Page 20 of Jacob Michaels is Not Here

“There’s no way to fix that?”

“Unless you wanna go back in time, ya’ asshole.” She snapped at me, but her heart wasn’t in it.

I just stared at her.

“Look…Oma…I can’t say I’m sorry enough. As you pointed out, it won’t fix a damn thing anyway. But you tell me one person in our family who had to make that choice at sixteen-years-old and I’ll apologize until I lose my voice, okay?”

“Not since the old days.” Oma shook her head.

“I knew that.” I snipped at her. “It was a rhetorical question. Hell, it wasn’t even a question. I wish you’d find it in yourself to remember that while I may have fucked things up—this was forced on me—when I was a child. I made the same choice any child would have made. I chose to not see everyone I know die before I bit the bullet myself. It wasn’t fair, but it is what it is.”

“Perhaps.”

“If mom and dad had just—”

“You shut your mouth right now, Robbie,” Oma warned me, then glanced around nervously. “Don’t say one more word ‘bout them. I’m warning you.”

“Fine.” I reached up to squeeze the bridge of my nose. “I guess that’s settled, too. But I’ll never forgive them. I want you to know that. There’s nothing they could do. Ever.”

“Well,” Oma looked at me, her eyes sad, “I don’t think no one would blame ya’. Most of all me. We both got bent over and greased up, didn’t we?”

Nodding, I glanced over my shoulder towards the living room.

“Book still in the same place?” I asked, having a thought.

Oma assessed me for a moment.

“It’s still there.”

“What’ll happen if I open it?” I asked, shifting in my seat. “To refresh me?”

“I don’t know.” Oma shrugged. “I ain’t opened it since you left. I certainly ain’t opened it since last night.”

“You think it’s empty, too?”

“Hope not.” She replied evenly. “You didn’t exactly finish your education before you ran off, didja?”

“I didn’t run off.” I snapped at her. “Well…Robert Wagner didn’t run off. A version of Robert Wagner ran off.”

Oma stared at me for the longest time, her eyes not leaving mine as she took me in—her actual grandson sitting before her instead of some version of him. I wasn’t Robert Wagner pretending to be Jacob Michaels. Or vice versa. I was Robert Wagner, back home, ready to finish what he had avoided. My memories restored—of everything before—made me a complete person again.

“You pretending for Lucas?”

“How do you mean?” I squinted angrily.

“Ten years is a long time.” Oma rested her forearms on the table. “You seen a lot of the world. Met a lot of people. He still as appealing as you’re actin’? Or does that situation look different with more time and wisdom under your belt? Maybe things have changed?”

Slowly, I pushed back from the table, the legs of the chair squealing against the linoleum. I stood from my seat and gave Oma a firm look.

“No one is that good of an actor, Oma.”

“I hope you’re right. Because if you ain’t bein’ honest, it’s best to sever that cord now, Robbie. That would solve another problem. Make you less likely to make the same dumbass mistakes later.”

“Lucas isn’t a mistake.”

“Makin’ choices based on your heart instead of your head is.” She snapped.

Shaking my head angrily, I turned away, shoving the chair back under the table roughly. I stomped over to the kitchen door before I finally turned back to Oma. She was still sitting there, watching me.