“It’s okay, Mama,” I said. “I’m here now.”
I backed against the wall for balance and pushed myself up with Carletta’s arms draped around my shoulders. She was wobbly on her feet and she leaned hard against me. I told her she was doing great and steadied her against a hip. I put my arm around her waist and walked her down the hall.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Everything is going to be okay, Mama.”
We walked into the bathroom and I eased her down to the floor. She didn’t say anything about Jenna, if she noticed her at all. Mama just hugged her arms close to her chest and sat staring at the rotting tile floor. She was mumbling something about the cold.
I set Jenna in the hall just outside the door and scanned the carpet around her for chemical spills or anything sharp. I checked the ceiling above for leaks and then gave her another glance. She was sleeping deeply. She was as sweet as she could be.
I went back to Mama, flipped the switch in the bathroom, and let the overhead blink on. It was yellowy and dim, and there was a buzzing in the bulb as it burned. Mama coughed and her chest rattled with phlegm.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” I said.
I turned on the shower and the head sputtered and spat until the stream pushed through clean. I put my hand in to test the temperature and it was warm.
“I’m so cold,” she said.
“The water’s nice,” I said.
I helped her pull off her sweatshirt and in the light I could see the purple crisscross of veins over her chest and arms and then the brownish, misshapen splotches on her neck and shoulders. Mama leaned forward to step out of her pants and when she saw the sides of her shit-streaked thighs she started to sob.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, and held to the edge of the tub for balance.
“Let’s just get you cleaned up,” I said.
I guided her into the shower and asked if she had anything clean to wear. She stood shivering, arms wrapped around her shoulders as the water washed over.
“I’ve got a bag,” she said. “There might be something in my bag.”
“Where’s your bag, Mama?”
“I don’t know,” she said, and cried harder. “I don’t know where my bag is, sweetness. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’ll go look.”
The bag was in the bedroom and there were some clean enough clothes inside, but what gave me pause was the baby blanket I found in the end pocket.
The thing is, not all junkies are like you see in the movies. They’re not always crashing cars and setting shit on fire. Sometimes it isn’t all that dramatic. Mama, for instance, loved nothing more than to sit on the couch and knit while she got stoned. All winter long she’d been working on a blanket for my nephew, Tanner, and I couldn’t believe she’d actually finished it.
I held it to my face and felt the softness of the yarn. It was baby blue and edged in red. Carletta had sized it a twin because she wanted to make something Tanner could grow into, and I will readily admit I never thought she’d see it through. That blanket was a scraggly square of yarn the last I saw, but it seemed she’d used her high in the hills to fuel a cross-stitch binge.
Starr might not have spoken to Mama since she moved to Portland, but I thought the blanket could be enough to get her to drop a card in the mail. Maybe a nice little thank-you note and a photo of Tanner to boot. I knew we might never be a family like you see on television, where everybody’s tribulations bring them closer and make them stronger in the end—but I believed we could still be something. A blanket might not seem like much to most, but I swear it swelled my heart as I folded it in a square and left it beside the bag.
I found a dusty glass in the kitchen, ran some cool water, then returned to the bathroom to find Mama sitting in the tub, shivering. The shower was off and I handed her the glass and told her to drink.
“The water went cold,” she said.
“That’s okay,” I said. “Go ahead and drink. Have a little bit, at least.”
She forced a sip, then another. She gave the glass back, then pulled her legs up and circled her arms around her shins. Her teeth were chattering as she leaned forward and rested her head on her knees.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t think there’s any towels.”
“Oh,” Carletta said, and her voice cracked hard. “Oh, sweet one.”
I kneeled on the linoleum and reached into the tub and held her wet body against my own. Mama cried and I could feel the thump of each sob as it rang through her ribs. Mama’s sadness was always physical like that—it was its own special type of violence.
“It’s okay,” I whispered. “I’m right here, Mama. Everything will be okay.”
“Sweetgirl,” she said, and stroked my hair.