Jacob’s hands were shaking so badly by the time the taxi pulled up against the curb outside of his mother’s rowhouse that he c

Jacob’s hands were shaking so badly by the time the taxi pulled up against the curb outside of his mother’s rowhouse that he could barely keep a hold on the cigarette that was perched between his two first fingers. He had bummed it off of the cabbie after flagging him down, feeling that he needed something extra to calm his nerves. It didn’t matter that he didn’t actually smoke, and had just allowed it to burn down to ashes—grey and white specks that now stained streaks that almost glowed against the dark denim of his jeans—it just felt nice to have it in his hands. Something to focus on that wasn’t the conversation he knew he must have, the truth he must face.

He was going to break his mother’s heart this time. He knew it. All of his childhood scrapes and juvenile misdemeanors, all of the fights he caused out of unfocused teenage anger, all of the experimentation with drugs and petty shoplifting, all of that paled in comparison to this. This was unforgivable. This couldn’t be just brushed off and forgotten with an “I’m sorry” and a smile. This couldn’t be erased from his record by paying a fine or some community service. This was the big one. This was the end.

He sighed, trying to steel himself enough to open the car door.

He had to tell her before the cops did.

They would arrive any minute, he knew. Lights flashing, cutting into the darkness, fists banging on the door, disturbing the silence that only existed in this otherworldly three o’clock hour, they would come, and they would tell her his secret in their firm voices, cold with false sympathy, and she would cry.

And it would be all his fault.

A swell of anger rushed up within him and he swore silently, punching the empty passenger seat in front of him. Jacob half expected the cabbie to scold him, to yell at him for causing such a fuss, for possibly damaging his taxi, but the elderly black man made no sound. He simply fiddled with the radio dial, completely ignoring the distressed white boy in his back seat. After a few moments, the man leaned back against his seat, relaxing. Jacob recognized the first quiet strains of an old Sinatra tune.

He studied his hands, barely able to make them out in the darkness. They felt like a stranger’s hands. They were stained. Dirty. They weren’t his own.

He had worked so hard to fix himself, too, he lamented, again taking his frustration out on the seat. It just wasn’t fair. He was back in school—only a year or so away from graduation. He had a decent job, his own place. He was finally getting back on his feet. Why did he have to make such a stupid error in judgment? Why didn’t he turn down that last round of shots? Why didn’t he grab a ride from one of his buddies? He could hear his friend Ash’s voice in the back of his mind.

“Are you sure you’re alright to drive, man?” he had asked, “Are you sure? I can give you a ride, no problem.”

If only he had known. If only he hadn’t been so damned stubborn. If only…

He let his head fall forward into his hands, his fingers rubbing stiff patterns against his forehead, tracing that scar above his left eye that he had gotten falling out of that tree in the third grade. His mother had cried that day, too, full of worry and fear for her poor son.

And now again, twenty some odd years later…

The butt of the cigarette fell from his fingers, lost somewhere along the floorboards. Jacob barely noticed. Those last few moments replayed over and over in his head.

“You alright to drive, man?” Ash had asked.

Hands at ten and two. The radio blared some obnoxious metal song. Something to keep his mind alert out of shear annoyance.

Something in the road. A vague shape, a strange form.

The breaks hit too late. Shattered glass. And blood.

There was so much blood.

“You know, the longer you sit here, the harder this is gonna get,” the cabbie stated, breaking through Jacob’s thoughts. He looked up between his fingers at the man.

“What?”

“You got somethin’ to tell someone. Somethin’ important. Sittin’ here worryin’ about it ain’t gonna make it any easier to say, so it’s best to just get on out there and say it. Get it out the way. Otherwise you’re gonna lose your nerve and you’ll never get it off your chest. Gonna be too late, then. You only got so much time.” The man glanced back at Jacob through the rearview mirror, “You best be gettin’ on, there, boy. You only got so long.”

Jacob sighed. The cabbie was right. He only had so much time. The cops would be here any minute. He had to tell her before they did. It was only right.

He took a deep breath and then pulled the handle to open the door. A gust of cold, February air stung his face. He took one step out and then turned back to the driver.

“Will you…”

“I’ll keep the meter runnin’, don’t you worry. I’m not goin’ anywhere,” the man answered, not even having to hear the entirety of the question. Jacob gave him a nod in thanks and the pulled himself fully out of the cab, slamming the door behind him. The sound echoed down the silent street and he shivered, pulling his heavy leather bomber jacket closer to him. The jacket had been his father’s, and he said a silent prayer to him for strength.

The ten feet from the curb, up the front stairs and to the door seemed to take hours. Every step was laborious, as if he were trudging through feet of snow. Reaching the front door, he took a deep, resolved breath, and slid his key into the hole in the knob. This was it. This was the moment of truth. There was no going back, now.

He let himself in quietly, easing the door closed behind him. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dim light that floated through the lace curtains from the streetlamps. He started to remove his coat, the sudden heat of the foyer seemingly suffocating, but decided against it. Something told him to keep it on. He didn’t have much time. He wouldn’t be staying long.

He silently crept up the stairs to the second floor, one hand trailing absently along the polished rail, the shadowed eyes of his own photos seeming to stare at him accusingly from their positions on the wall as he passed. His mother had lined all of his school pictures chronologically, the first, him at four years, his smile gap toothed and crooked. The last showed a sullen 18 year old, his hair too long and in his eyes, his smile sarcastic and forced. Twelve different versions of himself, each seeming to whisper the same words: You’re going to break her heart. You’re going to break her heart. You’re going to break her…

The door to his mother’s bedroom was open, and he slid inside without a sound. His mother lay curled on her side in the bed, the covers pulled to her chin, her hand a small, and wrinkled, curled into a loose fist next to her cheek. She looked like a child to him, so small and fragile. It made him sad to think about how she had physically diminished since his father’s death five years before. The strong, gentle woman he had known his entire life just seemed to fade away, leaving nothing but a tiny shell, prematurely grey and wrinkled, looking closer to 60 rather than the 48 that she would turn within the next month. Losing his father had almost killed her, and he remembered throughout the months that followed the funeral, how she had clung to him, desperately.

“Jacob,” she would tell him, “you’re all I have left now, angel. You’re all I have left.”

He didn’t want to wake her. He didn’t want to interrupt her dreams, but he had no choice. He had to tell her. He had to let her know. Sighing, he reached towards her, his hand almost humming he was shaking so badly. The air around him crackled with tense energy as he touched her shoulder.

And then the silence was broken by a fierce pounding on the front door below them.

Jacob cursed to himself as his mother shot up in bed, her breath caught in her throat. The pounding came again and she scrambled out of the covers and off of the bed, not even noticing him standing there amongst the shadows. She was out of the room and half way down the stairs before he found his voice.

“Ma!” he cried, “Ma, wait!”

He ran after her, skidding on the small area rug on the landing, desperate to stop her, to talk to her before she opened the door.

He skidded to a stop halfway down the stairs. He was too late.

Two police officers stood within the small foyer. The one that seemed to be in charge removed his hat, revealing a shock of bright red hair.

“Mrs. Watson?” the redhead began.

Jacob tried to call out, but his voice was caught in his throat. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears.

“Yes, that’s me. Is…is there something I can help you with, officers?” his mother answered. She looked so small, so fragile, lost within the folds of her blue flannel night gown.

“It’s my…my deepest regret to inform you, ma’am, but…it’s about your son, Jacob.”

His mother’s hand was at her throat, “Jacob? What happened? Is he alright? Is he hurt?”

The officer’s mouth was a thin, lipless line, “I’m afraid there’s been an accident, ma’am.”

Jacob felt his hand tighten on the railing.

“Your son was involved in a motor collision earlier in the night.”

“You alright to drive, man?” Ash had asked him.

“--It seems that he had left Kaily’s Bar on 40th street earlier tonight. According to witnesses he was visibly intoxicated, but still insisted that he was alright to drive himself home--”

Hands at ten and two. The radio blared some obnoxious metal song. Something to keep his mind alert out of shear annoyance.

“--a dog ran out into the road in front of him—“

Something in the road. A vague shape, a strange form.

“—He tried to swerve, and lost control of the vehicle, going over the embankment. The car rolled three times—“

The breaks hit too late. Shattered glass. And blood.

“--He was pronounced dead at the scene—“

There was so much blood.

“—There was nothing we could do. I’m sorry, ma’am.”

There was a tense moment of silence. Time seemed to freeze. Jacob felt as if he was floating. He was disconnected from everything around him.

And then, emerging from the silence, was an inhuman wail. It started softly and then grew, shattering ever nerve in his body as he watched his mother fall to her knees, her hands clenched in her hair. The officers looked at each other, an uncomfortable glance passing between them as Jacob’s mother lay huddled at their feet.

Jacob was down the rest of the stairs in an instant. “Ma,” he cried, reaching for her, “Ma it’s gonna be ok. I’m here. I’m here, Ma, don’t worry. I’m not goin’ anywhere, Ma. I’m alright, see? I’m right here, I’m right here, Ma.” He could feel tears streaming down his cheeks, his voice hitching in his throat. He hadn’t even noticed he had begun crying. He places his hands on her shaking shoulders.

The moment his palms touched the flannel of her night gown, she screamed in agony, curling up tighter into herself. He yanked his hands away as if burned, frightened of the reaction his touch had caused. Was it possible that he was making things worse? He stifled a sob. It was bad enough that his stupid actions had caused this much pain, now he couldn’t even comfort her?

He backed away, arms up in a gesture of surrender. If his presence was adding that much to her pain, he understood. There was nothing he could do. It was best that he just leave.

He silently slid between the two officers. Neither bothered to glance his way. He didn’t expect them to. He wasn’t really there. He was just a shade. A memory.

He took one final glance at his mother, the fragile crumpled doll, the shell of the woman she had once been. She had lost everything, now. And it was all his fault.

“I’m sorry, Ma,” he whispered, “I’m sorry. I love you.”

That said, he turned away.

He let himself back into the backseat of the cab, slamming the door behind him. The driver looked back at him in the rearview. Sinatra still played, slow and gentle from the radio.

“Did’ja tell her, son?” the man asked.

Jacob shook his head, “I was too late. The cops got there before I could do anything,” he sighed, resting his forehead on his hand, “I don’t think that she would have been able to hear me, anyhow.”

The man smiled, sadly, knowingly, “You’re prob’ly right there, son, but it didn’t hurt to try, now, did it?”

“No. I guess it didn’t,” Jacob answered, “Look, can…can we just get outta here? I…I don’t think I can handle being here any longer.”

“Alright, son,” the cabbie answered, pulling on the shift knob to put the taxi into drive, “Let’s get on goin’.”

The bright yellow taxi pulled away from the curb, and moved slowly down the silent street, towards the first pink glow of day as the sun rose in the east.