R J Hembree - Writers' Village University

22
over her shoulders.
***
After a month on the new medication, Jake was better. It seemed like a
miracle. Miriam helped him settle into a place in Campburg and found him a
decent used car for a reasonable price. The money she’d been saving for her trip to
Florida was just enough to buy it. His book agent gave him an old laptop so he
could write again.
***
Tears burned Miriam’s eyes. She clutched her purse as if it would keep her
from falling apart. Jake’s car was parked amid broken daisies and squashed
petunias in front of his apartment. She’d hoped that it would work out in this
place. He’d promised to stay on his new medication. She’d prayed that this time he
would.
The apartment manager stalked out of his office and over to her, barely
containing his anger, “Get him out of here. Clean the apartment, write me a check
for the flowers, new carpeting and paint, and I won’t call the police.”
He followed Miriam to the front door. She went in. He stayed outside. Her
nose stung from the smell of rotting food and cedar incense. Jake sat, eyes closed,
on the bed in the middle of the studio apartment. He swayed back and forth. Wax
from the candles surrounding him pooled into congealed blobs on the blanket.
She remembered the words of the psychiatrist, “If you keep solving the
problems he creates, he’ll never take responsibility for his own mental health.” But
he was her son. How could she abandon him?
“Jake?”
He didn’t respond. Stacks of books, magazines and newspapers lay
everywhere. She picked her way into the room. The walls were covered with
pictures of Dylan Thomas. A sticky amber substance dripped from under each
photo. She touched it. Honey. Open newspapers covered the floor by the
kitchenette counter. When she stepped on them, eggshells crumbled beneath her
feet. She walked to the bed and blew out the candles.
Jake’s eyes popped open. “What are you doing, Mom?”
Miriam met his gaze, but he looked away. “What are you doing, Jake?”
“I’m contacting Dylan Thomas. You’ve ruined everything.” He swept the
candles off the bed.
“Why are there newspapers covering eggs on the floor?” Perspiration formed
on her underarms. Fatigue draped itself over her shoulders.
“I dropped them, but I didn’t have time to clean up, so I covered the floor
with paper so I could walk in there.” He pulled a piece of soft wax from the bed and
kneaded it.