by Ginger Scott
“Do you know what your mom took, son? Anything you can get us will help. Anything,” someone says to him.
Unable to let Dustin navigate this conversation alone, I pass by my brother and jog up the steps to enter the messy living room that I’ve never been allowed to see before. It smells of burnt plastic, chemicals, and cat piss. How Dustin ever survived a night in this place is lost on me. This is the kind of place people cultivate to slip away from the living, which seems is exactly what his mother has done.
Dustin is standing over his mom as she lays on a rolling stretcher that paramedics are about to carry through the door. His hands fist his hair and his eyes dart around the floor as if the answers he needs are written on the matted carpet and vinyl.
“It could be anything. Fentanyl, oxy . . . I don’t know. I—” Dustin’s gaze meets mine and his skin turns gray. I move to him and reach for his hand, not giving a shit about anyone seeing it or what Tommy will think when he does. I grip his hand tightly and force him to look at me.
“It’s okay,” I say, my voice low at his side. He squeezes my hand with enough strength that my fingers grow numb. I let him.
I don’t have to ask. His uncertain words are more than panic over finding his mom limp on her side, body twitching while medics hook up her IV and monitor her oxygen. Sadly, this isn’t the first time Dustin has walked in to find his mom overdosed on the floor. What has him truly worried is that Colt isn’t home, but he has been—recently. The half-drank bottle of beer on the coffee table is still cold, the glass beaded with sweat. The living room TV is on, though muted, and it’s showing basketball. Dustin’s mom is not the kind of woman who gives a shit about sports. To be fair, she doesn’t give a shit about much.
But the biggest sign? That’s coming from the vent swinging above the bathroom door, held on by a single screw. No, Colt isn’t here right now. But he was. And he left with something he didn’t want anybody to find. Something he kept behind that vent. Something more important than the woman who birthed his only son, who’s lying on the floor, seconds from death.
10
“Your mom got lucky this time.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell the emergency room doc that my mom got lucky last time too. And the time before that. Seemed like bragging. Too much luck for one woman to have in a lifetime. Instead, I gave him a response straight from my heart.
“Yeah, she’s real fuckin’ lucky,” I said.
He wasn’t impressed with my honesty. Or my tone.
This is the third time I’ve driven my mom home after a near-deadly overdose. The first time I drove her was without a license. I was eleven. Seemed like a no-brainer to talk my way out of trouble if a cop pulled us over.
Sorry, sir. My mom overdosed.
No cop’s going to punish a kid in that situation. Besides, it’s a small enough town that most people around here know my story. Colt Bridge’s kid.
So far this time, I’ve been able to ignore my mom’s promises. It’s the same string of words it always is—lies about getting clean, about this being the last time, and about telling Colt to get out and stay out. Nothing will change, and this drive? It will happen again. Only, I swear to God, I won’t be the one making it. I’m making that promise, and I’ll keep it. This happens again and I’m around, I’m slamming the door shut behind me and driving away for good.
When we arrive home, I’m not shocked to find Colt’s El Camino pulled up nice and tight to the front door. I wonder how much shit he had to get rid of after he called 9-1-1? I bet he parked nearby to watch it all play out so he knew when it was safe to come back. He’s not a big-time drug dealer, but busy enough that if authorities opened their eyes and saw the evidence, they’d have to do something about him. He’s small time enough to fly under the “who gives a shit” radar.
“Alright. Home. Go on, get out. Put yourself in bed for the next week or whatever it is you do after this,” I say. If I could reach across my mom and push her door open, I would. As it is, she moans and rolls to her side in the passenger seat. I wish I had a single memory of this woman being sweet to me so I could muster enough empathy to actually want to help her.
“Don’t be like that, Dusty.” She reaches for me, her shaking hand and dirty fingernails coming at the side of my face. I flinch and scowl.
“Uh, no. This is not that moment. Time to get out. Go on,” I say, pushing myself against my door to gain as much distance as I can. I actually felt sorry for her last night. She seemed lucid and flu-like. We conversed, and she asked for soup. I heated up a can on the stove. She wasn’t sick like that, though. She was withdrawing. Probably from something new. It’s hard to keep up with her highs.
Her shoulders shake as she fumbles with the safety belt. She’s going to fucking cry. This is usually what breaks me, but I’m numb to it this time. Annoyed more than sad or sympathetic. I can’t keep doing this. I’ve been her caregiver my entire life, only she has no desire to get well.
“Dusty . . .” she mumbles through spit and tears.
“Gah!” I push open my door and rush around the car, not because I’m in a hurry to help her but because I need her out of my car. I need to get out of here.
She’s unable to work the handle to open her door, so I yank it open wide and grab her arm, propping her up against me. She’s strong enough to walk inside. If I weren’t here, she’d do it on her own just fine, probably make herself a snack and turn on her soap operas. She’s putting on this show for me. She likes to play invalid, which is shameful and a punch in the face to people who really need to be cared for.
“Come on. Let’s just get this over with,” I hope she at least takes the stairs without going limp. We slam into Colt’s chest at the doorway, and I grit my teeth and look down at his feet because if I look him in the eyes right now, I’m going to lose it.
“Oh, ho ho! Look who’s got time to help out now, huh?” His breath smells of stale cigarettes, and his unwashed body reeks.
“You should be saying that shit to yourself,” I say, pushing past him. He steps in front of us again before I get my mom fully inside. She slips from my grip, collapsing to her knees with one hand on each of our legs as she starts to cry.
“Don’t do this. No, no, no . . .” she moans. I pinch the bridge of my nose and pull my foot away. I’m pushed into the trailer with a hard thrust to the center of my chest the second I do.
“Don’t kick your mother!” Colt comes at me, his hand cupped and out to the side. He swings it at me and I flinch, preparing to be hit. He stops before contact though, his belly rumbling with an amused laugh that gurgles out of him. I hate that I give him this power.
I move so the recliner my mom practically lives in is between us. My pulse steadies just having some sort of barrier. It’s not that Colt is bigger than me. He isn’t anymore. Hasn’t been for at least two years. It’s that he’s so wild and unpredictable. I’m never sure whether a fist is going to land on my face or a knife at my side. He’s made threats, flashed metal, and even shown off his gun a time or two. That threat keeps me in check, and the fact he has this hold over me makes me hate myself sometimes.
“Look, let me get her to bed. You can go back to . . . whatever you’re doing.” I hold out my palms and glance around the shithole they call home. A few duffle bags are piled in the corner of the kitchen. Probably the cash he took off with, maybe his supply too. It doesn’t smell like burnt acid in here, so I don’t think he’s cooked anything yet. That’s Colt’s thing—he melts down shit he buys at the border and mixes it with over-the-counter crap to increase his profit. I know guys at school who use his stuff. They call him the Candy Man. Hell, he probably melts down Jolly Ranchers with that shit.
Colt’s upper lip raises into a cocky smile on one side that shows off his discolored teeth. He takes a few steps back, gripping the door jamb as he leans out and looks into the driveway.
“You got that windshield fixed, huh? How you pay for that?” He pulls himself back inside and his demon eyes land
on mine.
“I sold something,” I say, instantly regretting answering him at all.
He snickers and steps back outside, lifting my mom. She’s shaking, a little because she’s scared of him, but more because she’s lost control of the act she was putting on.
“Why don’t you go on to bed. I’ll go get us some burgers later,” Colt says, nuzzling his chin in the crook of her neck. She nods slowly and turns into him, croaking out an “okay.”
I step to the side, flattening against the far wall as she passes through the living room and levels me with her pitiful gaze. I used to fall for this, feel sorry for her and tell her I loved her. I haven’t said that to her in so long. Haven’t said it to anyone. I’m not sure my lips know how to form the words anymore.
My mom drags her fingers along the wood-paneled hallway and I watch her in my periphery until her door clicks shut. My attention snaps back to Colt the second we’re alone.
“You didn’t sell anything of mine, did you?” He knows I didn’t. He’s fishing, pushing me.
I laugh out a breath and grip my lip with my teeth, lifting my chin as I stare him down.
“I don’t need to make money the way you do.”
His eyes dim and his mouth ticks.
“You sure about that?” He holds up a handful of cash. My cash.
“That’s mine!” I lunge at him, no longer caring about the bulky piece of furniture between us, stepping over it as if I’m going to leap at him with a fist like some character in a video game. He strong-arms me, grabbing my forearm with his other hand, holding my money out of reach. I take wild swings at him but his grip tightens, his nails digging into my skin.
“Now, you know I had to check out that ride of yours last night. I haven’t gotten a good look at that engine in years, and you were sleeping so peaceful on the couch.”
I lunge again, knowing I can overpower him. It’s the first time I’ve ever actually tried, and the move catches him off guard, his grip on me slipping, his hand falling away.
“You son of a—”
The cut is swift and stops my words. It stings at first, and I back up several steps in shock, my mouth hung open as I lift my sliced T-shirt to get a good look at the slit across half of my stomach and side. I’m too stunned to speak actual words, and instead, this awful sound escapes my throat, like a wounded animal. I flatten my palm across my skin to test the amount of blood, my hand covered in a matching crimson strip. I lift my chin in time to see Colt tuck his blade into his back pocket, stuffing my money in the other one.
“It’s about time you get on out of here, don’t you think? Maybe stay at that little girlfriend of yours’ house for a while. Hell, stay there forever for all I care. That pretty family you like to pretend is your real family, you think they’ll get sick of you being around too much? You think they’ll love you? Shit, all you ever was to me was a mouth I had to feed. Until, ya know, you started leaving cash around and bringing me things I could sell. Look around at this palace, son. You helped me build some of it, you know. You think you’re the only one who knows about your little races out on the Straights? I’ve made some nice cash off of you. Even better sales. You could have been something with me. You have no idea what I am—who I am. But maybe that’ll scar up nice and pretty so you’ll always remember who your daddy is.”
Undeterred by the pain, I growl and lunge at him again, but he whips the blade from his back pocket again and points it at me, a sinister laugh vibrating his lips, the volume growing in his chest, crackling in the shell of his drunken, drug-fueled body.
“Ah, don’t get sloppy, Dusty. You know better.”
I hate when he calls me that. Same with my mom. It’s not like the way Hannah says it. It isn’t kind. When they use Dusty, it’s childlike, and it pulls me back to the depths of my youth, when Colt knocked me around simply because it was a Sunday and the liquor store was closed.
Dusty, don’t upset your father. That’s what my mom would say. As if my mere presence and being alive and breathing wasn’t what upset him most.
I’m broken and helpless, still, even outweighing him by twenty pounds or more. I growl, my back molars pressing together so hard they might crack. I feel the burn on my face as the blood rushes to my forehead, my nose, my cheeks. I’m bursting with anger and so much self-hatred. I might hate myself more than I hate this man, and that makes me feel charred and empty inside. Who am I? I’m still the twelve-year-old boy who can’t stand up for himself and who stuck around way too long.
Colt ambles down the hallway, coughing out a laugh that’s the equivalent of spitting in my face. The moment the bedroom door creaks open and closed again, I rush toward the junked up kitchen counter and knock every last thing to the floor with a sweep of my arm. Dirty pans clang across the vinyl floor, pancake mix that’s probably so old it’s crawling with weevils puffs up in a cloud as it tumbles after it. My mom’s bong cracks into pieces, the glass burnt from too much use. I’m suffocating in here, my chest heaving with the need to breathe, my heart raging to leap from my body.
I rush through the door, shoving it with enough force that the wall cracks behind it. I don’t stop and I don’t care. I march to my car and fire up my engine, peeling out of this hell that clings to me, my tires kicking up gravel as I spin out. I don’t bother to peer in the mirror as I race away. I don’t need one last look. I don’t need to ever come here again. If this is how my mom wants to die, under the pathetic control of a madman bent on taking away anyone’s glimmer of hope or happiness just to get a fix or buy his way into small time, trailer park, drug kingpin status, then they can have each other.
They deserve each other!
I race to the only place that has ever felt like home. I rush through the Judge’s front door without knocking, taking the stairs two at a time, passing the worried faces of Hannah and Tommy’s parents as they stare at me, instantly alerted by my manic speed and streaming, hot tears. I push through Hannah’s door, collapse on her lap where she sits on her bed, and bleed on her pretty pink quilt as my arms wrap around her so tight.
Tommy rushes in. I don’t know what’s next, and I know this won’t last—it can’t. But I do know that this family is all I need. It’s the only thing that has ever seen me through to the next day. And right now, Hannah is the one piece holding me together.
11
I’ve never been good at lying to Tommy’s face. I’ve been lucky with my feelings for Dustin. So far, they’ve been one-sided. Lines have bled together though; Dustin needs me. I want him to need me. Rather than attempt to lie to Tommy about the scene he witnessed when Dustin crawled into my lap looking for home, I’ve decided to avoid him.
I’ve kept my door shut and my light dimmed, not stepping foot in the hallway since our mom set Dustin up on the pullout sofa downstairs. When Tommy knocked to see if I wanted part of the pizza Mom and Dad ordered, I said I was full even though my stomach was grumbling. And the last text my brother sent to see if I was awake, I completely ignored, hoping he’d give up and give me time to conjure something to say in the morning. If not a better lie, at least an undeniable truth he won’t rip to shreds.
Midnight seems late enough.
It isn’t.
“Do you really want to eat that pizza cold or are you trying not to make noise with the microwave?” Tommy asks.
His observation is pretty spot on.
I set down the paper plate holding the slice I just surgically removed from the pizza box in the fridge. For some reason, I cling to the idea that if I don’t lift my head and actually look him in the eyes I can still get out of this unscathed.
“I woke up hungry,” I say. My gaze darts near him but never lands on him directly.
“Uh huh,” he says, sliding the paper plate across the counter then taking a seat on one of the stools at the kitchen island. He folds the piece of pizza in half and takes a huge bite.
“I guess I’ll get another piece.” I sigh, opening the fridge door and fishing out the entire box this
time. My brother snaps behind me and I glance in his direction, still not fully looking.
“I want another slice after this one,” he says.
I set the box down and flip the lid over, pushing it his direction so he can get his own slice. After he does, I hook my finger in the corner of the box to drag it back to me, but he slaps his palm on the open lid and holds it in place—holds it hostage—until I look at him. In the eyes.
The shivers come first, slithering down my spine and followed by a rush of heat and instant sweat that tackles my palms.
“Hannah.”
I hate when my brother says my name like that, in that tone. He’s not my parent, and being sixteen months older doesn’t give him authority. He still thinks babysitting me when he was nine and I was seven counts for something, but it doesn’t. In many ways, I’m more mature than he is. I’m not the one who gets drunk and high on Friday nights because I suck at fending off peer pressure.
“Thomas,” I throw back at him.
He sneers at the formal version of his name. If he’s going to act like Dad, I’m going to use his name.
My brother lifts his hand in the air as some grand gesture of surrender and I pull the box back into my possession, tearing out another slice of pizza to heat in the microwave. I roll my eyes at my brother’s smirk.
“Fine. I did want to heat it up. I didn’t want to wake our guest.” My voice is defiant, a child caught fudging her F grade to a B with a felt marker.
I push the pizza box back into the fridge and flop my slice on another paper plate before sticking it in the micro for thirty seconds. I’m tempted to stare at it as it spins on the turntable, cheese bubbling.
“What are you doing?”
I close my eyes at Tommy’s question. I know he isn’t asking about my microwaving method. Still, I don’t answer right away. I let my pizza finish, stopping it just before the timer beeps. I pull the plate out and test the cheese with a touch of my finger.
