Even though I had my own key, I rang the bell and peeked through the smudged-glass panels of the door. I couldn’t see past any of the grime, but I could hear the television clearly through the thin wooden door.
After pushing the buzzer a few more times, I rummaged through my bag and pulled out my keys. “Mom?” I called as I opened the door. “Don’t get scared. It’s me, Liv.” And just so she remembered correctly, I added, “You know, your daughter.”
She didn’t answer. There was nothing but the loud voices of a bunch of women on some morning talk show discussing some new political catastrophe. I tossed the keys into the small basket on the table in the foyer, and leaned my bag up against the wall. “Mom?” I called again, walking deeper into the house. The stench of stale cigarette smoke and burnt fried onions hung heavily in the air. It was enough to make me swallow back a gag. I held my nose and called out to her again.
Still no answer.
Glancing toward the living room, a hot flash of nostalgia hit me—the house hadn’t been changed in years. The same worn brown couch sat forlorn up against the far wall decorated with the same old mismatched pillows. One sole picture hung crookedly on the wall, taken when I had to be about six, my two front teeth missing. The curtains were open, a fine grayish dust covering the tops of them. They probably hadn’t been cleaned since the last time I was here. The only difference I could see from my childhood was the small water stain on the ceiling had grown into an enormous discolored lumpy mess that offered a steady drip across the now peeling linoleum floors. She didn’t tell me about it; I was going to need to call a plumber for her. Again. There went any vacation ideas I had for next spring break. My money would once again be handed right over to my mother.
Sighing, I walked toward the windows and opened them wide, letting some fresh air in. The screens were torn, but the breeze was cold and clean. I could even smell the big old pine tree from the neighbors’ yard—a yard I spent more time growing up in than I did in my own house. Next door, the Fury family had been my refuge from loneliness—a sister who was my best friend, an older brother who was my secret crush, and parents who held hands and took their kids to the movies in a big suburban. My mother was always just some shadowy silhouette at my door at three in the morning. My father was just a story to me, told in late-night drunken monologues that would make Shakespeare cry. The Furys sort of pulled me into their home and made me feel like I belonged. They tried to, anyway.
It had been years since I lost touch with them. Every few months, Brooke and I emailed or messaged each other on social media, but I moved on, left this place and made a life for myself that was a great deal more stable than the one I was brought up in.
I let the curtain fall back in place and wandered my way into the kitchen. My chest tightened as I stepped through the doorway. It reeked of cheap whiskey and seared onions—a charred pot sizzled loudly over a low flame on the stove—thick gray smoke billowed out around it.
Something lay still on the floor in front of the stove.
I stepped closer.
It wasn’t asomething.
It was asomeone.
My heart thudded hard across my chest. I heard it, thick and wet, slamming around inside me.
Utterly still and limp, her legs at a curious angle, dark dried blood and vomit haloed around her head, lay my mother.
I stumbled closer, collapsing my body against a table piled with jagged sharp edged bottles and ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts.
Bloody, bleached-blonde hair knotted across her cheeks. Tiny shards of glittery glass reflected swirls of light across the floor. A broken bottle—a quarter full—still clutched tightly in her hands and dark brown urine colored her creamy white leggings.
Nope, surprise visits never ended well at the Rhys house.
