Eleven
ZAK
I stomp my feet on the stoop before pushing open the door and moving down the dim hall. Standing outside the apartment door, I listen for a minute. It’s quiet, so I knock.
The pattering of feet tells me who’s going to open the door, and I’m not disappointed to see the two-year-old face of Logan looking up at me. He can barely reach the door handle, but he still manages. I scoop him up and toss him in the air.
“Logy!” I chastise. “You don’t open the door to strangers.”
He grins behind his binky. Dropping him on my hip, I push the door closed and lock it. “You’ve gotten so big, Logy,” I exclaim as I kick off my boots and head inside.
Clarinda lives in an old brownstone in the first-floor apartment.
Once, all these buildings were single-family homes.
I’m not sure if people got greedy as they were sold and realized that they could make two to three times as much if they converted each floor to an apartment, or if the city was stuck in a housing crisis and needed the space. Maybe a bit of both.
I find my friend at the large dining room table. Three chairs have overflowing baskets of laundry. The table is covered with folded laundry and she’s folding more. I set Logan on his feet and he runs into the other room.
“I knew it was you,” she says, giving me a smirk.
I grin in return, giving her a one-arm hug before pulling off my jacket and hanging it on the back of a chair. Taking up a position beside her, I focus on a second laundry basket and begin folding with her.
It’s easy to determine which article of clothing belongs to whom. She’s got six siblings and they’re all different enough in age that their clothing size reflects that. The youngest, Logan, is two. He’s an adorable kid, quiet and watchful.
Then there are the four-year-old twins, Misty and Dusty. Slight hellions, but they’re young. Janessa is eight, Dante is eleven, and Danielle is sixteen. Based on the piles of clothing, we don’t have Danielle’s clothes.
“Dante, will you grab the clothes out of the dryer and bring them here, please?” Clarinda asks.
He gets up from the couch and grabs an empty basket on the way by without a word, flashing me a smile along the way. He’s a good kid. All too aware of his situation.
“Where is she?” I ask.
Clarinda’s lips press together as she shakes her head. “No idea. Apparently, after I left for work this morning, mom left and hasn’t returned.”
This was always the deal with her mother for as long back as I can remember. She’d be here one minute, a loving, doting mother, and the next, she’s gone. Sometimes for hours, sometimes for days. Once, she was gone for three entire weeks. When she returned, she acted like nothing happened.
The weird thing about her mom is that she doesn’t have any of the obvious signs of addiction. There aren’t any drugs or alcohol in the house. She doesn’t even smoke cigarettes. There aren’t pills stashed anywhere. No needles or other paraphernalia.
But she never offers an explanation for her absences. Not when asked outright. Not when Clarinda screams at her for abandoning her children, leaving her mom feeling guilty and shitty. Not when she’s threatened with social services.
She always promises to do better.
I think they all believed that promise for a long time. Until they just couldn’t believe it anymore based on pattern and constant let downs.
Dante returns with the basket and sets it on an empty chair. “I changed the loads too,” he says.
Clarinda smiles at him. “Thanks, bro.”
He smiles in return. “Want more help?”
“Nope. Go play. Homework. Whatever. Go have fun.”
Dante smiles and nods, but I think he wants to be here helping.
Clarinda tries not to let any of the kids have to do anything but be kids.
Even when that meant she wasn’t able to be a kid herself.
It was different when it was just her and the next two oldest kids.
But then her mother kept getting pregnant and dropping more babies in Clarinda’s lap.
What was she going to do? Take care of two or three kids when her mother vanished and leave the other, younger ones to fend for themselves?
I don’t know how she does it. Not just mentally and physically, but financially. I know where she works. I know what she makes. She doesn’t make enough to support herself in the city, never mind a family of eight. Does her mother still work? Does she have a bank account? Are the bills being paid?
My gaze travels around the large room. I can see the five youngest. Which means Danielle is missing, just like her laundry. “Where’s your sister?” I ask.
Clarinda gives me a look. Her nostrils flare and fire flashes in her eyes. Ah. Not here. Not good.
“I’m hungry!” Janessa calls from the living room.
Clarinda pulls out her phone and checks the time. She frowns, heaving a heavy sigh.
“I’ll fold laundry. You go make them some food,” I offer. Clarinda looks at me with her lips pressed together. She and I are a lot alike. We don’t like accepting help. “You know damn well I can’t cook. This is less dangerous.”
She snorts and kisses my cheek. I watch her move into the kitchen and start pulling things from cabinets and the fridge. It isn’t long before Dante’s at my side.
I nudge a chair toward him, winking. He grins and picks up a pair of pants.
We work together quietly. I can hear the little kids in the room behind us playing.
The front of the apartment has an open plan, but based on the marks in the ceiling and the disruption in the flooring, the open floor plan was definitely not original.
However, it makes maintaining peace while doing chores easy when you can see everyone and know what they’re doing.
“We’re going to end up like you, aren’t we?” Dante asks quietly. His voice doesn’t carry across the room to his sister.
I look at him, feeling the pang in my chest. Not because of my situation and how that must look to him, but because he has that fear.
“No,” I tell him, knowing that could very well be a lie. “Clarinda would never allow that to happen.”
He nods, but I know he’s not convinced. I don’t have any words of wisdom or encouragement.
Fuck knows, I haven’t made the best example of my life.
I’m not so hot headed to think that part of what stands in my way is my own stubbornness.
There’s an excellent likelihood that a therapist would have a field day picking apart all the trauma I don’t truly know I have.
Not that I’m going to give one that opportunity.
If it hasn’t been made clear, I don’t have any money. When I do, it sure as hell isn’t going to someone just so they can tell me how fucked up I am. Believe me, I already know. Since there’s not a thing they can do to fix my situation, I’m not wasting my time.
The front door opens, and we all turn to look. I know it’s not their mother. I’m not sure why I’m so sure, but I am. The four kids in the other room freeze, their eyes getting big.
I’ve seen exactly what happens when their mother comes home.
The four youngest run to her, wrap their arms around her and tell her how much they miss her.
How much they love her. I remember having that same reaction after my second parents left me alone for the first time. For the first dozen times.
At some point, you shift into a response like Dante. Wariness. And then Danielle—rebellion. Finally, Clarinda. Absolute fucking fury.
I only made it to Dante’s stage before they stopped coming home entirely. For all I know, they could be dead. I’d like to think that’s what kept them away, but what do I know? Only that they stopped coming home.
But when the door opens, Danielle walks in. She’s wearing low-slung jeans and a shirt that’s barely there. No jacket or boots. No hat or even a scarf. I don’t know what it is with kids who think staying alive isn’t cool and would rather risk freezing to death than dressing for the weather.
“Where have you been?!” Clarinda hisses.
In true teenager fashion, Danielle shuts the door while rolling her eyes. “I don’t have to tell you that. You’re not my mother.”
“You left them home alone!” Clarinda says, her voice getting shriller.
“I’m not their mother,” Danielle snaps.
“They’re fucking kids, Danielle! They could have died in a house fire.”
“I would have died too,” she yells. “God, Clarinda! They’re not my responsibility. Stop acting like they are!”
Clarinda slams her hands on the counter. I tense, waiting for shit to hit the fan. Instead, she turns her back on Danielle. Danielle remains where she is for a full minute, unsure what to do with this strange new reaction.
Her gaze finds mine, but I have no sympathy for her appeal. While I don’t necessarily agree with her, Logan is two. Two! Dante isn’t even twelve yet. He’s not nearly old enough to take care of four kids.
Eventually, Danielle stomps off down the hall and slams her door. Clarinda takes a deep breath, her hands pressed firmly to the counter. Dante and I share a look. The kids in the room behind us remain completely still.
Only once Clarinda begins cooking again do the rest of us move.
* * *
That evening, we’re sitting on her bed with the three babies asleep. The twins are curled together against the wall while Logan’s sprawled across my lap. I run my fingers through his hair.
“The thing is, I understand what she’s saying. I get it. They’re not her responsibility. But what the fuck? How can you walk out on a bunch of kids who can’t provide for themselves?” Clarinda asks.
I shake my head, having no answer at all. Sometimes I try to put myself in her situation. And then in Danielle’s. I’m not sure which one of their footsteps I’d follow, though a part of me is suspicious that it would be Danielle’s.
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “It’s shitty.”
She takes a deep breath and covers the twins before laying back. “What about you? What’s going on in your life?”