35. Mac #3
“Mac.” Sage’s voice sounds far away. Muffled, like he’s speaking underwater.
He sounds so far away. His hand in mine doesn’t feel like mine at all.
My entire body is detached and distant. Unwanted panic grips my heart in a stranglehold.
Watching the cops move from my rooted spot in front of the trailer she burned down.
I should fucking hate her. I should be happy she’s gone and can no longer torment me.
But I’m not. I’m that scared kid all over again. Just wanting, fucking needing his mom to swoop in and kiss it better. She never did that for me, but still.
I used to pretend she was like other moms. Baking brownies instead of burning drugs on a spoon. Helping me with homework instead of being passed out in her bed from being drunk. Right now, my mind can’t decipher the make believe from reality. The woman I knew from the one I created.
“Mac! Fucking look at me!” Sage demands, dropping my hand and grabbing my face. He yanks my eyes away from the cops rushing into the now battered front door.
My eyes meet his deep-brown ones. And the visions falter. Sage. He’s the only person in my life who truly loved me. Who never let me down. Who used to steal Ninja Turtle Band-Aids for me. Who let me sleep in his bed and call his mom mine.
“It’s ok,” he lies. His thumbs are rubbing circles into my skin, pulling me back from the despair I fell into. Air saws out of my mouth in fractured breaths.
“I got you, Mac. You and me, right?” I should say no.
I should push him away so he can save himself, but I’m selfish.
I need Sage Meadows like I need my next breath.
So instead, I greedily take every gentle circle of his thumb.
Every ounce of reassurance his brown eyes have to offer me. And I nod my head.
Residents of the park are now all around us, watching the cops move into the house. Murmurs and whispers sounding like shouts to my ears.
“She probably ODed again.”
“Did you hear she set the fire?”
“Mary-Kate, Marlene, and Grieves saw her do it.”
“No shit?”
“Fucking psycho could have took down the whole park.”
“That entire family is rotten.”
The shame I’m used to hardly registers. I used to find it funny that in a park full of low lives—drug dealers, gamblers, hookers, and scum—my family somehow always ended up at the bottom.
“If you lot don’t shut your mouths, I’ll make you.
” June’s voice cuts through the gathered crowd like a knife.
All the chatter dies down instantly. June shoots every last one of them a seething glare I’m not man enough to face.
“All of you are pathetic. Try fixing your own life before damning another.” Turning her back on the gossiping hens, she pins me in her gaze.
The anger from a second ago is gone, replaced with concern and love.
“Ohh, sweet boys. You don’t deserve this life.
” She engulfs us both in a tight hug, pushing Sage and me close together with her small but strong arms. I drop my forehead to Sage’s shoulder and let out a long sigh.
The hug isn’t gentle; it’s awkward and constricting.
My arms are pinned, and Sage is squished against me. But it’s perfect.
“Everything will be alright,” she says so fiercely I almost believe her. June has never lied to me, and now seems like a weird time to start.
“She’s still alive?” someone says in exasperation.
I pull back, June’s arms falling away. She’s alive?
I whip my head towards the trailer, my heart back in my throat.
Still unsure why I give a shit about Karen.
But also hopeful that maybe she really isn’t dead, maybe I can still get that chance at having a mom. Maybe this is her redemption.
Before I can even register my movements, I’m rushing towards my old home. June and Sage call out behind me while onlookers move aside so I can pass. I would have barreled through them if they hadn’t moved.
I trip going up the trailer steps, catching myself with a tight grip on the splintered door frame. But everything comes into view.
The home I never wanted to see again. The woman who was nothing more than my villain lays on the couch, vomit crusted around her mouth and down the side of the couch. The smell of acidic bile and shit stings my nose. But her eyes are open, her chest rising with each intake of air.
Static fills my ears. My eyes sting and burn as tears drip down my cheeks. An empty canister of Narcan sits on the coffee table next to dirty syringes and blackened spoons. I can’t hear what the cops are saying, can hardly see the scene before me behind the blurry tears.
I stumble back, my feet tripping once again on the steps as I retreat. Now that I know she’s alive, I don’t know what to do. I need to get the fuck out of here. The need to run is so strong. I can’t fucking be here. But my movements are slow, jerky, and disorganized.
I’ve seen this before. Seen my mom disoriented and hardly alive after an overdose. Narcan saving her life once again, only to return to the vice that almost killed her. I can’t watch this.
So, I run.