mom, i
t’
s me
.
”

“
Where the hell are you?  Why have
n’
t you called or visited?  Too good for me, huh
?
”

I remember why Mom and I have
n’
t spoken, or at least one reason why.
 “
Mom, stop yelling
,”
I say, interrupting her rant. 

“
Wha
t’
s wrong?  Are you too good to call yourself a Colby?  Four goddamm years, and I do
n’
t get one word from you, my only daughter, my baby girl . . . not one fucking wor
d
—”

“
Mo
m
—”

I ca
n’
t get her stopped.
 “
Shut up
,”
I yell, feeling a dam of anger bursting inside me.
 “
You want the truth?  You were never there for me.  Never.  What reason do I have to call you or come see you?  What reason do I have to call you my mother
?
”

Silence.  Neither one of us says anything. 
I’
m expecting the usual violent reaction, her curses and crying, a ploy for my sympathy.
 “
White trash drama
,”
Ang called mo
m’
s dysfunctional behavior, although Ang never knew I was
n’
t one-hundred percent white: I never told her.  And sh
e’
d been right every time, except this one.  I get a surprise.

“I’
m sorry, Laney
,”
Berta says, sounding defeated.
 “I’
ve been waiting all this time for you to call, and what do I do?  I piss you off again.  Please accept my apology, baby gir
l
—”

I hear the sorrow in her voice and feel like a little shit for punishing her with my absence all this time.  She really sounds like she means what sh
e’
s saying.  I
t’
s a first.  Her sobs sound real.
 “I’
ve earned that
,”
she blubbers on.
 “
I ca
n’
t believe I hurt you the way I have. 
I’
m sorry, hone
y
—”

I do
n’
t disagree with her.  I also do
n’
t lighten up.
 “
Yes, yo
u’
ve earned it, Berta, and more
.
” 

What about me, though?  Wha
t’
ve I done to earn
her
respect? 

Something tha
t’
s been breaking loose inside me since I was a little girl, those tiny gravels that prevent me from saying the L wor
d—
lov
e—
or having good solid relationships, all the little emotional blocks holding back the avalanche of emotions, bursts loose and starts tumbling free.

Yeah, sh
e’
s an addict. 

Sh
e’
s never been what anyone would call a good mom.

Our ratty trailer in Goshen is
n’
t a Home-a-Rama model.

Berta Colby is no Martha Stewart, although both have done hard time.

Bert
a’
s a heroine addict.

But none of tha
t’
s the point. 

The point is
I’
ve been hurting for the past four years, same as she has, or to be brutally honest,
I’
ve been hurting all my life.  But
I’
ve only got one mom, and
I’
ve ignored her, pretended she did
n’
t exist for my own selfish reasons, afraid of how my friends might react to her coarseness.  I
t’
s time to put on my big girl panties, try to change the terrible dynamic of my famil
y’
s relationship.  I figure the best place to start is with her. 

I need her help.

I need my mom.

I’
m not sorry for calling her out, but
I’
m sorry for not stepping up to the plate and talking to her, for not being a bigger person four years ago.
 “
Mom,
I’
m sorry.  Can we start over
?
” 

I’
m shaking, feeling like I want to cry, but I ca
n’
t.
 “I’
ve missed you, too
,”
I hear myself saying.  Sh
e’
s all
I’
ve got in this world.  Who else could I turn to right now?

W
e’
re laughing and talking, and
I’
m trying hard, but I ca
n’
t cut her short.
 “
I
t’
s your fault
I’
ve not called, Mom
.
”

She laughs.
 “
No, i
t’
s yours, Laney
.
”

When we talk, we try to show whose ideas are best.  I think mine are.  She
knows
hers are.  We argue in circles until one of us gives up, usually me.

She coughs.  Cigarettes have been turning her lungs to tar pits for years.
 “
Wha
t’
s going on, Laney
?”
she asks.
 “
Wh
y’
d you call?  Not that
I’
m not glad
,”
she adds.

I’
ve got another decision to make before I can answer.  One more thing to forgive Berta for, to forgive myself for.  When she was pregnant with me, she jacked heroin into her veins.  I was born a club foot as a result. 
I’
ve held my disability against her, blamed her, looking only at the negative.  I need to focus on the positive. 
I’
m an honor student. 
I’
m preparing to become a LEO, to enter a field that will enable me to support my rag-tag little family. 
I’
m twenty-one, soon to be twenty-two, and finding my own path in life.  Who do I know with those handicaps, especially the messed-up ankle, who could even think about making a tryout video for the Rockett
e’
s jump-the-line competition?

No one.  Tha
t’
s who.

So why ca
n’
t I just get over myself, quit blaming her and be the bigger person?  Yeah, i
t’
s true. 
I’
m working two jobs and taking care of myself and Robin.  Yeah, my lif
e’
s rougher than hell, but so what?  All of this
I’
ve done on my own.  For me.  Alaina Colby. 

Can I forgive her? 

I take a deep breath.
 “
Mom, when I can
I’
d like to see you and talk about something tha
t’
s been bothering me for a long time, but right now
I’
ve got to know if yo
u’
ve seen Robin.  The cop
s’
re looking for him
.
”

              She does
n’
t sound shocked.  Sh
e’
s a Colby.  But she does sound grieved.
 “
Wh
y’
n hell would they be looki
n
’ for Robbie?  H
e’
s a
good
boy
.
”  

“
Mom, I think . . . h
e’
s involved in something really bad this time, like you were with . . . Dadd
y
—”

I do
n’
t finish.  I do
n’
t have to remind her: I was there that night, hunkered down with Robin in the closet behind the laundry basket, listening to the terror of my parents unleashing their anger.  But that does
n’
t matter.  Whatever Berta did, i
t’
s in the past.  I
t’
s going to the grave with u
s—
our secret.  Mo
m’
s.  Daughte
r’
s. 

For a second, my old anger flares.  Why am I giving her a pass?  All of a sudden, the woman who shot my dad, who got by with murder and afterward lived so high on heroin sh
e’
s never been able to be a good mom, is now freaki
n
’
worried
?  And
I’
m down with that?

“
My Robbie would never harm anyone, uh, I mean h
e’
d never break the la
w
—
”
She amends, trying to be more deferential to her daughter, a future LEO.
 “
I know my so
n
—”