Her eyes barely open and she curls into the fetal position. “Trent and I had a fight. He didn’t mean it.”
He never does. “The faster we get away
from him the better.”
“He loves me.”
“No. He doesn’t.”
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“Yes, he does. You two just don’t know
each other real well.”
“I know enough.” I know he wears a ring
that hurt like hell when he punched me in the face. “You’re leaving with me, right? Because if not, I can’t take care of you.”
I want her to say yes and say it quickly. The pause feels like someone ripping my intestines through my belly button. Finally, she speaks.
“You don’t understand. You’re a gypsy.”
And she’s high. “Are you going to leave
with me?”
“Yeah, baby,” she mumbles. “I’ll go with
you.”
“How much do we need to get the car out of impoundment?”
“I need five hundred to get Trent out of jail.”
Trent can die in jail. “The car. How much to get the car out? I can’t find regular rides into Louisville and I can’t take care of you if we don’t leave town.”
She shrugs. “Couple hundred.”
Mom begins to sing an old song Grandpa
used to sing before he drank himself to sleep. I rub my forehead. We need that damn car and I need a damn plan. Mom and I should have HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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been gone weeks ago, but Isaiah ruined
that. My windows of opportunity keep closing and I’m not sure how much longer Mom will last on her own.
I pull out Echo’s cash and place half of it on Mom’s bedside table. She stops singing and stares at the cash.
“Listen to me, Mom. You need to sober up
and get the car out of the impound lot. I also want you to pay the phone bill. We’ll be leaving soon. Do you understand?”
Mom keeps her eyes on the money. “Did
Scott give you that?”
“Mom!” I yell and she flinches. “Repeat
what you need to do.”
Mom produces an old stuffed animal of
mine from under her pillow. “I sleep with this when I miss you.”
I slept with that stuffed animal every night until I turned thirteen. It’s the only thing my father ever gave to me. The fact that she kept it rips me into pieces. I can’t focus on that now. I need Mom to remember what she needs to do.
Her life depends on it. “Repeat what I said.”
“Get the car. Pay the phone bill.”
I stand and Mom grabs my hand. “Don’t
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leave me alone again. I don’t want to be
alone.”
The request feeds on my guilt. We all have our fears. Those things that exist in the dark corners of our mind that terrify us beyond belief. This is hers. My fear? It’s leaving her. “I need to buy you food. I’ll make some sandwiches and put them in the fridge.”
“Stay,” she says. “Stay until I fall asleep.”
How many nights as a child did I beg her to stay with me? I lie on the bed next to her, run my fingers through her hair, and continue the song where she left off. It’s her favorite verse.
One that talks about birds, freedom, and
change.
I SLICE THE LAST sandwich in half and place the full plate in the fridge, along with the remains of the ham and cheese Isaiah bought while I sang Mom to sleep. Isaiah busies himself by putting the boxes of cereal and crackers in the pantry. He bought food Mom can easily fix for herself.
“Haven’t you punished me long enough?”
Isaiah asks.
The chains that permanently weigh me down become heavier. “Are you going to sling me HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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over your shoulder and force me to leave
again?”
“No,” he says. “Everyone knows Trent’s in jail. The worst thing that’s going to happen to you here…” He glances over at the closed door of my old bedroom. “Maybe I should toss you over my shoulder again. This place is no good for you, Beth.”
“I know.” And that is exactly why I want to leave…with my mom. A small part of me is curious as to what Isaiah knows that I don’t. I could open the door to my old room and find out, but I shake away the thought. I don’t want to know. I really, really don’t.
“You should go back to work,” I say. He
changed from his work clothes to his favorite black T-shirt and jeans, which means he intends to stick around. I don’t want to be responsible for him losing a job he loves. The garage he works for is across the street from the strip mall, which explains why he reached me so quickly.
“I got off an hour ago. I stuck around to bullshit and to tinker with a newer Mustang someone brought in. She’s real pretty. I think even you would like her.”
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I’ve missed this. Isaiah telling me about his day and his excited tone when he talks about cars. With his gray eyes, Isaiah looks me over. I’ve missed him. His voice. The tattoos covering his arms. His constant, steady presence. The last is what I miss the most.
Isaiah is that one relationship I’ve never had to question. The one relationship where I don’t wonder if it’ll change when I wake in the morning.