Years ago, when I’d reached my limit of stress, I’d stupidly shouted at the universe,what else can go wrong?
Big mistake.Hugemistake.
The universe took it as a challenge and started throwing stuff at me left and right. And I noticed if I thought on something too long and too hard—like why my car took a minute to shut off—it would go for it.
That was the last thing I needed.
Even though my mom put in for rent and groceries, my brothers got money from the state, and I tried to work as much as humanly possible, we were barely staying afloat.
I released a breath when the car finally quieted.
My mom was sitting on the steps to the apartment when I reached the second floor. She was smoking, her eyes far off in the distance.
Once upon a time, Linda Davies was a striking woman. I could still see glimpses of the mom I used to know, even though she went away when I was seven, mentally and emotionally checking out because of drinking and drugs. For her age, she had deep lines that belonged to a woman much older. She’d lost her teeth and had dentures.
She was a shrunken version of herself, and even more shrunken was her capability to live a normal life. She was even more mentally and emotionally unavailable to me than she was before. She was still on drugs, but her doctors prescribed them for her. Mostly pills.
I stopped on the step below her and called her name. I had to call her twice more before she focused on me.
“When did you get home?”
NoHi, Leonora. How was work?No patting the spot next to her and telling me to sit after I’d been on my feet all night. It was always,When did you get home? followed by some need.
I adjusted my bag on my shoulder. “Just now.”
She blew out a cloud of smoke. “I need more cigarettes. More bread and deli meats too.”
It was Sunday. I always went grocery shopping for the week on Sunday. I’d take a nap and then go. Hopefully one of the boys would go with me. Mom barely left the apartment.
I always thought that was the root of her problems. The world was too ugly a place for her. Sometimes when I’d tell her she needed to do things, like go to the store or to the doctor, she’d flinch. Her safe place was in her room, and her limit to the outside world was the steps she was sitting on.
She was abused as a child—she’d told me that much—and it seemed like she’d buried it deep. After she had me, and my dad did all the things he did, it seemed like all her issues came to the surface.
She’d told me more than once that I was the cause of her habit. After she’d had me, and the hospital gave her pain meds, she realized how far away drugs could take her from this cruel life. After my dad bailed on us, it only grew worse.
Her cracks became mine, but I never had much time to dwell on them because I was always trying to seal hers.
It was a tough emotional pill to swallow, though, whenever I thought about her blaming me for becoming hooked on drugs. I knew it was untrue, I was only a baby, but it still stung.
Phoenix, my youngest brother, was lounging on the couch when I walked in. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, his hair was a mess, and he looked half asleep. A bowl of cereal and a gallon of milk were on the table.
“Hey, Phoenix.”
“Hey, Big Sis.” He glanced at the TV. “Good timing. The best cartoons are on now.”
I set my bag next to the couch and sat on the arm of it. “Did you finish your project for school?”
He shrugged, his scrawny shoulders reminding me of a bird’s. “I did, but I’m not sure how good it turned out.”
“I’ll check it out. See if I can help you.”
He nodded, laughing at the cartoon on the TV. He was fourteen but still liked watching them.
“Where’s Angelo?” Angelo was the oldest at sixteen.
Phoenix nodded toward the room they shared. “In the room, but…”
I didn’t like the way thatbutsounded. “But what?”
