Page 94 of Into the Dark

“So who should I say…?” I leave the question open for her, but instead of filling it she just smiles and steps away from the door, giving me a half-wave thing. Her shoulders drop as she turns away, and then she’s moving quickly down the corridor toward the lift.

Perplexed and unsettled, I stare after her a moment. When she hits the button for the elevator, something propels me after her.

“Wait!” I call, hurrying toward her. “Hold on.”

She looks a little scared now, her light golden glow fading a little. “Who are you? What do you want with Jake?” It’s a little harsh, but I can’t help it. This woman has turned up at his house acting odd, and now she wants to skitter off without a single explanation?

She stares at me for a long time—too long. Then she swallows and lifts her chin up almost proudly. “I’m his mother,” she says.

My mouth drops open. Then the bottom drops out of my stomach.

My eyes are open too wide. My mouth too.

His mother.

Jake’s mother.

Here.

Oh my god.

I regard her in a whole new way then, examining every feature that now seems to scream their similarities at me. The eye color: a shade lighter than Jake’s, but a very close match. The nose: long and straight and widening slightly at the bottom. Her mouth is different though, and so I gather he gets that from his father. But stand them side by side and I know I’d see more than a passing resemblance. Because she’s his mother.

Oh my good god. I feel ill.

Despite the hammering in my chest, I sound remarkably calm. “Then you should come inside and wait for him. He won’t be much longer.”

She looks hesitant, but only for moment, before she nods once. “Okay then.”

Dazed, I turn back toward the door of Jake’s flat, and she follows quietly behind me, her heels making no noise on the carpeted hallway. When I hold the door open to welcome her inside she steps across the threshold as if she’s entering consecrated ground, not her son’s home.

With the door closed, I gesture ahead to the living area, and she walks on into the large space, her head turning to look around and up with interest. She turns one full circle before becoming aware of my eyes on her. Then she stops looking around and straightens up, curiosity turning to sharp-eyed interest.

“You live here? With him?” she asks.

I realize I haven’t even properly introduced myself yet. I step forward ready to shake her hand but decide the gesture is too formal. This is Jake’s mother. His estranged mother, granted, but his mother nonetheless. So I drop my hand back by my side and offer her a warm smile instead.

“No, we don’t live together. I’m Alex, by the way. It’s really nice to meet you.”

“Susan. Nice to meet you too.”

“Can I get you a tea? Coffee? Something cold to drink?”

“Umm…tea would be nice, actually. Just milk, please,” she says, wringing her birdlike hands together. She doesn’t have Jake’s hands either.

I nod. “Sure. Go sit down and I’ll bring it in.” I point to the sofa behind her, and she nods before moving toward it.

While I make the tea I observe her looking about the room again with rapt curiosity. First at the shelves holding his records and a few photos of Caleb, and then at his entertainment center below the large TV on the wall, across to his worn leather chair and the guitar resting beside it. She even leans over to gaze curiously at the Men’s Health magazine I discarded on the coffee table when I went to answer the door.

I hand her the tea and take my own and sit down across from her on his brown leather armchair. She looks very nervous now, her shoulders bunched up as she grips her teacup and her arms reined in tight by her sides as though she’s trying to take up as little space as possible in Jake’s flat. I wonder if maybe sitting the way I am across from her, as though I might be about to interview her, may be adding to her discomfort. Shifting my body into a more relaxed position, I tuck my legs up under me and sip at my tea. Then I study her.

She doesn’t look like the alcoholic child neglector Jake’s description of her conjured. Her face is lined, yes, but just in the way a fifty-year-old woman’s might be without the use of expensive preservation methods. She’s well-dressed and neatly groomed, attractive even. She brings the mug to her mouth and blows on it softly before sipping quietly from it.

“I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing here,” she says. “He told you about me, I take it?”

“Very little,” I admit. It’s the truth. I know very little of her except for what Jake told me on our first date. Since that sad story about cold, starving children and football boots that were too small, he’s never uttered another word about her. I’m not wondering what she’s doing here, though, because that much is obvious. She wants to see her son.

Susan sips again. She doesn’t blow this time. “I always told him I’d come back for him. He probably thought it would be long before now though.”