Chapter 11 #2
I open the door, the creaking hinges waking the man up. He springs out of bed completely naked. Thank god I don’t see anything. He scrambles for an item of clothing and places it over his crotch before my eyes travel south on their own accord.
“Um, nice to meet you too,” I mutter at him.
“What are you doing here?”
“You mean in my own house?”
That shuts him up.
I can smell his breath from the other side of the bedroom. He’s covered in tattoos, but it’s too dark to read what they say.
Not like I need to know. He has “alcoholic” written all over him.
Does he know what a razor is? Has he ever heard of a magical drink called “water” before? The weathered skin and bloodshot eyes would suggest that he doesn’t consume something unless it has an ABV label on the back.
The man shoulders past me, his absence waking up Mom…who has also seen much better days.
“You look terrible,” I tell her.
“That’s what unlimited vodka and partying until the birds start singing does to you.”
“You know you have free will, right?”
“Right.” With great effort, she manages to prop herself up in bed.
I suspect she’s also naked, judging from the way she’s fighting to keep the bedsheets above her chest.
Something red and lacey catches my attention on the floor—her lingerie. The same crimson red as the shoes I almost tripped over.
She sees where I’m looking. “They match my new shoes. Cool, eh?”
Totally, if she wasn’t buying new killer heels with the money she’s supposed to be buying my school textbooks with. Since our household is well under the financial threshold, the high school gave us scholarship money so I could afford the books that are mandatory for my finals next semester.
“What else did you spend my scholarship on?”
“Oh, honey.” My mom sits up in the bed, her back pressed against the headboard. “We still have enough, don’t you worry.”
Her speech is slurred, as usual.
The late afternoon sun streams in through the sheer curtains, illuminating her tired face. She was young when she had me, my father an unsolved mystery.
Even Mom doesn’t know who he was. She was too drunk.
I’ve always thought that was for the best. Any man who decides to sleep with an intoxicated woman is an asshole in my books. I don’t want a dad who takes advantage and probably impregnates multiple women a week.
But I also don’t want a mom who’s on a downward trajectory to becoming mentally unstable.
And that’s putting it lightly. I’m pretty sure she’s already there.
But ignorance is bliss and all…
“Stay in tonight. Let’s watch a movie,” I plead.
“I can’t.”
Like watching a movie is more of an effort than getting dressed to the nines and hooking up with random guys.
“Why not?”
“I’m meeting Tim’s friends tonight.”
“Tim?”
Mom pats the space next to her. “Tim. He’s going to hook me up with some of his friends from Texas.”
“Friends? Like, multiple?”
Mom cracks a tired smile. “You only live once.”
“You can say that again,” I mutter under my breath.
“Did you say something, honey? Sorry, my hearing’s not like it used to be.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I didn’t say anything.”
I wish I could be annoyed at her. I’m so sick of feeling sad, heartbroken and a little disturbed, that I’m desperate to feel an emotion that isn’t one of the above.
But as much as I force my brain to be pissed at her for spending money on booze and men, and sparkly bits of string that leave next to nothing to the imagination, I can’t be mad at my own mom.
All I can do is vow to do better if I have children of my own.
Because not only is it exhausting to open the empty pantry in the morning and settle for a grumbling stomach, it’s also embarrassing.
Everyone in my grade knows that my mother is out most nights on the Strip.
People see her. She even flashed the soccer captain last month, and it’s still hot gossip all over the entire school.
I go into geometry class and hear people making comments about the shape and size of my own mother’s breasts.
It’s shameful, and the teachers look at me differently.
They never raise their voice, even if I’m late like the others.
I’m not normal, just a charity case that all the staff feel sorry for.
I’ve lost friends because of my own fucking mom. At one point before the school got involved, random students would linger outside, apparently trying to see if my mom was the “MILF” their friends claimed her to be.
When your own mother loves male attention and booze more than her own daughter, you know there’s a problem.
All the teachers at my school are concerned, but from an insider’s perspective, it’s different. She’s still my mom. There was a time before all of this when she’d only party twice a week. She used to cook meals and take me to the library every Monday morning for story time.
Everybody else thinks that she’s gone, but she’s still in there.
I clear my throat. “You should wake up. It’s nearly five p.m.”
“That’s alright, honey,” she says drowsily. “I didn’t get home until midday. I think I’ll have a few more hours. There’s a packet of sweet waffles in the pantry if you’re hungry.”
I head to the kitchen, but not before opening the curtains and windows to let in some daylight and fresh air.
There’s not much point in even doing that. We live in a neighborhood that’s low in elevation and thick with the smells of nicotine, sweat, and decay.
Back in the kitchen, I realize she lied about the waffles, or got confused.
Or accidentally left them out on the countertop for Tim to help himself to.
I peer out the window and watch as he walks down the street, digging into another waffle from the packet. He shoves the baked good into his mouth like he hasn’t eaten for months.
In an attempt to fill the gaping hole in my stomach, I fill up a glass of tap water and down the tepid liquid in one go, hoping it’s enough to sate my hunger until tomorrow lunchtime at school.
I finish the glass of water and set it on the stained worktop. At this point, the only thing keeping me going is the quote I heard my history teacher indirectly tell me when he was teaching us about World War Two:
If you’re going through hell, keep going.
“You look like you’ve been alone with your thoughts for too long,” Carter says. “Can I get you another drink?”
“Right,” I chuckle. “Because booze is the resolution to everything.”
“Not everything,” he says. “But it has the ability to make life much easier.” He pauses for a moment to study my expression. “You’re worried. Rest assured—there’s no need. We’ll protect you.”
Protect the pretty little toy so no other men can get their hands on it.
“Thanks, but I can take care of myself just fine.”
“I know you can.”
“Excuse me?”
“It must be tiring.”
Where is Carter going with this statement? After analyzing his blue eyes for far too long, I swivel around in the bar stool and request a pint of water from the bartender.
“Sparkling or still?”
“Tap.”
“Coming right up.”
Carter is still in my face when I turn back around.
“Something the matter?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says. “I’m just trying to figure you out.”
I note his slightly slurred sentences and hazy eyes, and draw the conclusion that he’s had one too many beers.
I tell him, “I hate to be a bore, but there unfortunately isn’t much to figure out.”
“The most interesting people always say that.”
“Name me some interesting people. You must’ve met a few in your days as Milton’s Milkshakes CEO.”
“I’ve met quite a few. I always thought that having money got you into the most interesting rooms. I was wrong.”
“Yeah. I suppose this run-down shack is quite something.”
“It is now that you’ve entered it.”
One too many, just as I suspected. “Okay, you’ve definitely had way too much to drink.” I go to grab the beer but he takes a step back.
“Who do you think you are? My mother?” He says it jokingly but the smile soon disappears from his face. It’s like a ghost has suddenly walked through him.
Like he struck a chord without meaning to.
“Not your mother, no, but how do you plan on protecting me if you’re under the influence?”
“I’m a man of many talents.”
I don’t doubt that.
Carter goes on watching me with his calculating eyes. Despite the fact that he’s probably holding his tenth beer of the night, he keeps good eye contact, so much that he’s looking at me like I’m the only person in the room.
“I meant what I said outside,” he says. “You really are spectacular.”
“Thanks. Which makes me a target, isn’t that right?”
“Not to us, but to others, yes.”
“Then what am I to you, other than your prisoner for the time being?”
His stare deepens. I expect something witty to come out of his mouth, not something existential. “I don’t know. But I keep running into you and I don’t know if it’s a coincidence.”
I set the empty glass of water down so I can make use of my arms and fold them over my chest. “What else could it be?” I snort. “Fate?”
“It shouldn’t be ruled out.”
“We live in the same city.”
“I haven’t seen you in three years, and then all of a sudden I run into you twice.”
“Coincidentally,” I add.
“I’m not so sure.”
To prevent silence, I string the conversation along by reiterating the fact that Carter’s had too much to drink and doesn’t know what he’s saying.
But there are only a finite number of ways to tell someone that they’re drunk. The silence eventually finds us, and when it does, we’re dangerously close.
Even though I haven’t had as much to drink as Carter, the booze I’ve drank tonight has still found a way to loosen up a few screws.
But maybe I needed to neck a few drinks to see things differently. I suspect that behind Carter’s hard faces, and the unbothered stoic glances, is a man who is bothered.
When you wear a mask yourself, it’s easy to spot others out of the crowd.
I feel the silence thickening, becoming something else.
Something charged with an inconvenient emotion that needs to fuck off before things get too out of hand. Again.