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It feels so expensive and hollow.
Maybe everyone's got the same plan – to humor the process until they're out and start right back up again, only smarter. Jesse's roommate feels that way. For as much money as this rehab charade costs you'd think he could have some privacy, but no, he has a fucking roommate. It's about identifying with each other and building community or some shit.
The only way Jesse remembers his name's Brandon is because of the other Brandon. This one's a rich kid from Santa Fe, and Jesse halfway forgives what a punk he is because he's only nineteen. “I'm gonna get so fucked up the week after I get out of here,” he brags. “Not the week of, though. I'm gonna wait so my mom stays off my ass.” He props himself up on an elbow and looks over at Jesse. “You?”
“I think I'm gonna stay clean for a while.”
“Fuck, seriously? Why?”
There isn't really a compelling reason, so he makes one up. “'Cause I got a kid.”
“No shit.”
“Yeah,” Jesse says, and the lie takes on immediate momentum because he's thought so much about Spooge Junior lately. “I miss him a lot. Like, all the time I'm wondering what he's doing and shit.”
When he gets out, he's going to find that kid again. He's probably in foster care – a vast improvement but still not ideal, and Jesse wonders if Saul can engineer something, adoption-wise. Sure it's farfetched, but what isn't lately? In business with Mr. White, blue sky, Jane, the planes, it's all so fucking farfetched, why not this, too? His head's so clear from all the extra sleep and jicama-farro salad at this place he'll be able to explain himself better, to think like Mr. White always wants him to. There will be obstacles, sure – he's an ex-user, but who better to protect a kid from the perils of substance abuse and general darkness?
Jesse could trump the care of that kid's real mother on his worst day. He knows he could.
* * *
Morning Group is run by a spread-out woman that could be in his mom's book club. It's not as bad as Afternoon Group, but it's still not good. It's irritating that the counselor thinks she's really kicking ass, that she's really helping them.
“Can you think of a time when you felt overwhelmed, but overcame it without substance abuse?” she asks, all proud like she's already proved something just by asking that question. “Let's start with you, Megan.”
Megan launches into a thing about baking cookies and Jesse tries to come up with what he will say. These group sessions are always stressful – he can't talk about anything current (um, fuck no), so his anecdotes are usually from childhood and irrelevant, though this counselor usually nods and says, “Good, Jesse. That's very good,” anyway.
He decides to talk about the train. He doesn't remember how old he was, though he was “too old to be scared” according to his mother. Even then he thought that should be his call, not hers, and fuck her - there was plenty to be scared of. They were on a rickety old train from a century ago, creaking and groaning along thin tracks up a mountain, and when the whistle blew it sounded like the world was coming to a fucking end, and all he could do was fold over in his own lap and try not to cry.
“...I, like, wasn't even sure they were going to turn out, but they were, like, the best cookies, I swear.”
“That's good, Megan. Thank you. Ben? How about you?”
Okay, good. They're moving clockwise, so Jesse has time before he has to answer, and he zones out and thinks about the little boy some more. He imagines their reunion, after Saul works out the legalities.
There will be a bath, which Jesse will dip his hands into to test the water temperature. There will be baby powder and fresh new clothes, and french fries with Cheez Wiz, for calcium. And baby carrots - there should probably be salad and shit, and if he wants a bed shaped like a race car, then by god he'll get one.
The kid will need a name. Jesse might call him Jace because he likes the flexibility - it has room for him to be a badass, a business major, or both. He'll get Jace caught up to how much a normal kid should talk, which will probably mean reading him, like, a million kid books. He'll find out what channel Sesame Street's on, too.
He will introduce Jace to his family on Thanksgiving. It's the best possible day for it because his mom's a perfectionist freak about holidays - her recipe test runs and table linen tribulations are such legend that everyone will be on their best behavior, all tension masked by compliments and wool and corduroy. Jace will be sweet and shy. Jake will be like a friendly big brother to him, and he'll probably make a comment on how their names are only one letter apart.
Jesse's father will mention the scenic railroad up north because it's a minor obsession for him every fall. “October got too busy,” he'll say wistfully. “We missed the fall colors, but maybe next year.”
“I thought about going, but Jace is a little too young to appreciate it now. Maybe in a couple years," Jesse will say, and if his mother suggests that they should all go together, he'll give her a polite maybe that probably means no.
He'll fix Jace a little plate of dinner and give him a huge blob of whipped cream for dessert because no kid on earth likes pumpkin pie. “Save room,” he'll say with a wink. “We still have another party to go to.”
They'll be invited to dessert at Mr. White's house. Actually, they'll be invited to the whole shebang at Mr. White's house, but Jesse's compromise will be to show up for pie. They'll be greeted at the door with a warm wave of enthusiasm. "It's so good to see you! We're so glad you could come!" Skyler will pat the top of Jace's head and Mr. White will shake his soft little hand.
"Hello, young man," he'll say, and the whole time he talks to Jace he won't let go. "It's very, very nice to finally meet you." There will be an electricity in the air this whole time - a peg or two higher than just regular happiness. Jesse won't know whether it's normal at their house, but it will remind him to make it normal at his own.
Skyler seems like the kind of mom who'll make two desserts in case somebody hates pumpkin, and they'll all sit in the living room and have pie. Jace might be afraid of Walter Jr.'s crutches at first, but he'll relax once his soft voice invites him to his room to play video games.
Jesse will stay in the living room to talk with the other grownups. “He's beautiful,” Skyler will say. “The way he looks at you...it's the sweetest thing.”
“Well done, Jesse.” Mr. White will pound him on the shoulder and hand him a snifter of brandy. “I have the utmost respect and admiration for what you're doing. You should really be proud of yourself and the difference you're making for that little boy.”
“You think?”
“Oh, absolutely,” he'll say, rolling the brandy around in his own glass. “Shaping the life of a child is the most important job there is.”
* * *
When Jace gets a little bit older and settled in, he might start to call Jesse daddy. People will notice they look nothing alike, and rather than explain the whole adoption thing, Jesse will say, “His mother had brown eyes” and try not to think about Jane. Or maybe someday when it hurts less, he'll paint Jane as his real mother, because that seriously trumps who she is. Your mom was beautiful. She was funny and smart and every day she watches you from heaven.
“Jesse?” the counselor says. “Can you remember a time when you felt overwhelmed but overcame it without using?”
“Um, yeah.” He straightens himself, sits taller in his chair. “You know that scenic train up north that goes up into Colorado or whatever?”
“Sure. The Cumbres Toltec.”
“Yeah, I guess. So I when was a little kid I went with my parents and it scared the shit out of me. Like, I thought for sure we were gonna slide backwards or fall of a cliff or something, and when we got up into Colorado, there was a picnic set up for all the passengers. Like weird gourmet shit, kinda like what they feed us here.” A ripple of laughter rewards him, and he enjoys it a moment before continuing. “But I decided that if that train had been running a hundred years already, the rails would probably hold us and...on the way back down I wasn't afraid anymore. I guess that's kind of how life is, or something. Like even when things are the worst, life keeps on going and you can't be scared or take it too personally.”
“Thank you, Jesse.”
He nods in thanks, but blushes a bit because most of the story isn't true.
The real story was that he lied to his mother that he made a friend, and on the downhill trip back to New Mexico, he migrated to the cheap seats in the open-air car and sat near a young couple he'd grown interested in. He pretended that the woman with the kind smile was his mom and the man who cussed without shame was his dad. With a hollow knot in his stomach, he worked up the courage to confess his disappointment to them. “There wasn't any kid food at that picnic.”
The man nodded. “I'm twenty eight and I thought that, too. They should've had hot dogs and chips.”
“Yeah,” Jesse said, and the woman had a pretty laugh. Jesse fantasized that he'd slip off the train with them and get taken to McDonalds. Even at his age he knew it was unrealistic, but it felt good to think that someday, even if not then, he might be around people who fit him and felt right.
“You have the bluest eyes I've ever seen,” the lady said. “What's your name?”
“Jesse.”
“It's nice to meet you, Jesse.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” he said, and dangled his arms outside the rail car, reaching for aspen branches that looked much closer than they were.
At first he was doing it to show off, but when he got close enough to rip one of the yellow teardrop leaves off in his hand, he forgot about the couple and felt powerful and free and wasn't afraid of anything. Until his father found him and dragged him back to the parlor car by his collar, it was maybe the happiest he'd ever been.
That's the kind of happiness, the kind of second chance Spooge Junior is going to get.
Jesse needs it just as much; he's been drowning in pain and finds zero relief in the old standbys – drugs have been preempted, obviously. He gets no comfort from thinking about his friends and can't stand to think about any of his old possessions, especially the recent splurges he asked Mr. White to either dispose of or absorb. He can't even get off anymore. Not with baby oil, not with anything, and he's pretty sure it's a sign that the last time with Jane was The Last Time.
He's okay with that, though, because he's going to totally start over.
After Morning Group ends, he heads to his room and starts writing.
TO DO:
Tell Mr. White
Get Saul working on it
Get out of here
Open savings account
2-bedroom apt
Normal good job
Figure out car seats – does he need one?
Sesame St.
BUY:
books
salad
clothes (how big?)
drawing paper
powder
bubbles
He makes another list for Saul, or whoever else needs to hear it.
1. Because I know where he's been (metaphor)
2. Because he needs it
3. I'll be so good at it
4. $ = no object
If he has to cook for this, he will.
A happy little flutter rattles in his chest just from looking over the list of things he needs to buy, and his eyes rise back up to the top of the page. Tell Mr. White. He's all about family, right? Jesse deserves one too, right? Even if Mr. White argues that this is the last thing he needs and it won't happen in a million years, Jesse won't listen because he's dead fucking wrong.
There's no reason this can't happen. In fact, underlying mathematics reinforce that it should: With Jane's life cut out of the universe, someone else is owed that chance.
To compensate for the fucked-up cameo appearances he made in both of their lives, Jesse will make sure that someone is Jace.
He feels good about it for a solid few seconds, but then the bottomless grief wraps around his chest and squeezes hard; he doesn't even try to fight it because he knows he won't win.
He drops the list and cries into his hands.
Their names are one letter apart.