Unlikely Friends

by Sahar Abdulaziz

  Harper kissed the side of her mother’s cheek before hooking her backpack and jacket on the rung of the wooden ladder chair. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re fine,” her mother muttered. “This time you’re fine, but people are crazy. The newspapers are filled with photos of kids gone missing. I bet they told their mothers they were fine too.”

  Harper groaned and swiped a napkin from the basket.

  “I’m not kidding. You can’t be gallivanting around like this. You’re only fifteen years old.”

  “Who’s gallivanting? I’m walking home from the library. Besides, I’m almost sixteen, and you worry too much.”

  “Harper…”

  Harper reached over her plate to swipe the butter knife off the counter. “How about I carry one of these?” she teased, making an exaggerated, sweeping Three Musketeers’ move.

  “Put that down.”

  “Mace?”

  “Harper!”

  “Okay. Relax. You win. I’ll come home before it gets dark and my carriage turns back to a pumpkin. But just stop worrying so much.”

  Her mother grabbed the nearly empty bag of sandwich bread and stuffed two slices into the toaster. “Cheese or tuna?”

  “Nothing for me.”

  Olivia’s head snapped around. “You have to eat something,” she demanded, one hand clasped firmly to her hip.

  Harper’s belly growled in agreement, but by her calculations, her mother wouldn’t get paid again until Friday. That meant three more days to make the food in the house last. “I’m okay. I had a big lunch.”

  “Cheese or tuna? And before you dare open your mouth again, I’m not asking.”

  Harper grinned. “I’ll take the cheese.”

  “That’s better.”

  Her mother twisted and knotted the plastic bread bag closed instead of pulling another two slices out for herself.

  “Aren’t you eating?”

  “I ate before you came home.”

  Harper recognized a lie when she heard it, especially since she frequently told the same one many times, but living poor did that. It made you fib to save face, pretending indifference when hungry or cold.

  The toaster popped. Harper bounded to her feet, but her mother blocked her. “Sit. I got it.”

  Even under the glow of candlelight, her mother’s face looked pale and drawn. Harper glanced down, worried to see her mother’s ankles swollen again from long hours spent working as a cashier, sometimes seven days a week. Despite her mother’s selfless efforts to provide, they still found themselves coming up short, forced by circumstance to make hard choices while confronting uphill, endless struggles: to pay the rent over the heat, the heat over food, or food over medicine, and all along scraping by to make ends meet until the next disaster hits…life’s little game show. Don’t be shy! Step up and spin the Wheel of Existence and see what treats Fate has in store for you.

  “I got something for you,” Harper said, spinning around in her chair and unzipping her backpack. “Mayo, ketchup, and mustard.” It took two hands to dump the impressive pile of absconded single-serve packets onto the middle of the table. “Oh, and for the pièce de résistance.” She reached deep down deep and yanked out a small bag of potato chips, one overly ripe brown-spotted banana, and something square and small, wrapped in a napkin. “A brownie, Madam. Just for you.”

  Olivia smiled. “Merci infiniment,” she said before kissing the top of her daughter’s head. “Something to enjoy with my tea.” She pulled a mug out from the cabinet. “Will you join me?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Her mother took the second mug out. “Save the banana for yourself, but after you eat, add the condiments to the jar.” Olivia opened the bag of potato chips and emptied them on the plate next to Harper’s toasted cheese sandwich. “Bon appétit.”

  Harper tore through her thin-cheese sandwich, barely chewing between mouthfuls before taking the next bite.

  “Slow down before you choke,” admonished her mother while she poured the steaming hot water over each of the dollar store tea bags. “Take human bites.”

  Harper dabbed the corners of her mouth. “That was good,” she said, then dumped two heaping teaspoons of sugar into her cup.

  “Careful, careful. Diabetes runs in the family.”

  Her mother placed her mug on the table across from Harper and collapsed in her chair, exhausted. The candle in the middle of the table flickered and sputtered wildly, but Harper didn’t mind. She preferred taking their meals by candlelight as opposed to the overhead fixture, which did nothing but emphasize their stark, worn-down kitchen.

  “Since this is becoming a habit,” said her mother, hunched over her tea, “why don’t you explain to me what you’re really doing at the library?”

  “I don’t know.” Harper shrank back in her chair. “Nothing much.”

  Olivia’s glare never wavered.

  Knowing that unrelenting stare, Harper complied. “I study. Do homework. I read. It’s a library.” She fiddled with the corner of her napkin, wondering what her mother would say if she told her about the highly entertaining Mr. Grumpy or whether she’d understand her need to be away from this place. Instead, she told her mother what she needed to hear and nothing more. “Sometimes I’ll use their computers if I have a project or have a paper to write.”

  Olivia’s eyes burned into Harper’s face. “I hope you’re not meeting boys there.”

  “Oh, pl—eeze.”

  “I don’t want you to become one of those mall rodents.”

  Harper snorted. “A mall rodent? You mean rat, and not for nothing, but wouldn’t I first have to be hanging out at the mall to qualify for the title?”

  “I’m being serious.”

  “Yeah, I get that. But seriously, I’m at a library. Pretty much the safest place for a teenager with no life to hang out.”

  “Well, it’s my job to ask.” After a more deliberate sip of tea, Olivia lowered her mug onto the table. “Listen. I need to talk to you about something important, but first, you have to promise me you won’t get upset.”

  Whenever her mother opened up a conversation with that “promise me you won’t get upset” bit, Harper braced for the worst. “What is it?”

  “Promise me first.”

  Harper crossed her ankles under the table—just in case she needed to renege. “Fine, I promise. What is it?”

  “I got a call today from Mr. Singer telling me Darren got approved for parole.” Olivia bit her lip and waited.

  “Parole?” Harper’s nostrils flared. “There’s no way.”

  “I know.”

  “But that can’t be right. They gave him fifteen something years, right? And he’s only done, like what?” Harper wiggled her fingers in the air.

  “Six.”

  “Six! How’s that even close to fifteen?”

  “It’s not, but that’s what he told me. Something about Darren earning good time.”

  “Good time? Him? Are you sure? Maybe Singer made a mistake.”

  “Harper—”

  “You might have heard him wrong.”

  “Harper, stop.”

  “This is so unfair!” Harper screwed her lips in a tight pout, then crossed her arms over her chest much as she did as a toddler. “When?”

  “Next week.”

  “Next week?” Harper repeated, pressing her eye sockets with her fists. “Why so soon?”

  Olivia glanced down, shame-faced. Her long finger slid absently around the handle of her mug.

  “Well, he can forget staying here.” Harper was on a full-fledged warpath.

  “Singer said that Darren has to stay at some halfway house, so he’ll be under supervision.”

  Harper rolled her eyes.

  “He’ll be expected to follow the rules.”

  “The rules,” Harper scoffed. “When has he ever followed anybody’s rules?” She crushed her napkin in her fist. “And what if he doesn’t—then what?”

  “Then they’ll send his butt st
raight back to prison, no questions asked. He’ll have to finish the rest of his sentence.”

  “I can’t believe this is happening again.”

  Her mother reached for her now-tepid tea.

  “I don’t want to see him.”

  “But Harper—”

  “No!”

  “He’s still your father.”

  “I don’t care who he is.” Harper twisted her napkin into a ball. Without warning, she exploded from her chair, almost causing it to topple over. “He’s a walking disaster; he hurts everything he touches.”

  Olivia lowered her gaze. “Harper, if I could do anything to change the past, I would.”

  “I know that, but this is now, not the past.”

  “I’ve changed. It’s been six years. Maybe he did too—”

  “No!” Harper yelled, stomping her foot. “Not him. People like him don’t change, and you know it. People like him stay hurting everyone around them. Always quick to blame everyone else for their problems.” Harper sniffled. “He’s a parasite.” She gulped back the tears. “I…I…can’t believe you’re even defending this shithead.”

  “Harper! Your mouth…”

  “Sorry, but that’s what he is.”

  “People do change.”

  “Not that much, they don’t.”

  “I did.”

  “Because you were never a cruel and vindictive sociopath.” The small candle, down to its nub, barely gave off enough light for either of them to properly see. “What if you fall back into that life again?” shouted Harper. “What if he gets you hooked back on drugs? Then what?”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “But what if you do?”

  “I won’t.”

  “But you could with him around—”

  “That’s not going to happen. Things are different now. I’m different now. Like I said before, I’ve changed. You’re gonna need to trust me when I tell you that.” Olivia lowered her voice. “Harper, please, look at me, baby. You've got nothing to be afraid of this time. I got this.”

  Frustrated tears welled in Harper’s eyes. “I can’t go through it again,” she said, pacing the tiny kitchen. “The last time you almost—” Thoughts of the past collided with her unrequited bitterness and became too much to contain. In a sudden fit of uncontrollable rage, Harper threw the balled napkin at the wall as hard as she could. “I can’t do it!”

  “I know, baby, but I’m not going to mess things up. Not this time,” her mother pleaded, motioning for her daughter to take her hand. “Trust me.”

  Harper recoiled. As much as she loved her mother, she had yet to learn how to trust her again. She glanced at the door. For a split second, the temptation to flee became almost unbearable. Her mind raced through her limited, if not impossible, options, but each time she came back to the same conclusion. Despite the fear of feeling trapped, regardless of the unknown knocking at her door, she could never leave or turn her back on her mom.

  “Now please, just sit down…finish your tea.”

  Shoulders slumped, Harper slid back down in her chair, defeated, confident that all the bottled-up nightmares that haunted her dreams would come to fruition and there wouldn’t be a damned thing she could do to stop them.

  Harper had little recourse but to wait and see, but inside, she continued to fume. A wild rush of bad memories flooded her consciousness, leaving her unequipped to face the past.

  ***

  Six years earlier

  Awakened by a crash of glass, Harper clenched the threadbare blanket with her little fingers, drawing it closer to her face.

  In the adjacent room, she heard a chair dragged across the marked wooden floor, followed by a parade of sloppy giggles and an angry shush. Then something else dropped to the floor. Harper couldn’t make out what it was.

  She overheard an exchange of muffled words, trailed by a shrilled ripple of laughter. Harper cowered even farther under her covers, afraid of getting caught should she decide to take a peek out her bedroom door. Too terrified of what she may see.

  Harper trembled. She didn’t lift her head out from under her blanket until she heard the familiar creak of the front door opening and closing, turning the house dead silent. She was alone. Forgotten.

  Outside the moon still shone, but soon it would be time for her to dress and make the long trek to the bus stop. There she would stand and wait until the bus arrived, dressed in a too-small coat and no hat, shivering. Staring down at her feet to avoid eye contact with the other kids gawking at her from within their parents’ cars. Children who knew they were loved, cherished, but most of all—protected. But for now, the welcomed dark silence lured the sleepy child back to sleep.

  When she awoke, the morning’s crisp, cold air filled the bedroom. Harper yearned to stay in bed, but it was time to get ready for school. She pulled off the covers, shivering and hugging herself to keep warm. The wood floor beneath her small feet felt like ice. She scampered out of the bedroom, totally forgetting about the loud, disturbing noises of the night before. Ready to begin her day until greeted by absolute chaos.

  Lifting the edge of her frayed nightgown, Harper tiptoed carefully around the larger shards of glass splayed across the living room and hall floors. She had almost made it to the bathroom unscathed until by mistake, she stepped on a small sliver of glass.

  “Ouch,” she cried, clasping her foot while hopping with the other. “Mommy?” she wailed out in pain. “Mommy—” She bounced on one foot, but when that did not stop the throbbing, she gave up and limped the rest of the way to her parents’ door. “Mommy,” she sobbed, knocking softly, but no one answered. Slowly turning the knob, she poked her small face into the dusky room. A thin sliver of light had managed to filter inside through the almost-drawn curtains.

  At a quick glance, the room appeared empty except for a tangled heap of sheets and a few soiled pillows strewn across the bed. One corner of the bedroom was filled with a week’s worth of dirty clothes while the tops of both her parents’ nightstands were littered with an assortment of drug paraphernalia—needles, matches, ashtrays, thick rubber bands, and pipes. Plastic utensils, tipped over soda and beer cans, and a mixture of opened, half-eaten take-out food containers had the room reeking.

  Not sure what else to do, Harper eased the door shut but stopped when she heard a faint, muffled moan coming from inside.

  “Mommy?” she called out, forgetting her pained foot. “Where are you?”

  On the far side of the bed closest to the wall, her mother lay passed out on the floor, wearing nothing but a pair of panties and somebody else’s tee-shirt, bunched high above her backside. One side of her face remained squished into the dirty floor where a puddle of drool had collected. Harper froze where she stood, staring with wide eyes at the horridness of the scene before her.

  She crouched to one knee. “Mommy, wake up,” she cried, shaking her mother’s wrist while trying to avoid the upper forearm area where her mother still had a ripped piece of cloth loosely tied in a knot just above a protruding but empty heroin syringe.

  Harper leaned in closer, brushing her nose against her mother’s face. “Please wake up,” she whispered, practically gagging from the stench of her mother’s faint, stale breaths. “You’re scaring me.” Her mother did not respond.

  “Mommy,” she sobbed louder. “Wake up.” Panic-stricken, Harper shook her mother’s shoulder harder. “Wake up, mommy, wake up. Wake up.” She screamed for her father, but as usual, he was nowhere to be found, having left nothing behind except a full set of his fingerprints planted around her mother’s thin neck.

  Harper bolted from the room, screaming. Rocking from side to side, hysterical. The hem of her thin nightgown brushed against the dirty floor, collecting dust and glass as she ran. The heel of her foot left microscopic smatterings of blood in her wake.

  “Somebody help my mommy,” she screamed as she pushed the front door open, bolting down the rickety porch steps onto the sidewalk. “Please, somebody. Help my
mommy.” A strong autumn wind blew her nightgown above her knees. “Help me,” she cried, frantic, tears trickling from her eyes.

  A man on his way to work heard the frantic child crying and bolted across the street to help. After wrapping his coat around the shivering child, he immediately dialed 911. Not long after, the police arrived, followed soon by an ambulance.

  From there, the details of the event remain muddled. Over the years, Harper had tried to draw out the particulars from her memory, but without much luck. After all, she had only been nine years old at the time. She did, however, recall a kind-spoken policewoman who bundled her up in a blanket, then handed her over to a medic who cleaned and bandaged her foot. The many faces after that of those who helped her that day remained sketchy.

  Harper recalled how the emergency team wasted no time getting to her mother, who they found on the bedroom floor with barely a pulse. Harper remembered pleading with the technicians to let her ride in the ambulance to the hospital, but to no avail.

  Once seated in the back of the police car, the same policewoman gently plied her with sweet snacks while asking a ton of strange questions. To this day, Harper had zero recollection of what she might have said to the officer between sips of boxed apple juice and bites of salty chips.

  With no family or family friends willing or able to take her, the state stepped in and placed Harper in foster care, moving her from one stranger’s house to the next until Olivia got clean enough to petition the courts to have her child returned to her custody. It took over two years before the judge finally agreed—reluctantly, and with the added stipulation that Olivia must remain clean and continue with her rehabilitation.

  And Darren Crane, aka Harper’s MIA father and all-around degenerate? It took less than a week before the police found him next to an abandoned building’s alleyway, cowering like a punk behind a discarded filthy mattress, higher than a kite. They arrested Darren and charged him with drug possession and endangering the welfare of a minor and robbery. Assault charges were later tacked on when an elderly man, who Darren had viciously attacked in an elevator, picked him out of a lineup. The judge sentenced him to fifteen years behind bars.