As we waited, Van wanted to leave, explaining he couldn't handle another person he loved pushing him away. Without Grandma B's updates we were clueless of D's mental state and we could tell Van was terrified.
When D emerged from the house, he was skin and bones, his eyes glassy–he looked like shit. Van's parents were totally ignoring the fact that D was strung out on drugs and barely lucid.
Van took one look at him, and told him he was coming with us, determined to get him clean. D had gone through too much shit in his life to throw it away on drugs like his useless mother.
Van pleaded with his parents, begging them to see that D was so hopped up on drugs he was probably seeing little green Martians in front of him instead of his brother. They’d scoffed, saying they only had one drug-addicted son.
The ironic thing was Van had never done drugs. He wanted his parent’s approval. He craved it. Apparently, he would have been able to hide drug use easier than the tattoos, and piercings that condemned him from his ignorant parents’ love.
Van picked D up and slammed him on the side of the house. They went nose to nose and Van whispered to D, not that anything could have been overheard over his screeching parents. Van pushed something into D's hand, clamping his fist around it before turning to leave. He hadn’t bothered to give his parents a passing glance.
Jet, unable to pass up the opportunity to be a smartass, looked at Van’s parents as they helped D off of the ground and told them how nice it had been to see them again.
Van never told us what he’d said to D, but it must have been something powerful, because the next day D knocked on our door looking worn-down. Van pulled him in the house and hugged him tightly while D just cried, telling him over and over again how sorry he was and that he would never do drugs again.
Jet and I carried all of D’s stuff into his room, the three of us went through everything to make sure he hadn’t smuggled anything into the house. The next couple of days were hell while D detoxed, but he’d remained strong, telling us he didn’t want to be like his mom and he would never let us down.
A little over two weeks into D's detox we were in the garage playing around when D came in and asked if he could join us. He explained that one of his mom’s many boyfriends taught him how to play the bass, and it had been one of his better memories before he went into foster care.
It was healing for all of us to play together in the garage, letting the music take away our frustrations and anger and the different demons we were battling. D told us he needed to keep busy, and we ended up making him our unspoken manager. He took the job to heart and immediately began booking gigs. None of us wanted to tell him we were just doing it for cathartic purposes, so we went along with it, knowing this was part of his healing process.
I guess we were pretty good at it, because the gigs kept rolling in.
"And that's how the JackholeS were formed." I exhaled, feeling lighter after telling Faith my story.