PROLOGUE #3
Dread pools low in my belly, lost in my devastation.
I hadn’t noticed the telltale signs of her being home.
I was coming out of the field behind the trailer park when Cyrus pulled up.
The music didn’t register in time for me to take shelter elsewhere.
The last thing I need is for her to witness this.
Me, a weeping mess. Empathy isn’t a trait she has.
I sigh. Too late now. Shuddering, I watch the women fawn over one another.
I should be used to being invisible until she needs something.
Ever since I was a small kid, left to fend for myself as she chased one bender after another. Still hurts, though.
Tonight, there will be another ‘much-needed’ girls night, not from being overworked; no, she’s never done that before. Cooking, cleaning, and working are beneath her. I figured out around age seven that if I wanted to eat something hot, I had to make it.
Most of our groceries come from the food bank.
My hands were almost always bruised from carrying them the distance from the church downtown to our trailer in the holler.
We could have nutritious meals, but the state’s generosity has its limits, and my mother is a walking stereotype.
She trades them for booze and smokes. Is my trauma perpetuating harm?
Probably, but this is my truth. My Gran used to say, the truth is the truth, and sometimes truth is impossible to hear.
The afternoon heat dances along my skin with building rage. My sudden grief simmering into anger at the unfairness. Rosemary’s been strapped with an unwanted kid because of her decisions, and now I’m passing that generational trauma onto a child of my own. What have Cyrus and I done?
I promised a younger version of myself that I’d never turn out like her.
Barefoot and fucking pregnant. Another statistic.
No, this place will not trap me. Even if the skin on my knees and palms bleeds, I will crawl out of this place.
This pregnancy doesn’t change that promise.
I am not becoming my mother.
I won’t have to move to build something better.
I’ll build here.
Somehow.
“Girl, your daddy was no glassmaker. Move out of the way!”
Barb shoves me up against the porch railing, forcing me to fold in enough so she can wedge past. “Girl, you’d better lose some of those extra pounds before that boy leaves you. No one likes a woman who eats up their paycheck.”
Ouch. I’m too wrapped up in the wreckage of my heart to give much thought to her cruel words.
I should offer to help her get some glasses; anyone with two working eyeballs can tell I’m one skipped meal away from malnutrition.
Barb and my mother have always had a nasty streak.
Years of being on the receiving end of their abuse have taught me to ignore them.
I roll my eyes toward the sky, watching clouds float by.
Mothers should protect their daughters. One day she’ll need me. One day, I won’t be here to help.
“I didn’t say to slide, girl. I said move.
” My mother’s words bite. Recognizing by now that her words are a warning of the danger that’s headed my way if I don’t move fast enough.
Usually, I would remove myself from the vicinity before her heel connected with my head.
The motivation to live longer is absent today.
My body is too sluggish, too tired. My survival mode infinitely snuffed out.
“Sorry, Momma.” My words tumble out of me, jumbled, incoherently low. Long nails dig into my shoulder, demanding I turn to face her.
Don’t cry out. Don’t cry out. You can handle this.
Her eyes zero in on me, taking in my appearance.
Missing nothing. I pick at the hem of my threadbare shorts.
A nervous habit I picked up when I was little, one I have yet to stop.
It could be worse. I could be a nail-biter.
She sneers. Smoke and cheap liquor hang in the air between us.
Her bony frame leans on the porch railing for balance as she eyes me.
I think bitterly. No, I’m not something unpleasant.
I’m your child. The one you shouldn’t have had, because it has been infinitely clear my whole life that you would rather be with quite literally anyone else on the planet except me.
“What’s wrong with your face, girl?”
I wipe my cheeks. “Nothing, Momma.”
“We don’t cry here. That’s our rule.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“So, what’s this about?” Her tone sharpens, irritated and drunk.
I try voicing my heartache. Truly, I do. The words refuse to come.
She squints a moment, her dark eyes, once mesmerizing, now hollow pits glazed with delirium, go wide. She snorts, spraying me with spittle.
“He left you, didn’t he? That McCoy boy?”
She doesn’t wait for a response. She glides past me, slapping one of her friends’ shoulders as she passes.
“Told y’all he wouldn’t take her with him. Put all her damn eggs in one basket instead of playin’ the field like a smart girl. Now look, she’s stuck here with me.”
The women all nod in agreement. She doesn’t look at me as she adds, “You’re almost of age. I ain’t gonna be feedin’ or housin’ you much longer. The cost of living’s gone up, and I don’t get any discounts for charity.”
Teeth clenched. I say, “You don’t pay for any of this, anyway.
” Her hand strikes out before I can react.
Fast and fierce. My cheek pulses from the impact.
I expected this. She is consistent, I’ll give her that.
The crack of skin-on-skin echoes through the holler louder than the music still spilling from the trailer.
“You will not speak to me like that. This is my home; you’re a temporary guest. My momma used to make me stay outside all night when I disappointed her.
I think that’s exactly what you need to learn your place, girl.
Sleep out here tonight. You’ll wake up singing a different tune come morning time.
” She turns to her crew. “Let’s go, girls. ”
They file past, bumping into me, their faces twisting in disgust. Folding my arms, cheek throbbing, and heart splintered, I force my knees to lock. I won’t give them the satisfaction of knocking me off balance.
One thing I’m grateful for is that Rosemary gave birth to me in a never-ending storm, one I have learned not to weather but thrive in.
No, I won’t lose my balance; these women don’t get the satisfaction.
The gravel flies around the driveway from Mom’s need to make an even more dramatic exit.
Dragging myself to the steps, I kneel so I can squeeze under the tight frame of the porch.
Crumbling, the ground eats at my knees. Random bits of rock dig into sensitive skin.
I take note of the scoffed suitcases hidden beneath the porch, right where Cyrus had told me to put them to protect them from Mom.
Dragging one to me, I draw my knees up close to my chest, laying my head on the itchy surface.
She told me to sleep outside, so outside is where I will stay.
How pathetic that the damp dirt smells better than her yellow, nicotine-stained walls.
My groggy brain hisses. Momma was right about one thing, though.
Men will leave us behind once they have what they want.
Now, I’m stuck in this hellhole, alone, pregnant, and with my mother.
This isn’t all Cyrus McCoy’s fault. One lesson that’s been clear to me my entire life is that men don’t stay. They never do. Today I cry. Tomorrow I plan. The generational trauma that’s plagued my bloodline won’t be served to my child on a cold dish of expectations.