“Go into the kitchen,” I murmur to Annabelle.
“Want me to help?” she whispers.
“No. It’s alright.”
I walk around the couch. The only way to wake my mom is to be incredibly rough, but I still get a sense of fear as I do it. I wonder if there’ll be a day when I try to wake her and she doesn’t stir.
I shove her shoulder, hard, several times, until I hear a groan.
“Mom. You have to get to work. It’s six thirty.”
Thankfully, her eyes open. If her response is to go back to sleep, I know it’s a lost cause, and I won’t be able to move her for hours.
She pushes herself up on her forearms, looking around the room. She’s still in her uniform from her shift last night, and I just pray she has a second one she can change into. She stinks.
“What time?” she asks me.
“Six thirty.”
“Okay. I need to shower.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. At least she’s lucid enough for that. “Want some breakfast?”
“No.” She rolls off the couch and turns to Annabelle. “Mornin’, baby. You okay?”
Annabelle nods but doesn’t smile. “I’m fine, Mom.”
“I bought you a present,” my mother says happily, dragging a blue plastic bag from beneath one of the couch cushions. She pulls out an ugly-looking orange scrunchie, velvety and ruffled, like the ones they had in the ‘90s.
Annabelle steps forward, takes it, and immediately ties it into her hair like she’s on autopilot. It clashes horribly with the coppery strands.
“Thank you,” she mutters.
“Oh, you’re so beautiful. My beautiful girls,” she slurs and stumbles to her room. I hear my dad grumbling at her as sheopens the door, then, as he wakes up, they start shouting at each other.
He has to head to work soon, too, and I hurriedly go to the kitchen to make us some food.
After about twenty minutes, my parents emerge. My mother looks a lot more awake than my dad, who has a thick layer of stubble over his chin and a loose plaid shirt flapping over his naked torso. He’s put on a lot of weight lately.
I place two bottles of water on the counter in front of him.
“For the journey,” I say, hoping it might sober him up. There’s no question that he’ll drive. Neither of them will make it to their shift on time if they take the bus, but he’s still drunk.
“You could have made me some goddamn coffee,” he spits at me, and Annabelle glares daggers at him behind his back.
“We’re out of coffee. I’m gonna get some more today,” I say softly.
“At least you’re not spendin’ all your money on them fancy suits,” my mother shoots back, her tone mean and slurred as she heads to the door. That’s a classic turnabout for her. One second, I’m her ‘beautiful girl’, the next, I’m the cause of all her problems.
“What suits?” my dad demands.
“She’s been prancin’ about in some hoity-toity outfits lately.”
I inhale sharply, glaring at my mom in disbelief. The audacity of the woman. She’s complaining about the money I supposedly spend on myself, when I’ve been paying for rent, bills, and food for the past six months.
“Why ain’t you spendin’ some of that on your sister? What do you need fancy clothes for?” my dad asks, his eyes narrowing as he meets my gaze.
“I started a new job.”
