“I live in Virginia now. Are you going to let me in?”
Charlene seemed to give the question serious thought, but finally pulled back the door and stepped aside. It took Christy-Lynn’s eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness, but gradually she made out a small living room with an even smaller kitchen and dinette off to the side. The furniture was worn and mismatched, the couch covered in a faded orange sheet. There was a box fan perched in one of the side windows, circulating sticky air in the cramped space.
A cigarette fumed in a chipped glass ashtray overflowing with butts. Charlene reached past Christy-Lynn to stub it out, then whisked a Natural Light can from the end table before clicking off the TV. Her eyes darted anxiously, as if seeing the place through her daughter’s eyes, and for one terrible moment, Christy-Lynn was reminded of the day she’d brought poor Linda Neely home.
“I’ve just made some tea,” Charlene blurted awkwardly. “I’ll get you a glass.”
Christy-Lynn followed her to the kitchen, where the smell of old beer and even older food greeted her. She tried not to count the empty beer cans in the sink, scattered among what looked like last night’s dishes. There were nine.
“They’re not all mine,” Charlene told her, noting the direction of her daughter’s gaze. “Some of them are Roger’s. I’d have tidied up if I knew you were coming.”
“I’m sorry,” Christy-Lynn said, dragging her eyes from the sink and then from the overflowing trash can in the corner. “I couldn’t find a phone number for you.”
“You know I never could stand a phone.”
No. Especially when the bill collectors were calling.
“Who’s Roger?”
“He’s my . . . we live together. Going on two years now. Works for Tilden Lumber over in Ravenel.” She handed Christy-Lynn a glass of tea. “He’s . . . steady.”
Christy-Lynn’s brows lifted. Two years. And a job. As far as she knew, it was a first for both, so by her mother’s standards he probably was steady. Still, she refrained from voicing her thoughts.
Charlene turned a hard eye on her. “Why are you here, Christy-Lynn? After all these years?”
“You’re my mother,” she said coolly.
Charlene snorted as she turned away, heading for the living room and the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray. She fumbled in her pocket for a disposable lighter and lit the crumpled end. “I’ve always been your mother,” she said, blowing a plume of smoke at the ceiling. “Never brought you around before.”
There had been no indictment in the words, only a wary curiosity. For the first time, Christy-Lynn allowed herself a closer study of her mother. She wore slippers and a limp cotton housedress, the missing top button exposing several inches of blade-thin collarbone. Her once dark hair was dull and brittle now, shot through with threads of gray, and her skin was deeply lined. But it was Charlene Parker’s eyes that told the real tale. Once a deep and startling green, they had faded to a washed-out gray, as if the light in them had guttered out. Christy-Lynn did the mental math—fifty-two or thereabouts. Far too young to look so used up. She’d been beautiful once, the kind of beautiful that turned heads. A million years ago.
“I know it’s been a long time, Mama.”
“Twenty years.”
Christy-Lynn dropped her eyes. “Yes.”
“So why now?”
“I’ve been trying to forget you.”
The words had tumbled out unchecked; Christy-Lynn regretted them the moment they were out. She watched as they hit their mark, the brief flash of pain in the dull gray eyes, the quick look away as her mother sank into a shabby velour recliner.
“That’s what I get for asking, I suppose.”
Christy-Lynn perched on the edge of couch with her tea. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. My husband died, and I’ve been dealing with some things. A lot of memories keep coming up.”
Charlene reached for her hand, then drew back, as if she’d thought better of it. “I saw the news about your husband on TV. And in the papers.” She shook her head as she stared at the dirty shag carpet between her slippers. “Nasty business with that woman and all. Do you have . . . are there children?”
Christy-Lynn shifted uncomfortably. “No. No children.”
“Was that by choice?”
“Yes.”
“Because of me?” she asked quietly. “Because of . . . how I was?”
“Because I was afraid of how I’d be. I was afraid I’d . . .”
“End up a drunk?”
“Yes,” Christy-Lynn replied, holding her mother’s gaze without flinching. “Or worse. I swore I’d never put a child through that.”
It was Charlene who looked away first, sighing as she shifted her attention to the glowing tip of her cigarette. “You were never like me. You were always good . . . responsible. I’d have given anything to be a better mother to you.”
“No, Mama, you wouldn’t. Not anything.”
“No,” Charlene admitted, nodding. “Not anything.”
Christy-Lynn put down her tea and reached into her purse for the envelope she had taken from her nightstand. Charlene looked on as she spilled the contents into her lap, then picked up the photo and held it out. “Do you remember that day? You took me to the fair.”
“I remember.”
“And this?” Christy-Lynn held up the tarnished necklace, letting it dangle slowly from her fingers. “Do you remember this? You’re wearing one just like it in the picture.”
“The other half of mine.” Her voice had fallen to a near whisper. “You kept it all these years?”
Christy-Lynn ignored the question. “Do you remember what you said when you put it on me? You said we’d never take them off. But you did take yours off.”
“I didn’t realize it meant so much to you. It was just a cheap trinket.”
“It wasn’t the necklace, Mama. It was the promise you made when you gave it to me. The promise you broke when you pawned it.” She paused to gather up the contents of the envelope and tuck them away. “That’s when I knew the drugs were more important than me—and how easy it is to make promises you don’t intend to keep.”
Charlene nodded dully. “I see. It’s judgment day. Go on then. I can take it.”
“This isn’t about judging you. It’s about wiping the slate clean. My slate. For years I managed to keep all the bad stuff locked away, to pretend it happened to some other girl, someone who didn’t exist anymore. But some things have happened lately, things that make me realize I can’t do it anymore. It’s like a door opened, and all the stuff—the way you were, the way we lived—all came spilling out. The drugs, the evictions, the men. And then seeing you in the hospital with your face all stitched up. You going to jail, and me shipped off to the county.” She broke off abruptly, reaching for her tea. She wasn’t thirsty, but she needed something to hide behind.
“Foster care,” Charlene said, drawing the words out slowly. “Was it . . . terrible?”
Christy-Lynn took another sip of tea, staring at the twenty-year-old burns on her wrist. She had come to exorcise her demons, to force her mother to own her past and acknowledge the damage she had done. But suddenly the words wouldn’t come. What would it serve to dredge up Terry Blevins now? Except perhaps to pass her demons on to her mother. And it was clear that Charlene Parker still had enough demons of her own.
“I ran away,” she said finally, leaving out the why. “I lived on the street for two years until I turned eighteen.”
Charlene’s eyes filled with tears, the scarred corner of her mouth puckering in a lopsided grimace. “They told me. When they couldn’t find you, they came to me. They thought I might’ve heard from you. They should have known I’d be the last person you’d come to.”