Jared

He is saponaceous, unctuous with no follow-through. He slips by sputtering scores of apologies after I raise my eyebrow once, convincing me of his reform. Only, as soon as I relax my face he resumes his disobedience. It is as if my facial expressions act as a traffic light directing him. I would like to have my eyebrows permanently raised: botox for a nanny, stoplights for his living. Like a traffic cop, I pace the hallway, catching him playing with matches, cursing on the phone, bingeing from his stash of candy. I am the nark. I spend the vacation pacing.

He is soft. I often wonder if there are bones underneath his layers of fat, three inches deep all around. His anger may be his only support. Barging through the door one day, he yells on repeat, “Self Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus!” He still doesn’t have it memorized, even after the loud minute. The rest of us just stare silently, waiting for the episode to pass. “He’s a bad kid” his sister remarks phlegmatically without looking up. When he leaves we resume where we left off in The Great Gatsby.

Concluding the chapter, I go to check on him. He is slipping like always. This time, it is on his chair as he sways back and forth trying to maintain a forty-five degree angle with the ground. He falls instead. I sigh. The whole scenario tips his mother, who has stationed herself in the room, over the edge. “Jared!” she yells, “you are nothing but a failure!” Other loud vulgarities erupt from inside of her. Jared, still lying in the position he fell in, has been reduced to exactly what she accuses. He doesn’t bother getting up.

Jared has a science test the next day. He does not do well in science. In fact, there aren’t many areas in which he excels. I can list them: sautéing zucchini, playing video games, catching a cab, and doing algebra in his head. Despite the meager list, I argue that he is the smartest of the three children. His mind, when engaged is sharp and intelligent. Engagement is the problem. There are several problems.

Jared’s dad is gone. He moved out of the house about six years ago, as soon as the divorce was announced. He only moved three blocks away, but the distance between them hasn’t stopped growing. I wonder if one day they’ll be completely estranged. Something split apart inside of Jared that year. He did his best to let everyone know how he felt. In school he was violent; he stabbed a girl with a pencil. At home, he was miserable; he walked around threatening to kill himself. His mother got him help, but the laws of physics remain: what is severed can never be fused back together. I wasn’t there then, but I live with the effects. I see the shards of anger come out of the very place where his heart is broken. I’d like to remove them all for him, healing him instantly.

Instead, I watch the scene unfold a little longer, lingering in the doorframe trying to dodge the shots from each loaded artillery. Mother and son get their ammunition from the same source of pain. They have both failed one another and themselves. Only a few hours ago, I found Jared hastily gleaning all the answers to a study guide from an anonymous online source. I asked him if he knew any of them himself. “No”, he retorted as if it were obvious. This is not the first time that he has approached a science test claiming he knows nothing. I reminded him of this pattern. I said, “It must end”. Apparently, my voice was bent with annoyance, and his mother caught wind of it. She rushed in, demanding to know what he did, and the war between them took over.

His mom finally leaves, feeling she proved her point sufficiently. Jared pulls out some candy from his stash defiantly and for the next hour we review Archimedes’ principle, “an immersed body is buoyed up by a force equal to the weight of the fluid it displaces”. He recites the acronym SCUBA with confidence. He seems to get it, after all. It’s late when I tuck him into bed, nervous. His happiness for the next weekend is contingent upon his success. “Goodnight”, I whisper, “good luck, tomorrow”. Jared nods, half asleep, and calls “I love you” as I leave the room, loud enough so only I can hear it. “I love you too Jared”, I think to myself, knowing he already knows.