Wrecked (Dirty Air 3)
“Bye, Mum and Dad.” I hover over the red button.
Dad’s voice stops me. “Jax. Wait.”
Like a sixth sense for bad news, my spine straightens as a chill rushes through my body. “Yeah?”
My dad’s footsteps carry through the phone, followed by the sound of a door closing. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you. I didn’t want to bother you while you were celebrating last weekend and all.”
“Why do I have a feeling this isn’t good news?”
“It’s not terrible, but it’s not great. Mum’s been having a lot of mood issues lately.”
“She didn’t sound like it.” Way to go making assumptions, Jax. This is ironic coming from a guy who doesn’t look like an anxious piece of shit all the time either.
“The tremors have been getting worse, so the doctor switched her medicine. She’s having difficulty adjusting. They’re heavy-duty stuff, and she’d benefit from some of your attention. If you have the time, of course. I don’t want to burden you.”
I take a deep breath. Guilt surges through me at Dad thinking I’m too busy to help Mum. “I’d do anything to help her. I can call her more and check in.”
The thought alone makes me panic. More phone calls means more anxiety. Seeing as I’ve done a crappy job controlling that so far, I can only imagine what will happen to me with more calls.
If I was brave, I’d open up to my parents and express my concerns. Instead of voicing my feelings, I bottle them up. I can handle this. I need to handle this. “You know family always comes first.”
“That’s what makes you a Kingston.”
How fitting. The same thing that makes me family has the power to destroy me.
My irritability hit a new high after I spoke to my parents earlier. I spent my lunch thinking about skipping this week’s session with Tom, but I decided to attend in all my arsehole glory.
Tom sits across from me in his usual leather chair. “Anything you want to talk about today?”
“Not really.” I stare up at the ceiling and count tiles. Every time I think of my mum, I restart.
After twenty minutes, I still haven’t made it past ten tiles.
I let out an agitated breath. “My mum is sick.” I don’t look at him. Shit must be hitting the fan today because for the life of me, I can’t fathom a good reason why I decided to open up to Tom.
“I’m so sorry to hear that, Jax. From what you’ve shared in the past about her, I can tell she means a lot to you. Her being ill must be extremely difficult for you.”
“It’s the absolute fucking worst. I hate hearing about it. Hate knowing she’s struggling, or that my dad is home helping her while I’m here racing and having fun.”
“It’s completely normal to feel upset about everything you’ve said. And it can’t be easy for you to battle these feelings every week by yourself.”
I let out a deep sigh, hoping to expel some of the negative energy stewing inside of me. “Is it normal to feel upset every single day?”
I don’t know what I’m looking for by opening up to Tom. But I need to vent to someone because I despise the man I’ve become to avoid all the feelings I have about Mum’s illness.
“Of course, it’s normal. I wouldn’t expect anything less from someone who talks about your mom like you do. It shows how much you care.”
“Yeah well, I hate the constant guilty feeling in the pit of my stomach every time they text or call me. And then I hate myself for feeling that way in the first place. I should be grateful to talk to Mum as it is.”
“You can be grateful and still be upset about her being sick. It’s okay to feel like that. If you don’t mind me asking, what illness does your mom have?”
“Does it matter?” I don’t need Tom’s pity about her disease. Those who know about Huntington’s Disease always give us the same look. One that’s a mix of horror and sympathy, as if that does us an
y good.
“It would help me have a better grasp of the kind of situation you’re dealing with, but I understand if you’re not ready for that.”
“I’m not.”