Chapter 11
ELEVEN
ANDY
As I sit at the table inside McDonalds, watching my daughter inhale her nuggets, all I can think about is my mother and life after my grandparents were gone. How much we struggled for money because she deemed herself unable to work , when it really meant that working would interfere with her carefree lifestyle and drug use.
Thinking about the past is something I seem to be doing a lot of lately. It’s hard not to when I stare into the eyes of my daughter, feel the soul-consuming, unconditional love I have for her, and I question why my mother was unable to feel the same way.
Diane Harris looks at drugs the way I look at my daughter.
Like we would do anything for them.
The older I get, the more I realize the trauma I carry with me daily. It consumes me, and at times, it feels suffocating. I know it’s toxic and I should be in therapy or even read a fucking self-help book, but I’m not sure if I’m ready to let go of the resentment and anger I feel toward her. It’s not healthy for me, but if I forgive her, what does that say about me? That it’s okay that she treated me the way she did? That she should get a second chance? Well, more like a one millionth chance, considering I’ve been giving her second chances since I could walk .
With a sigh, I sink down into my chair, my eyes never leaving my beautiful girl in front of me.
My growling stomach causes her dark eyes to look up at me and away from her nuggets. “Why aren’t you eating, Mommy?” she asks, taking a long drink from her cup of Powerade.
Because I only had twenty dollars and still need to get gas.
I refuse to touch my credit card unless I absolutely have to. I’ve been in debt before, and it’s not fun trying to pay it off. I took nearly two years to pay off the small $500 limit. And I’d rather miss a meal than use it. It’s too easy to fall back into debt—even with one small purchase.
But I don’t tell my daughter the truth, because I’ll never place the burden of finances on her small shoulders, so instead, I lie to her. “I’m still full from breakfast.” Every morning that I work, I eat breakfast at the hotel, and this morning wasn’t any different. I fed us both, and then when Max got hungry in the early afternoon, I reheated some leftover pancakes for her.
Sitting back in her seat, she places a hand on her stomach and rubs it. “My tummy is full. Can I go play?” I nod, and she runs toward the playroom, nearly tripping over her feet, which makes me laugh.
She’ll be hungry later, and I can’t afford to eat out again today, so instead of eating her remaining five nuggets and fries like I’d usually do, I place them in the brown to-go bag and set it inside my purse to save for later.
This phase of life is only temporary.
One day, money will not be an issue and I’ll be able to give my daughter everything her little heart desires.
One day.
We spent two hours at McDonalds before I swallowed my pride, bit my tongue, hid my resentment, and called my mom. I could barely keep my eyes open, and Max was whining because she was tired.
Out of options, I called Diane and asked if we could spend the night. Of course, she said yes, and I hung up immediately after so I wouldn’t have to listen to her talk shit about my asking.
That’s where we are now…
Standing on my mother’s porch.
My pulse races with anxiety as I wait for her to open the door.
The moment she does, I regret my decision to come here… yet again.
Twice in a week. Surely this is a new record.
Dull blue eyes stare back at me, different from the bright, ocean-blue eyes she used to have. Before the drugs took her youth and beauty, she had the same eyes as her father, my grandpa, the greatest man I’ve ever known. But drugs have ruined her, and her eyes are now soulless.
Empty.
Her pale skin is wrinkly and dry, and despite being in her forties, she looks nearly twenty years older.
Another thing she has to thank the drugs for.
Those dull eyes look from me and down to Max, a genuine smile spreading across her thin chapped lips at the sight of her granddaughter.
“Hi, Maxie girl. Come inside.” She steps to the side, allowing us to enter the trailer that somehow always manages to smell like a wet dog, even though she doesn’t have a dog, and she always has a new wax melt in her wax warmer.
Apple pie spice mixed with wet dog.
Smells like home.
While Max talks to my mom, catching her up on the difficulties of being a five year old, I take our bags into my old bedroom, the same room where I’d tucked Max in last night.
It’s almost seven p.m., and it’s been nearly forty-eight hours since I’ve slept. At this point, I’m running on fumes. My eyes are dry and burn, and all I want is to close my eyes for the night and get a solid ten hours.
I know that’s impossible, though. I haven’t slept more than five hours since I started working two full-time jobs, eighty hours a week, when I was only sixteen. Then came Max, and any chance I had of sleeping for a long period went out the door.
I’m used to it, but I also know I won’t be able to completely relax here. Not until we’re moved into our apartment on Sunday, and I’m back in my own space.
When I check on Max to make sure she’s okay with my mom, I find them baking cookies, so I choose to leave them alone and return to the room to take a quick nap. I’ll be fine once I rest my eyes for a few minutes.
Twenty minutes, that’s all I need.
Biggest lie of my life.
Four hours later, I wake up to a small warm body crawling over me then curling up beside me. My eyes pop open, and it takes several blinks for me to adjust to the darkness of the room.
“Max?” I wrap my arms around her small body, hugging her to me. “What were you doing?”
She yawns, her curls ticking my nose. “Grandma made cookies that I got to help with. Then she needed help eating them, so I helped her eat them. And I got to watch cartoons.” If she weren’t exhausted, her voice would be filled with more excitement than what it currently is.
“Sounds fun, baby,” I mumble, keeping my arms around her as we fall asleep together.
Saturday morning, I wake with a stiff neck and my arm asleep and tingly from my daughter using it as a pillow all night .
Groaning, I carefully unwrap my arms from my sleeping daughter and climb out of the bed, stretching my stiff limbs as I stand.
The worn mattress we slept on was uncomfortable, but I’d been too tired to complain. Not that I would anyways since it’s a bed. And considering I don’t have one of my own currently, I have no right to complain about anything.
Tomorrow morning, we will meet Heather and get the keys for our new apartment. For the first time in a while, I have something to look forward to, and am excited to be in our new home. The rent was more than what I’d previously been paying, and I’ll need to find someone to look after Max once she gets out of school after summer is over. That will be tomorrow’s problem. Today, I’m going to take my girl to the thrift store to go shopping for furniture since we don’t have anything for our new apartment.
One more fucking day until we’re home.
We’re so close.
While Max sleeps, I quickly change into a pair of black leggings that hug my thick thighs like a second skin, along with a faded Nirvana crop T-shirt that is short enough to reveal my legging covered belly and a sliver of skin. After slipping on my socks and second-hand black converse, I go into the bathroom connected to the bedroom to brush my teeth and wash my face.
Years ago, when Mom and I moved into this trailer, I demanded the master bedroom. We fought over it, her telling me that she deserves it because she’s the mother and the one paying rent.
“I’m the one that has to pay the fucking rent while your ass gets to go out and party all day.” She had screamed in my face, her stupidity pissing me off. Every day I went to work, even though she convinced herself I was “partying.” Mothers are supposed to pay rent and provide a roof over their child’s head. That is the bare minimum that a parent should do, yet she always threw it in my face that she was paying rent .
Never mind the fact I was the one paying for everything else.
She sold her food stamps each month to have money for drugs, so it was my paycheck that paid for groceries, which I was often unable to afford.
Another thing we fought over.
Every month we’d stand in line at the food pantry to get a free box of food. When I wasn’t able to afford anything else, that’s the only food we’d have for the month.
When the kitchen is always empty, you really learn how to make a packet of Ramen become a gourmet meal.
Knowing my mom and the company she kept, I hadn’t wanted any more exposure to them than necessary, which is why I demanded the master bedroom. As soon as I’d return home from work, I’d lock myself in my bedroom, only coming out if I had no other choice.
I hated being around her friends. The gross men with pick marks and scars on their aged, leather skin, their beady eyes lingering on me for too long, always standing too close; the feeling of their hot, rancid breath on my skin still haunts me.
I shudder at the memory.
Being here has memories resurfacing that I’d rather keep out of my mind. It’s ironic, considering I allow my past to keep a constant noose around my neck. As long as I continue holding onto my anger there will never be any room for healing. No room to move on and let go.
I badly want to be free and let the little girl inside of me heal and have a happy ending.
I am not defined by my childhood trauma.
One day, I will heal and be free.
After going through my morning routine of brushing my teeth, washing my face, and applying tinted sunscreen and mascara, I bend at the waist to shake out my frizzy curls that desperately need to be washed. My hair is wild and should probably be in a bun, but I’m on a journey of loving my hair.
For too many years, my curly hair was subjected to chemical hair straightening treatments and relaxers because no one in my family knew how to properly care for a Black child’s hair.
There were a few times my grandma took me to the salon with her to get my hair cut just like hers—so my hair was short and my curls would be looser and easier to manage.
It was difficult growing up in Loganville as a biracial child.
I was always too white to be Black, and too Black to be white. Anywhere I looked, no one looked like me. My family didn’t, and neither did the people in town. Even the dolls I used to play with didn’t look like me.
For so long I felt like an alien who was sent here from a different planet. Maybe my real alien family forgot me on earth and Diane mistakenly brought me home.
That idea went out the window when she showed me a photo of her and my father, and I learned that I look just like him.
I’ve always wondered if that’s why my mom always secretly hated me. I know she loved my father, and their relationship was ruined when she discovered she was pregnant.
Because of me, they’re not together anymore.
“Mommy?” Max calls out from the bedroom, confusion and panic in her voice from waking up in an unfamiliar space without me next to her.
Popping my head out of the bathroom, I meet her eyes and smile, watching her shoulders visibly relax at the sight of me. “Hi, sleepy girl.” I wash my hands before going into the bedroom and sitting on the bed beside her.
She climbs on my lap the moment I sit, her arms around my neck and legs around my waist. “How did you sleep?” I ask, rubbing her back.
“Good, but I’m hungry.” Her hair tickles my nose, using the hand not wrapped around her I smooth down her mess of curls.
“Let’s get you ready then you can eat. We’re going to have a fun day today.” The promise of doing something fun grabs her interest and perks her up. Her small body pulls back, and wide brown eyes look at me, and I swear they sparkle with excitement.
Squealing, she climbs off my lap and rushes toward the bathroom. “What are you waiting for, Mommy? Let’s go!” It doesn’t take much to excite my little girl.
With a smile spread wide across my lips, I rush after her, feeding off her innocent energy.
One more day , I remind myself.
Tomorrow, we’ll be starting a new chapter in our lives.