Blazed by Jason Myers Page A

doesn’t say anything.
    â€œMom, you didn’t know this was happening?”
    â€œI did,” she finally says. “I did. I just . . .” She stops and closes her eyes.
    With all the rad drugs my mother is being pumped with right now, I bet she’s in heaven.
    I bet she feels so fucking good.
    Opening her eyes, she goes, “I just forgot. Oh, fuck.”
    â€œYeah, Mom.”
    â€œThat bastard is here, isn’t he?”
    I nod.
    When I arrived at the hospital with Ida (she was rather curious how I had a skateboard and why I wasn’t in my school uniform still), the doctor informed me that my father was in the cafeteria having breakfast.
    I rolled my eyes. Like I fucking care what he’s doing.
    â€œFuck him,” my mother shouts. “Just fuck him!”
    â€œHey,” I say, and grab her hand again. “Just relax. It’s only for eight days. I’ll be back here next Monday.”
    My mother, she begins to cry. “No,” she sobs. “No, no, no. He can’t have you. He doesn’t deserve you. He ruined my life.”
    I bite my tongue.
    And she goes, “He’s a monster, Jaime. Don’t trust him. You can’t trust him. He’s the worst man in the world.”
    Swinging my eyes back to her, I say, “I know.”
    â€œI’m so sorry. I didn’t want any of this to happen.”
    Again, I say, “I know.”
    I say, “I’m not scared. It’ll be over before you know it.”
    Her lips press tightly together and she forces a smile.
    â€œIt will be,” I say.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she says again.
    â€œYou’re gonna be just fine,” I tell her. “You’ll get out of here, and you’ll be sober, and everything will be better than it was. Better than it’s ever been.”
    She looks away.
    This whole thing is brutal and ugly.
    Turning back to me now, my mother goes, “Be strong, Jaime.”
    â€œI will.”
    â€œAnd don’t like him. Okay, my boy? Don’t trust your father, and don’t like him.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œHe’s a monster.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œDon’t let him ruin your life too.”
    â€œI won’t.”

19.
    MY FATHER LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE all the photos I saw of him when I Googled him the other night. I guess he’s about six feet tall, maybe even an inch bigger, and he’s got strawberry-blond hair too. It’s parted very neatly from the left to right and shaved down about an inch shorter on the sides and in the back.
    His eyes are brown. His face is very defined. And he seems very fit and toned. His skin looks healthy. He just looks healthy and looks successful and happy despite how awkward he gets when I appear in the lobby and stare at him.
    The man who hit my mother and pushed her down.
    The man who’s never spoken to his son or even fought for the chance to speak to his only son.
    His name is Justin, by the way, and he’s wearing a pair of tight black dress pants that look expensive. A charcoal-colored button-up shirt is tucked into those slacks, and a black leather belt wraps around his waist.
    His shoes are also black. They’re leather and they’re shiny and he’s also wearing a gold Rolex on his right wrist.
    Maybe I’d be more nervous if I was meeting him beforeI saw my mother laid up in that stuffy room, but I’m not. And I don’t feel anything in particular at all right now except for anger and a hint of hate.
    He smiles at me. Sweat gleams from his forehead.
    â€œJaime,” he says.
    â€œSure. What?” I snort back.
    â€œOh my god,” he goes. “My son. It’s so good to see you again.”
    He steps forward, his arms spread like he thinks he’s gonna be able to hug me or some bullshit. I step to the side; he ends up holding out his hand.
    Instead of shaking it, I make a fist and tap it. “Yo,” I say.
    His cheeks turn