18. Sage
EIGHTEEN
SAGE
BACK THEN
One day, I want the ground under my feet to feel solid. Not a rug someone can pull out from under me. Not a floor riddled with holes. Something solid. Whole and unstained.
No longer feeling like I’m standing over an edge that’s about to break and send me plummeting into the unknown.
That’s not today, though.
Mom forgot to pay the electrical bill. They shut off the power to the trailer. June and some others dropped off flashlights, but the darkness creeps in, anyways.
I’m not afraid of the dark. I’m thirteen. That’s for children. But I keep casting glances into the corners of my room. The hairs on the back of my neck rise anytime I turn off the light. I keep shining the beam from the flashlight to chase away whatever lurks there.
The cold doesn’t help fight the fear. It sinks into my bones, making me shake. It’s winter break, so I don’t even get a break at school. I’m trapped in this frozen tin can, listening to my mom cry outside the door.
I should go to her. Tell her it’s ok. That we will figure it out together, but I can’t.
I don’t want to. She spent the money on booze instead of paying the bills.
I’m too mad at her to be swayed by her crying.
I’m not the one who’s assigned to the role of caregiver. She is. And she’s failing. Again.
Something outside my window has me sitting straight up in my bed. The blankets that only help a portion of chill fall to my waist. Goosebumps rise under my layers of clothes. The light from the flashlight vibrates in the air when I hold the light towards the window.
A cloud of air hangs in front of my mouth when I sigh a breath of relief. Mac’s feet come through first, then his legs, his torso, and finally his face.
Sometimes looking at Mac is hard. Sometimes the bruises on his face make me have to swallow down sobs. I hate to see him hurt. Hate knowing how he got that way.
Every time he shows up with fresh marks on his skin, I make a silent vow. A promise sent out into the universe to right a wrong.
One day, I’m going to hurt Dave Stephens like he hurts Mac. The anger I carry around like an extra limb feels overwhelming sometimes, making me envision the worst, most depraved things. Playing out how I will enact justice on his behalf.
But I’m just a kid. I don’t feel like one, but I am. I won’t always be. While Mac makes fantasy worlds of living outside of Jessie James, I make my own. Darker, twisted fantasies of ending his torment.
“Shit, it’s cold,” Mac says, shivering, huffing hot air into his hands and rubbing them together. I turn the light off him. Having him in a spotlight only highlights the black eye Dave gave him. It’s gone from black to purple to a sickening green. But my hatred of its presence doesn’t fade.
“Yeah. Still no power.” I pull back the covers on my bed. A silent offer for him to climb in beside me. His shoes fly across my room, banging against the door in his haste to get warm.
He’s not wearing a jacket. Only a thin, long-sleeve shirt to protect himself from the cold. I want to chaste him for never wearing the right clothes. But I bite my tongue. It’s not his fault he doesn’t own a coat. Another strike against his parents slashes through my thoughts.
Mac throws himself into the bed, his legs knocking into mine. We are getting way too big for the tiny bed. Mac keeps growing taller, and so do I, making us take
up every inch of the mattress. I tug the blankets back up and lay down beside him. Turning on my side to make more space.
The room plunges into darkness when I switch off the flashlight. But the fear I felt before is nowhere to be found, growing bolder now that I’m no longer alone. Mac is the only person who can do that: make my fears vanish. Anger slowly twists into something else I’m too dumb to name.
“Your dad come home?” I ask into the quiet. Even Mom’s cries have drifted off. Mac scoffs, burrowing deeper into the blankets.
“Yeah. I got out of there when I heard his car outside.” His voice stutters from his chattering teeth.
Dave had once again run off. Three days, he was gone. I always hope he just won’t come back. I know Mac does, too. But Dave always comes back. Usually drunk or high, shouting threats and screaming about how useless Mac and his mom are.
Sometimes I can hear it from my trailer. Other times, his threats are silent. The quiet ones scare me the most. I’ll find myself pacing by my window, fighting against the urge to rush over to him. To save him. But my presence never helps. It only makes Dave hysterical.
“Is your mom home?” I ask, already knowing the answer. His mom doesn’t leave their trailer often. Only to go score or do whatever she does when she saunters out in a skimpy dress. I can only imagine what she’s up to then.
“Yup.” His voice is quiet now, a soft breath that fans across my face when he turns to face me. I can barely see him in the dark, just his outline, hiding his shame in the shadows. But I stare at him regardless.
How we are with each other is anything but normal. Codependent and possibly toxic, but Mac is all I have. I’m all he has. A part of me likes it that way.