“Yes, you did,” she mutters. “You’re always angry.”
Even with me holding her up, she still sways from side to side. The door to the back room is shut. Hell. This means we’ll have to go out the front. Baby steps are a struggle for her and I calculate how long it will take me to get her home at this rate. So many things to do before I meet Ryan—grocery shop, figure out how to get the car out of impoundment, and nail down the date to leave.
Mom stumbles when we meet daylight. She
tries to shield her eyes, but it affects her already fragile balance and I have to use both of my hands to keep her upright. She’s right. I am always angry, because right now a volcano is stewing inside of me. “What else are you taking?”
“Nothing,” she says too quickly.
Right. Nothing. “That bottle of tequila
wasn’t empty. Are you becoming a
lightweight?”
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She says nothing and I let it go,
reminding myself that there are things better left unknown. I drag her forward and occasionally she lifts her feet to help with the progression on the sidewalk. Several guys I used to go to school with fly past on skateboards. Two whistle at me and ask if I’m back to stay. The other…
He flips up his skateboard and takes a ten-dollar bill from his pocket. “Run out of money again, Sky? I’ll take a blow right now.”
Shame heats my face, but I force myself to stand taller as I haul my mother toward her home. “Fuck you.”
“I’ve missed seeing you around, Beth, but your mom’s more fun without you babysitting.” He drops the board and rolls away. Yes, being at Scott’s has softened me and it makes this experience a million times worse.
I wish Scott would have left me alone.
“We’ll move to Florida.” We slowly pass the pawnshop. “White sandy beaches. Warm air.
The sound of water lapping against the shore.”
My mom’s not a whore. She’s not. Please God, please let her not be. “We’ll sober you up and we’ll get jobs.…” Doing? “Something.”
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Because Scott has custody of me we’ll have to be careful. I’ll be labeled a runaway. “We’ll go to the ocean. Give me a date and we’ll leave.”
“I have to bail Trent out first,” Mom
whispers. “Then unpound the car.”
“Fuck Trent. Let him rot in jail.”
“I can’t.” Mom pulls on my hair to stay
upright and the pain makes me want to scream.
Instead, I bite my lip. Screaming will draw more attention to us.
We reach the end of the sidewalk. Mom falls forward when she misses the step, and collapses onto the pavement. “Come on,
Mom!” I want nothing more than to sit on the ground and cry, but I can’t. Not with people watching. Not with Mom right here. “Get up!”
“I’ve got her.” The deep, smooth voice
causes my heart to still and my lungs to freeze.
Isaiah effortlessly scoops my mother into his arms. Without waiting for me, he heads right for Mom’s apartment building.
Isaiah.
I blink.
My best friend.
My heart beats twice and both beats hurt.
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Mom slips in and out of coherence as
Isaiah carries her. When we reach her door, I slide the string of keys I used to wear as a necklace in elementary school from around Mom’s neck.
I briefly catch Isaiah’s gaze and I cower from the pain in his eyes. He wears his uniform shirt for the garage he works at. Grease and oil stain the blue material. Every day for three weeks, Isaiah has texted and called and I haven’t answered him. I bury the guilt. He’s the one that betrayed me and there’s nothing I can do about not responding to him now.
A horrible rancid odor slaps me when I open the door. I’m dizzy with dread. I don’t want to know. I just don’t. We’re going to Florida.
We’re running away.
Isaiah follows me in and swears. At the
smell, the damage, or the trash, I don’t know.
Nothing has changed from the last time I was here, except the refrigerator door hangs wide open.
“Did you forget to pay the cleaning lady?”
Isaiah asks.
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see how Mom lives. “She only accepted
cash and Mom was insistent that we use the credit cards for the frequent flyer miles.”
I step over trash and broken pieces of
furniture and lead Isaiah to Mom’s bedroom.
He gently lays her on the bed. This isn’t the first time he’s helped me with Mom. When we were fourteen, Isaiah helped me pick her up from the bar. He’s used to the cracks in the wall, the worn green carpeting, and the picture of me and her taped over her broken mirror.
“Give me a few minutes,” I say. “Then I’ll go grocery shopping.”
He gruffly nods. “I’ll wait in the living room.”
I remove Mom’s shoes from her feet and sit on the bed next to her. “Wake up, Mom. Tell me what happened to your hand.” As if I don’t already know.