“Yeah, right.” We laugh.
She’s quiet for a few seconds. “I think I’d want to open a little shop or something. Maybe a bookstore. With cute, mismatched vintage chairs and coffee. Maybe I’ll get a cat and name him something punny.”
“I could see that for you.” I smile.
The sun’s dipping behind the trees now, bleeding orange and red like the sky is on fire. I don’t want to leave this moment. This bench, with this girl, and dreams of the future. Maeve nudges my foot.
“Gotta get going?”
“Yeah.”
“Text me so I know you’re good.”
“I will.”
My house sitslike it’s slumping under its own weight. The paint is peeling, the porch light is busted, and the screen door sits crooked. One of the front windows is cracked.
There’s no car in the driveway. The porch groans under my feet. I steady myself at the door, taking a deep breath. The handle’s sticky when I turn it.
The TV is on, too loud and too low, voices murmuring. The air smells like cigarettes, sweat, and cheap beer. I close the door softly behind me, and out of habit, I shrink my shoulders, tuck my head, and make my way throughthe house. I know exactly where to step to avoid any creaks. Past the TV, past the half-eaten microwave dinner on the arm of the couch, the overflowing ashtray and bottles that litter the floor.
Mama’s in the corner of the room, half on the floor, half off the couch. One arm draped limply over the cushion, eyes closed. Her thin dull hair stuck to her cheek.
I peek in the kitchen to check for him. He’s not here. The tightness in my chest eases.
There’s a stain and a smear of something on her shirt. Her lips are pale and cracked, her breathing shallow.
“Mama,” I nudge her. “Mama.”
No answer.
I press two fingers to the base of her neck. Her pulse is weak, but it’s there. Her chest rises shakily. I breathe out some relief.
She reeks of sweat, vomit, and the sour tang of alcohol. There’s a crusted stain on the floor beside her, old bile. I pick her up off of the ground and drag her back onto the couch, positioning her on her side so she can’t choke.
I gather the empty bottles and containers around the room, stacking them into a plastic bag I found under the sink. I empty the ashtray and throw out a broken mug. I grab a blanket and fold it over her.
No one will really care, but it gives me something to do. I can’t even really remember the last time I had a conversation with my Mama.
I’m crouched on the floor, trying to clean the crusted bile when I hear the door slamming against the wall. I hear his keys jingle, a muttered curse, then his boots walking down the hall.
I freeze, wishing I could just vanish. I stay quiet, hoping if I’m small enough, he won’t see me. The TV is still murmuring in the background.
“Celia!” he shouts, and as he turns the corner, his dark eyes land on me. I’m not sure what he sees.
“She threw up, I was just cleaning it up.”
“Hmph.”
I don’t dare respond.
He walks past me, brushing my shoulder, and it takes everything in menot to flinch or move away. He leans over to stare at her, his dark, greasy hair falling over his eyes.
“Useless.” He sneers, turning to me.
He grabs my chin, and his fingers dig into the bruises I’ve covered. I flinch without meaning to.
“Don’t pull away from me, daughter.” He spits the last word in my face.
