I take the shampoo bottle from the ledge and immediately notice how light it is. It’s empty, and I could have sworn that I just bought this a few days ago. Or maybe last week? It might have been longer. A month? The panic in my chest weighs heavily. I’m losing time, not properly tracking things—even the simple things, like shampoo. It’s concerning.
Tonight, I will work on polishing a final paper. It doesn’t matter that I’ve already gone over it a hundred times because I want to earn another A grade. I applied to other colleges and got into Wesleyan and Pomona, but my mother, of course, wouldn’t pay my tuition. I didn’t receive enough scholarship money to attend either, so I’m stuck at this local community college. Lucinda is only letting me live in the guesthouse because the money I did get won’t cover housing. She tells everyone that she, a single woman, is more than happy to support her daughter’s education, and, oh, what a blessing it is to have her girl still at home.
I pay rent with the money I make doing graphic design work. There is something satisfying in manipulating images. Clients keep finding me online—requesting graphics for websites, book covers, shirts, whatever—and I get to bury myself in design work and collect money. I like the anonymity. I also like that I’m very good at what I do.
Not to mention, I have been squirreling away money for the past three years.
The food I keep in the small fridge in my room doesn’t cost much. I can barely stand to eat most of the time anyway. I don’t have a stove here, and because the kitchen in the main house is off-limits to me, I have become an expert sandwich maker. After my father left, all food inherfridge, beyond the very basics, was labeled with her and Amy’s names to be sure I would not touch anything that was not mine.
Another thing I can’t get myself to touch is a large bank account, one my father left for me. I’m not taking anything from the man who pretended to be my hero and turned out to be my enemy. He broke my heart, and I will never forgive him for leaving.
I touch my bracelet—Adored. It’s such complete bullshit. He doesn’t adore me because he wouldn’t have left if he had. Adoration means that you stay, no matter what. So, I don’t adore him, and I don’t adore my mother or sister, but I stay. Someone has to get my mother to pay her bills. Someone has to do the grocery shopping for her. Someone has to make sure that she can unleash her behavioral eccentricities in the privacy of her house, so the rest of the world does not see them.
So, the bank account remains as full as it was on the day my father left us forever.
I don’t know what I’ll do with my money.
Maybe I’ll burn it.
Maybe I’ll donate it.
Maybe I’ll spend it.
Maybe I’ll buy a gun.
