I keep walking, spotting Mrs. Espinosa up ahead, struggling with two heavy bags of groceries she’s practically dragging along the sidewalk. I jog to catch up with her, take one of the bags and heft it in my arms, then run up the stairs toour building door and tap the code to unlock it before holding it open for her.
“Thank you, Billiedearest.” She lays the sarcasm on thick. She hates feeling like she can’t run her normal errands, and I know she never wants help, but I always worry she’s going to bust open one of those bags and spill her stuff everywhere. “You know I can handle it.”
“Oh I know, Mrs. Espinosa. I only wanted to see if you had any Cracker Jack in here.” I peek inside the bag and spot the familiar box. No one else I know eats it, and I’d never even heard of Cracker Jack until I found a box in another one of her bags a couple of years ago.
“Don’t you dare steal my only treat.” She slaps at my hand as I dig into the bag with what she calls my dirty little laugh.
“I would never.” Once I walk her to her door on the first floor, I offer her a quick wave and head up the stairs to the third floor, not bothering with the elevator. It’s old and rickety and hot as balls.
When I enter my apartment, I pause for a moment, taking it in. There’s Mom sprawled out on the couch, dead to the world. Either asleep or passed out drunk, I’m not sure. She better be easy to wake up, though, because we need to leave soon.
Walking over to the couch, I tighten my jaw. I shake her shoulder, and her hazel eyes flutter open on a soft groan.
“It’s time,” I tell her, my voice firm.
She lurches upward, running her fingers through her snarled hair as she watches me move about the room. I pick up the garbage littering the coffee table and shake my head. I won’t miss living in this chaos. I head to the kitchen and tossout the leftover fast-food wrappers and empty paper cups, then check the fridge, relieved to see it’s mostly empty. Nothing will spoil in there while we’re gone.
Mom yawns and stretches as I shuffle around, straightening shit and tossing out empty bottles before I stand back to take in the room again. This place is as clean as it’s going to get. Besides, we’ve only got about half an hour before we need to leave.
At my urging, Mom takes a quick shower while I grab a duffel bag and start packing for her, shoving stuff inside that she’ll probably need. She’s barely able to think straight and depends on me for way too much, and I know she’s not going to protest what happens next. Not really.
Hopefully.
Once I’m done with her bag, I go to my room and finish packing my own stuff, though I’m not taking much. Just enough to fill my black backpack. A few changes of clothes, a toiletry bag, and all the freaking money I’ve saved up over the years. I open my door, stopping short when I find my mom standing directly in front of me.
“Don’t forget this,” Mom says, her familiar British accent thick with emotion. Her mousy brown hair is dripping wet from the shower, and her skin is waxy and sallow, but at least she’s already got some clothes on. She’s holding that stupid photo of the four of us on a cliff, standing under a giant tree with smiles on our faces. It’s a moment in time I can’t recall, but that’s never stopped Mom from acting like this photo represents my most precious memory.
Her voice still sounds like London—smooth, proper, with a careful lilt I used to try and copy when I was a kid. I’d trailafter her around the apartment, practicing mywhat-eversandbloody hellsuntil she laughed and called me her little parrot. I wanted to be just like her. But then her world cracked apart, and I forced myself to be nothing like her—flattened my vowels, sharpened my rs, built myself an American accent thick enough to drown her out.
I even slashed the dull brown hair we share with thick blue streaks, as if color could erase the parts of her still hiding in me.
“You want to take it with you?” I reach for the chipped gold frame, to pack it with her things, but she shrinks back. She stares at the photo with that lost look in her eyes that she always has when she glimpses into the past, at a family that doesn’t exist anymore.
“No.” She firmly shakes her head. “You should take it with you.”
“I don’t want—”
Mom cuts me off by shoving the frame in my hands, and I have no choice but to take it. I stash the photo in my backpack. I’ll throw it away later—I don’t need the reminder. I don’t live in the past like my mother does. Besides, where I’m going, being her daughter is even more of a liability than usual.
“Ninety days,” I remind Mom. She makes a face but doesn’t say anything. “It’s only ninety days, and then everything will go back to normal.”
The lie falls easily from my lips. Not the ninety days part—that’s true, only because it’s all I could get Peter to agree to. No, it’s the “back to normal” line that I know is a lie. Nothing is going to be normal ever again.
Not if I can help it.
Taking one last, long glimpse at the too-small, too-dark apartment that we’ve lived in for years, I kick the door shut, thankful I had the foresight to demand Peter prepay the rent for the next three months. I might have agreed to let him blow up my life for the foreseeable future, but eventually, I’ll need somewhere to come home to.
Even if that means returning to this shithole.
But first, I gotta take my mom to rehab.
…
The woman sitting behind the check-in desk at Merciful Mary Rehabilitation Center taps away at her keyboard, her brows drawing together as she studies the computer screen. Nerves eat at my insides, making it hard to stay still. I want to run. Flee this sterile lobby and take my mom with me.
My father better not have backed out of our agreement. I don’t trust him, and why should I? He’s not a good man. If he was, he would’ve taken care of me. Would’ve tried to establish a relationship with me for my entire life, not just now, when he needs my help.
“It looks like your mom’s stay is prepaid in full,” the woman finally says, her gaze lifting to mine. The flood of relief turns my knees liquid. “We have a room reserved for her. Is she ready?”
