Chapter 5
FIVE
ANDY
I’ve spent all twenty-one years of my life loving my mother more than she’s ever loved me. I like to think she cares for me in her own way, but getting high has always been her priority.
Pills.
Meth.
Heroine.
It doesn’t matter; she doesn’t discriminate.
She’s spent the last twenty-one years blaming her parents for the person she is. She said her battle with addiction began when my grandpa died. She blames him for dying. How dare he have the audacity to get pneumonia and die at sixty-seven?!
Everyone is at fault for her life being the way it is—everyone except her.
She blames my father for leaving her while she was pregnant, making her raise a child all by herself. Sometimes she’ll claim that’s when her addiction started. After I was born, she was stressed having to take care of a child while still living at home and working part time at a gas station.
When in reality, her addiction began long before that.
Long before I was born.
I’ve always heard the stories about the person she was prior to my birth, back when I was still a sperm in my dead-beat dad’s ball sack.
I wish I could’ve met that person. The person she was before life got to her.
I’ve seen pictures, and she was beautiful. Lucious, long pin-straight chestnut colored hair and bright-blue eyes that don’t match mine. She has her daddy’s eyes, and I have mine. Every time I look in the mirror, I see him. The man who gave my mother a choice. Get an abortion and stay together or have a baby and be a single mother.
Obviously, I’m certain one can guess which option she chose.
Through years of drug abuse, she’s lost her youth and beauty. Her hair is shoulder length, thin, and often kept in a low bun at the nape of her neck. She keeps it short because she says it’s too hot. That’s a lie; it’s because her hair is so thin it’s see-through.
I think it’s also because she’s tired of cleaning the vomit out of it during the one week a month she’s forced to be sober. That last week of the month, before the first when her debit card will receive her monthly government deposit and she’ll be able to purchase more drugs.
Truth is, I don’t know when my mother’s addiction began, but I know the only way it’ll end is when she overdoses and I have to bury her.
When my mother is six-feet under, that’ll be the only way to end her addiction.
I’ve always wondered how a mother could look at their precious innocent child and choose drugs over them.
While I was in my filthy crib crying for her while wearing my two-day-old diaper full of shit that was ready to explode, she was busy in the bedroom with her newest boyfriend of the night, sucking him off in exchange for her best friend, Crystal. Crystal meth.
Thank fucking God my grandparents chose that day for a visit and rescued my two-year-old self. Grandpa gave me a bath in our brown-stained bathtub while grandma tried to talk some sense into my mother and make her realize how terrible she was—and how poorly cared for I was.
Mom didn’t care. She let my grandparents take me, and I’ll forever be grateful for that. A week later, she was evicted and moved in with us.
Unfortunately, grandpa died too soon, and grandma missed him so much that she followed him a few years later.
Even though my mother lived with us, she was more my sister rather than my parent. She was absent. I was constantly begging for her attention, and always coming up short because the only thing that was ever important enough to her to warrant her attention was her precious pipe.
You’d think that a woman that was never supposed to have children would be the greatest fucking mom ever. I’m a miracle, after all. Not only was my mom told by multiple doctors that she’d never be able to conceive, but when I was born, I wasn’t breathing. The cord had been wrapped around my neck, and I was blue. The doctors were ready to call my time of death when mygrandma grabbed my cold blue hand, said a prayer, and I suddenly squeezed her finger.
That’s why grandma always called me her “little miracle.”
I know what happened because it’s all on video. One of Mom’s best friends recorded the entire thing. Proof that I’m a true fucking miracle.
I was fourteen when grandma died, and the only home I’d ever known was sold. Mom and I were forced to the streets with nothing more than a few dollars in our pockets from the sale of my beloved camera, and the boxes of things we could fit in our trunk. A week later, I’d managed to find us an apartment, no thanks to Mom. I’d sold anything of mine with any value to afford it. Mom was an only child, so I didn’t have any aunts or uncles who could take me. I was fourteen, living with a drug addicted stranger.
A stranger who I am now desperately needing help from because I have no other choice until my new apartment is ready to move in on Sunday morning.
I had the perfect place. A basement apartment that I’d been renting for five years from a retired widow who spent her free time babysitting children of women around the neighborhood who couldn’t afford daycare.
Like I said, I had the perfect spot.
Unfortunately, she passed away, and her asshole of a son served me an eviction notice that same day, saying he needed to sell the house immediately.
Damnit, Linda Baker. Why’d you have to die?
Thank fuck, I’d been able to find a new apartment quickly, but it’s not available until Sunday.
So, here I am. Standing on the doorstep of my mother’s faded, yellow trailer, looking over my shoulder to watch my back every two seconds while I’m here in this sketchy ass trailer park.
“Can we stay with you for the weekend? We’ll be gone Sunday,” I say, the words like acid in my throat.
My mother sits on the porch in her stained recliner, a cigarette hanging from the side of her mouth, her eyes never leaving mine.
She’s unable to hide her amusement, and I know she loves seeing me so desperate that I’m coming to her for help for once.
If I had other options, I wouldn’t be here, but I used all my money to put down a deposit and first and last month’s rent, leaving me broke until my next payday.
“Well? Can we stay here?” I ask again when she doesn’t make an attempt to answer, instead staring at me with a smug look of satisfaction.
She blinks, looking away from me long enough to put her cigarette out in the ashtray beside her chair.
“You know you can.” Using the back of her hand, she wipes away the beads of sweat that line her forehead thanks to the Nevada heat. “I don’t understand why you bothered getting another apartment when you could’ve just moved in here.”
Of course she doesn’t understand my reasons for not wanting to live with her again. Especially now. In her eyes, she’s perfect and does nothing wrong. If you ask her, she’ll tell you she was the best mother, and that she did anything and everything she could to support her daughter on her own. It’s always everyone else around her that has the problems.
It’s my fault for having a problem with her doing drugs.
It’s my fault for having a problem with all the sketchy men she brought around when I was younger. I should’ve been okay with registered sex offenders sleeping in the room next to mine, because she was only trying to pay rent by renting out the room. Every night I slept with a knife under my pillow and a chair in front of the door, the back lodged under the doorknob.
Each time I saw movement beneath my door, I’d hold my breath, watching the handle shake, too afraid to move. I wouldn’t breathe until the shadows disappeared, promising to return.
It’s my fault we don’t have your typical mother/daughter relationship.
Nothing will ever be her fault, because Diane Harris is fucking perfect.
It's been years since I lived here in this trailer with her. I moved out the first chance I could when I was sixteen, and I haven’t looked back since. Any time I’ve seen her, it’s been out in public or at my house during the times she’s dropped by unannounced to ask for money.
I don’t come here anymore to the trashy trailer that haunts my dreams and contains memories of my upbringing that I’d rather forget.
Under her roof, I was alone. I was busy parenting myself and working full time while she was the loudmouth stranger in the room next door, locked inside with her friends while they got high. She never even noticed that I’d dropped out of school in order to work two jobs.
Diane’s blue eyes widen. “Where’s Maxie?” she asks. I’ve been here for twenty minutes, and she’s just now realizing that my daughter isn’t with me. “Did you leave her in that fancy car of yours?” She squints, looking toward the driveway where I parked my gray 2007 Nissan Pathfinder.
My car is far from fancy. The miles are high, the tires are bald, the AC barely works, the transmission slips, and I’m past due for an oil change. Despite it all, it gets me where I need to go while I save for the repairs.
Actually, car repairs are the last thing on my mind. After paying rent each month, I have little left over. What I have left goes toward groceries, utilities, and anything else Max needs.
“No, Diane. I didn’t leave my daughter in the hot car. She’s at school.” I roll my eyes. More stress piles on my shoulders at the reminder that today is Max’s last day of school. Soon, I’ll have to pay for childcare. Another expense I’ll need to budget for during the summer break.
“Can’t blame me for asking. I left you in the car a time or two, and you turned out fine.” She waves her hand in front of me, standing from her chair, her bones cracking and popping as she does.
“Yeah, how could I ever forget the time you left me in the car in the middle of summer while you went into the casino? Thank fuck someone saw me and helped get me out.” I was six, and she’d placed child lock on the doors, so I wasn’t able to get out. A man was walking by and spotted me. Within seconds, he was breaking the window and getting me out. I’d been red and drenched in sweat.
“Bastard broke my fucking window because of you.” She scoffs, opening the front door with a creak. I choose not to respond. It’ll lead to an argument because, like I said, Diane Harris is perfect and does nothing wrong .
I stand in the doorway, scrunching my nose at the smell of sweat, mold, and mildew that assaults me.
“We’ll be over around seven. I still have some packing to do,” I say, shoving my hand in the back pocket of my shorts, pulling out my car keys.
“Fine. I’ll have dinner ready.”
Without another word, I pull the door closed and rush down the steps, going toward my SUV. Unlocking it, I climb behind the wheel and start it, wiping away the sweat from my forehead.
I fucking hate the idea of us having to stay here until Sunday, but I don’t have any other options. I have no friends or any other family. My mom is my only option, and for my daughter, I’m willing to bite my tongue if it means a roof over her head. I’ll be by her side the entire time, and we’ll be okay as long as we remain in my old bedroom.
For my daughter, I’ll put my feelings aside for the weekend to ensure she has a warm bed to sleep in.
Unlike Diane, I’d do anything for my child.
After packing the rest of our basement apartment, Max and I make a trip to her favorite fast-food place for dinner and bring it back home, wanting to enjoy one last meal in the only home she’s ever known.
Mom said she was going to cook dinner, but I’m not willing to eat her food. Knowing her, she’ll bitch and complain and charge me for anything that I eat, even when she offers it. Plus, I don’t trust her cooking. She acts like she’s a five-star chef when in reality, eating out of a dumpster would be better. Not that she cooked often. My diet mostly consisted of frozen meals, Ramen, and anything else from the freezer section at the dollar store.
Have you ever had chicken from the Dollar Store? I wouldn’t recommend it, but sometimes you have to do what you have to do. Even if that means sticking the package of frozen chicken breast under your shirt and walking out.
Luckily for me, George, Linda’s asshole son, agreed to let me keep my stuff here until Sunday. I had nowhere else to store it, and I refused to take it to my mother’s trailer, even though she offered her storage shed to me.
I had hoped we could stay here until Sunday, but George took our keys and said the power will be disconnected come morning.
Sunday morning, I’m supposed to meet him here, and he’s going to unlock the basement so I can move all my stuff out, and then I’m getting my security deposit back.
So, that’s something to look forward to.
I already plan to use that two grand to buy furniture for my new apartment, since the furniture in the basement were items that Linda had let us use while we lived here.
We may be getting a new apartment, but we’re starting over. It’s not like I’m not used to it. Sleeping in a bed has always been rare for me. There were many times I had to sleep on the floor because we had to leave my bed behind during one of our many moves. Before the trailer, we were getting evicted a lot thanks to Mom’s constant parties, but when I was fifteen, Mom heard about this trailer park from a friend and we moved in.
I’m lost in thought, tearing apart my chicken nuggets when my phone rings, interrupting the cartoon that Max is watching.
My sneaky girl tries to swipe the call away, but I catch her eyes before she’s able to ignore the call.
With an eyeroll and huff of annoyance, my sassy five-year-old slides my phone over to me.
Checking the caller ID, I click the green accept button and bring the phone to my ear. “Hi, Maggie.”
“Hey, boss,” Maggie says, coughing into the phone. “I’m sorry to bother you at the last minute, but I won’t be able to work tonight. I’m not feeling any better. ”
I sigh, closing my eyes and pinching the bridge of my nose. Fuck.
Just what I fucking need is someone calling off work when I already have a shit ton to deal with right now. “Did you find someone to cover your shift?” I already know the answer, but I ask anyway.
If she had someone to cover her, she would’ve sent me a text to tell me. She’s calling, which means I’m the lucky one that’ll have to cover for her.
“No one is available. Toby covered it last night, and he can’t cover it again.”
Great. I took today off to pack since I have to work tomorrow morning, but now that Maggie is unable to work her graveyard shift, it means I’ll be working a double.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
I shouldn’t complain because I need all the hours I can get, but it’s hard to do things on a moment’s notice when you’re a single mom.
“Okay. I’ll cover it. Feel better.”
“Thanks, boss. You’re the best!” Before Maggie hangs up, I swear I hear giggling in the background. I’m willing to bet she’s not even sick. She’s so unreliable, but when she does show up for work, she’s the best employee.
Setting my phone on the floor beside my box of nuggets, I look at Max. “Baby, mommy has to work tonight.”
Excitement fills her brown eyes. “Can I come?” My baby girl loves going to work with me.
“No, baby. You’ll go to grandma’s and sleep, and I’ll be there to take you to school in the morning.” Without responding, she takes my phone from my hand, unlocks it, and returns to watching her show.
Great. I’m going to have to leave her alone with my mom overnight. The thought makes my stomach ache.
It’s times like this I wish I wasn’t doing this whole parenting thing alone .
Being a parent is hard enough when you have a partner, but doing it alone makes it a dozen times harder.
“Eat up, kiddo. We’re going to grandma’s.”