24. This vs. That
MICHELA
24
The difference between what Corrado is offering and where I’ve lived most of my life hits me the moment I walk into my home. The spaciousness of the bright Manhattan apartment makes this cramped and dark one feel sad. The stale smell of alcohol adds another layer of misery, and now it just looks depressing. It’s taken me this many years to notice just how sad I feel upon entering the space.
Piles of laundry dumped on the couch near the freshly poured drink tell me Mom’s likely at the laundromat. Just as well. I’m not ready to tell her about Corrado, and even when I tell her, I won’t mention the marriage arrangement.
My room, still very much the same as it was when Gordon and I were teens sans the dumb posters of chicks in bathing suits sitting on Harleys, smells better than the rest of the house. That’s because I keep it closed, and Mom rarely comes here.
In fact, I can’t remember the last time she peeked in here. Which isn’t a bad thing since she’d drink even more if she saw all Gordon’s stuff. She misses him terribly. I miss him too, but I’m dealing with the hollow in my chest in my own way.
I need an overnight bag to pack a few things for when Corrado confronts me about not staying at the apartment. I can show him I’m partially there. He’ll disagree with my returning home at night, but if I explain the situation, he might understand.
It’s just that I dislike talking about my mom’s alcohol problem and our lack of means to deal with it and life in general. I’m not looking forward to the conversation, which will get even more heated if I don’t find a bag.
Since I’ve traveled only once, to Washington DC for a high school trip that lasted two days, I never owned a suitcase. Besides a garbage bag, I can’t think of anything that’ll fit my clothes and toiletries.
I’d rather bring whatever I can fit into my briefcase.
Starting with underwear.
I approach the dresser and notice the photo of Gordon and Jesse stuck on the mirror above. They enlisted together, and Mom took this photo right outside the building. Oh! My brother is holding a green duffel bag.
I open his closet, and the smell of leather hits me immediately. I run my palm down his old leather jacket and lift it to my nose, sniffing. Gordon’s smell is long gone from it, but the memories of him wearing it remain. This was his motorcycle club cut. He was going to make president one day.
My brother is no saint.
But he’s no murderer of innocents either.
The vice president of Gordon’s club drugged me, then locked me in his room in the biker’s clubhouse the way he’d done with many other women. Nobody ever stopped him, and if Gordon hadn’t broken in before the man got a chance to hurt me… Well, it would’ve changed my life for sure.
Nobody cared that my brother was protecting me. The lawmakers saw his six-foot-seven tattooed body and his irreverent attitude and salivated at the prospect of getting Gordon for attempted murder. They packed on all kinds of other charges too, and got him on those as well.
His club brothers turned on him. Jesse couldn’t do anything about it even if he wanted to. Gordon forbade him from risking his life and betraying their club president.
It was a mess that ended in our ruin. All because of me. Could’ve stayed at home that night, but didn’t.
Under Gordon’s hanging clothes, I move the pair of his custom-order boots and several boxes. Crouching, I search in the back and find the duffel in the corner.
Yaaaas!
I snatch it and lift it victoriously, like I’m holding a trophy, and carry it into the bathroom, where I clean it with a wet cloth before placing it on the bed. As I’m selecting the sexiest underwear I own, which is basically the black cotton ones and not pale pink or blue or the ones with ice cream cones (what the hell was I thinking buying those?), my phone rings.
It’s Jesse.
I open the line. “Hey, Jesse.”
“Hey, pumpkin,” my mom says. “How are you?”
“I’m fine. What’s up?” Where’s her phone?
“Oh, nothing much. Jesse made me call because I fell down the stairs.”
“Oh no. Where are you now?” I grab my purse and walk out of the bedroom.
“It’s not too bad. I didn't break anything.”
“Thank God. Where are you?”
“At the laundromat by the Tournament.”
“That’s far. Is there something wrong with the one in the complex?”
“Karen was there.”
Karen and Mom can’t stand each other. Karen touched my brother where she shouldn’t have when he was fifteen. Because he thought an older woman getting him off was cool, he bragged about it, which is how my mom found out, and that was the end of her friendship with Karen.
“Okay, Mom, I’m coming.”
“You don’t have to do that. I don’t want you to leave work.”
She keeps forgetting I don’t have a job. It’s like she slips in and out of her life, as if alcohol is eating her brain. “I’ll be right there. Please wait for me.”
Duffel in hand, I take the steps two at a time and jump down the last three, happy to see Corrado’s beautiful car is still where I parked it at the curb. Some kids are gathered around it, but since it’s not as cool as, say, a sleek black Lamborghini, which he probably owns at one of his twenty residences around the world, the kids quickly move on.
Some sort of super-sensitive sensors tell the car when I approach and then sit inside it, so the engine starts in a matter of seconds. I hit the road while biting my lip, thinking of how I’ll explain the car to my mom. Jesse, as well, but I can fend him off.
I’m more worried about my mom’s reaction, which will depend on what I tell her. Or rather, how much. I don’t plan on telling her much. At least not today.
Mom’s wearing a black tank top without a bra, jean shorts, and slippers. Her hair is up in a messy bun, and a joint hangs from the corner of her mouth.
Classic.
The laundry basket by her side must’ve broken when she fell, and as I pull up, I see that she’s walking slowly and with a limp.
“Not too bad, my ass,” I say as I get out of the car.
I offer to help her into the car, but she waves me off, wobbling and losing her balance again. “I’m fine,” she says. “Everything is fine.”
I snort at her frustrated attitude and watch her get in by herself while I grab the basket and throw it into the trunk.
When I slide inside the driver’s seat, I expect a question about the vehicle, but I get, “Got a lighter in here?”
“Can’t smoke in my boss’s car,” I answer, and there’s my story. This is my boss’s car.
Mom nods. “It’s not too bad. I don’t know why Jesse made me call you.”
“You probably don’t feel it now, but I bet your tailbone is bruised. You’re sitting sideways, and the back of your thigh is scratched.”
She looks out the window. “You think you know everything.”
“Dr. Michaels might have a few minutes to see you.” She won’t go.
“No insurance.”
I guess we can bring up the termination letter now. “You just lost your job, Mom. You still have insurance.”
“It’s all terminated.”
I side-eye her. “Why would it all get terminated right away?”
“They found some pills in my purse.”
I swallow, a dreadful feeling forming in my belly. “I thought you got laid off.”
“I did.”
“But not because they’re laying people off. You got laid off because you broke the rules?”
“Michela, I’m not in the mood for one of your righteous speeches.”
“Mom, I’m not trying to give you a hard time, but I need to know what happened.”
“I fell down the stairs.”
“Not about the stairs. The job. The insurance.”
“I’ll get another job.”
We pull up at our apartment, and Mom tries to get out, but can’t. She starts cursing, so before she makes a scene for the neighbors, I open the car door and practically carry her upstairs. In her bedroom, I ignore the mess and the smell she lives in.
Once I lay her down, I cover her up, pluck the joint out of her mouth, and put it near an ashtray. Mom calms down slowly. I sit with her until she yawns.
When she closes her eyes, I open the nightstand. Inside are baggies of pills.
“Mom, what are these white pills?”
She opens one eye. “Jarette had too many. I thought we could sell the rest.”
“Oh my God, you’re dealing Jarette’s pills?”
“Mmhm.”
I think she might be high. It would explain the tiredness and mood swings. “Jesus, Mom.”
“He abandoned me,” she says.
When she says this, I’m never sure who she’s talking about. Either she’s referring to the man who made me, then left for college, only to almost kill her when she tried reconnecting with him, or if she means Gordon.
“You won’t ever leave me, my sweet girl.”
I sigh, tears gathering in my eyes. “No, I’ll always be here.”