Empty

by K. M. Walton

  I exhale loudly. She’d get more, that’s what she’d do. The woman needs rehab. But I’m back to my original concern: Who would take care of us? I mean, technically I take care of Meggie a lot already, so I could do it, but would I be allowed?

  I ring the bell at Mrs. McNash’s. There’s a help wanted sign taped next to the door.

  “Oh, hello, Dell. Come on in,” Mrs. McNash says. The woman is always smiling, and her happiness is real. I can tell. She greets me the same way every day—with kindness.

  “Hi.” I watch Mrs. McNash’s helper chase one of the toddlers, laughing. Could I work here? I’m probably not qualified, but if I got the job, I could give the money to my mother.

  “You okay?” she asks me, her head tilted with concern. I was probably making some dumb face.

  “Yeah. Sorry. What’s the job for?” I mumble.

  “Come again?”

  I repeat my question.

  “It’s a part-time job. . . . ”

  I try not to blink as she talks. Mrs. McNash sees me. Her eyes don’t leave mine, and her smile is about as genuine as my sister’s. I wonder if she’s always seen me and I was just too preoccupied to notice.

  I study her as she goes on and on about the position. I should probably be paying attention, but I can’t. She’s so soothing. Not like a gray-haired, shawl-wearing granny. She’s too young for that. More like a slightly plump, cheerful, middle-aged, gentle-voiced angel. She reaches over and puts her hand on my shoulder. I let the deep warmth penetrate my skin, and I wish I could ask her for a hug. But that would be weird.

  “Oh, honey, I didn’t even think of you, because I know you have softball. And besides, you wouldn’t want to be chasing these little rugrats around in these small rooms. It’s pretty tight quarters.”

  My mouth droops. I get it. She doesn’t want to hire me because I’m enormous. I’d probably trip and crush one of these kids. Then it’d be all over the news that I was a rapist baby-killer.

  By the time Meggie is in my arms, I am officially not hired.

  This Moment Is Officially Smeared

  BACK AT THE APARTMENT, I POP A PEANUT BUTTER cookie in my mouth and chew as quietly as I can. I don’t want my mother to emerge from her bedroom in a cloud of “What the hell are you eating now, Adele?” rage. I absentmindedly reach for another one and come up empty-handed. I’ve eaten the entire box. Every damn cookie is gone.

  Day one of my diet is ruined.

  I stare at the cookie crumbs. Cookies make me feel . . . I don’t know how cookies make me feel. I press down on the crumbs, making them stick to my finger. Cookies make me feel un-hungry. I scrape the crumbs from my fingertip with my bottom teeth and think—I guess I’ll have to fess up about softball soon. My mother probably won’t give a damn about that. She’ll hyperfocus on the money wasted on my special-order uniform.

  I haven’t told my mother about the talent show, either. Apparently I’m not telling my mother anything anymore. I don’t think she’s capable of producing any normal motherly reactions: concern, empathy, pride. And I can’t handle her dead stare.

  If my sister were older, I would talk to her. Meggie was so cute when I picked her up from day care. She said, “I miss you, Dehwy, when you go.” Then she kissed me right on the lips. She tasted like strawberries. I held her the whole walk home and breathed her in. By the time we got back, I swear I felt better. I don’t know what it is about her smell, but I’m pretty sure it’s what heaven smells like.

  I grab the cookie packaging, roll it up tight, fish the empty bag of chips from the bottom of the trash can, and tuck it inside. My mother will go ballistic if she finds out that I’ve polished off the chips and the cookies. She just bought them.

  Mom hasn’t emerged from her bedroom since we got home ten minutes ago.

  I change Meggie’s diaper and have a brainstorm. I know how I can get my mother some money. It comes to me all at once, like a lightning strike to the brain. I do a quick online search, pack five plastic grocery bags full of clothes, tell my mom I’m taking Meggie for a walk, and head out. I’m struggling to push my sister and control the overflowing basket underneath her stroller. One bag keeps falling out every time we hit a bump.

  The basket is stuffed with my clothes. I’m going to sell the tagged clothes from my closet that are too small for me to the resale shop in town. The money will take some pressure off my mother. In my estimation, I have about eight hundred to a thousand bucks worth of new clothes. I’m figuring I can walk out with around two hundred dollars—maybe even more if the stars align.

  As I walk, I stare down at my sister. Meggie loves me. The way her little face lights up when I pick her up at day care makes me happier than anything on this planet. She’s the only person in my life who hasn’t let me down yet.

  A bell tinkles as I enter the consignment store. I immediately see that pushing this stroller around just won’t work. The place is so full of clothing racks and shelves of shoes that I don’t even see the little old woman who works there until she is right in front of me.

  “Well, hello there, pretty girl,” she singsongs. She’s leaning over, talking directly to Meggie. Meggie’s little hand reaches out and rubs the woman’s wrinkly cheek. “Oh, aren’t you just the sweetest little thing.”

  The woman stands up straight, and can’t be any more than four feet tall. “How may I help you, young lady?” She has a beautiful smile, and I get lost in it—the way her eyes kind of disappear into the happiness and how her cheeks plump up. She’s glowing.

  “Dear? What can I do for you today?”

  “I want to sell this stuff.” I bend down, grab two of the bags, and the woman gets right to work. The whole thing takes about an hour, and Meggie is amazing; she reads and sings and plays with her shoelaces and is basically the best little kid ever born. The woman—Eleanor—explains that she’s giving me twenty percent of what they’ll sell the stuff for. I walk out of the consignment shop with $279 in cold hard cash. That will definitely help my mom with this month’s rent.

  I make a mental note to thank my grandmother the next time I see her. She lives in Colorado, so that probably won’t be for a long time.

  I’m actually kind of glad they never fit, because now I can hand my mother this nice hunk of cash.

  Who knew my grandmother would show up out of the blue with bags of new clothes for me? Or that it would end up being profitable?

  I remember that day so clearly. My mom and I didn’t even know my grandmother was in town. I felt embarrassed because she bought everything in a size twelve. According to my grandmother, size twelve is a plus size, and the only other person who wears a size twelve is her friend Liz, who eats nonstop and can never get her pants buttoned even though they are a size twelve.

  Needless to say, I’m no size twelve. I was a ten before my dad swallowed his Super-Dick serum, and that was two years ago. I think my grandmother meant well. I’m convinced her grand gesture was to try to make up for my father, her son, ruining our family. But I guess she figured anyone over a size twelve doesn’t deserve clothes that fit.

  Meggie says, “Yay, Dehwy. Birdies. Yook!”

  I stop pushing her stroller and glance toward where she’s pointing. There, up in the tree, are a cardinal and a blue jay sitting side-by-side on one of the lower branches. Chirping away to each other like two old friends catching up. I’ve never seen that before.

  “I see, Megs, I see. Wow, girl!”

  We watch the two birds. Their necks are turned, and they stare at each other more intensely than the human beings I know. These two birds see each other. Unbelievable.

  I pick up my pace because the late-afternoon sky, with its shades of violet and orange, reminds me that Meggie needs dinner, and I haven’t even started my homework. As I wait for the streetlight to change, I inhale the warm spring air, and the most bizarre fantasy unravels in my head: Brandon secretly likes me because I know how to make him laugh. My size doesn’t matter to him, and he’s broken up about what he did to
me at the party, so he dumps bitchy Taryn because she bores him and only cares about herself. Then he asks me out.

  I am completely aware that it is stupid and impossible. I guess it boils down to this—I liked Brandon a lot, and I wanted him to kiss me and touch me. Deep down I wanted to have sex with him. And I keep trying to alter what actually happened that night so it resembles one of my fantasies.

  But nothing I do blocks out Brandon’s demand that I stay still. That I said no. That he left me naked and alone. I swear every stupid flower in Melissa’s parents’ bedroom shook its head at me as I pulled my underwear back on. None of my excuses can forgive how he treated me in the hallway. That look he had on his face—that scowl. He called me “dude.”

  I grip the stroller handles. I didn’t fight harder and push him off of me for three reasons:

  1. Because he’s hot.

  2. Because he complimented my seventh-grade grand slam.

  3. Because I don’t think anyone else will want to have sex with me, and I didn’t want to die a virgin.

  And maybe because I was scared.

  • • •

  Meggie is down for the night, and I’m finishing up my homework at the kitchen table. My mother emerges from her bedroom like a shadow, mumbles something about meeting a friend for dinner, and leaves. I’ll have to wait to present her with the money.

  I head into the living room and turn on the TV. After two commercials for fast food make me hungry again, I turn it off and sit in silence for a while. I even try watching some magic videos on my phone, but quickly abandon that because I can’t stand the people and their confused smiles.

  I allow my head to fall back and stare at the ceiling. Everything is pretty messed up right now. After a few minutes, the quiet gets to me. I grab the remote to turn on some background noise. My head won’t shut off, worrying about what school will be like tomorrow and how many people saw that cow drawing. The next thing I know, I’m walking into my mother’s bedroom. The storage box labeled softball pics & movies is in my grasp in no time. I close her door behind me and head back to the living room.

  The box is heavy—full of me. I’m glad I only have two paces until I can put it down on the coffee table. I sit on the sofa and wring my hands. This box represents my life back when my father loved me. Skinny me. Happy me. The me with two parents who kissed me good night and kissed each other over scrambled eggs in the morning. Complete me. The me I liked.

  I reach up and tuck my hair behind my ears. softball pics & movies. How could my father have left all of this? He didn’t take a single photo or movie with him. Not one physical memory of our years together accompanied him to his new life. It’s all been sealed away in this box, like a mummy encased in cardboard and clear packing tape. I peel off the tape and remove the lid. A waft of musty paper hits my nose. It reminds me of when we used to decorate our house at Christmas and I’d rummage through the boxes, deciding what decorations my mother and I would hang up next. Stale odor or not, it still smells of living and happy.

  I pull out a stack of photos. The first image is of eight-year-old me in my red-and-white softball uniform, both of my arms wrapped around my father’s waist. I’m looking up at him, and he’s looking down at me. We’re both smiling. I’m missing a few teeth. I hold the photo closer to my face. He looks like he loves me. I turn it over. Printed neatly in my father’s handwriting, it says: Softball Champs—Adele hit winning run.

  Maybe my father loved my athletic ability, not me. How could a man love his child and then abandon her? That’s not love. That’s bullshit.

  Seeing this photograph fuels my desire to understand my relationship with my father. I search through the box. I read the meticulously labeled DVD cases and grab the one I want: adele—freshman year—average performance. This was the last game that my father came to. Two weeks later, my family collapsed into chaos. Even though I’ve never seen this video, I’m confident it is going to prove my theory right.

  I push the DVD in and press play. The first thing I hear are the birds. My father must not have known that the camera was on, because all I see is grass and, occasionally, the side of his sneaker. My mother’s voice asks me if I have my water bottle. Still grass on the screen.

  Then the shot goes haywire because my father is walking, but the sound is still crystal clear. “Adele, remember, if they move their fielders out toward the fence, hit a grounder. Don’t mess up today. My boss is coming, ’kay?”

  That bit of dialogue is an unexpected bonus. Dad definitely didn’t know he was being taped. The screen switches to the field—he is holding the camera.

  I watch the whole game, which doesn’t take too long, since my father only videoed when I was up at bat. I struck out once, hit a fly ball to center field for the out, and got an RBI. Not a great game for me. Not my most memorable times at bat. But I remember every single second. I can still smell the fresh-cut grass and see the smoke rising from the neighbor’s yard next to the field as he burned his grass clippings.

  “Not your best game, Adele,” I hear my father say. He is zoomed in on my face for reasons unknown.

  “Sorry, Dad.” I squint because the sun is in my eyes. Then I smile at the camera. My mother stands next to me. She has a little bulge in her sweatpants. That’s unborn Meggie in there.

  Mom asks the camera, “Lenny, is Mr. Thomas coming over for dinner?”

  “No, I’m taking him out. I told you that already. Why do I bother talking?”

  I study my face carefully to see if my parents’ bickering affects me. I roll my eyes. I appear to be uncomfortable, nervous even, as they go back and forth a few more times about talking and listening. I press stop and lean back on the sofa.

  Not once did my father hug me. There was no high five, no compliment. Just a single line of critique.

  My theory is correct. My father didn’t love me; he loved my athletic ability.

  My eyes dart around the room as I search my memory for more proof. I recall game after game that my father showed me love—but only when I played well.

  I toss the DVD back in the box and slam the lid. This was a bad idea. Why am I torturing myself? I put the box away so my mother won’t know that I was in her room, then plop back on the sofa. I wonder if my father would’ve left if Meggie had been a boy. I don’t think he ever wanted me, either. This makes my lips quiver. How shallow and disgusting can one man be? How can this shallow and disgusting man be my father?

  I stare at the wall for at least an hour and shift my weight because something is poking my butt through my jeans.

  The wad of cash. I forgot about the money for my mother.

  “Dell?” my mother calls. She’s home now from wherever the hell she was. I really don’t want to know the details. I’d like to sneak past her and disappear underneath my covers, but I have to give her this money.

  I meet her in the kitchen. “I have something for you,” I mumble under my breath.

  She stops riffling through the mail and looks at me with a frown. “Speak clearly. Say it again.”

  “I said, I have something for you.” I wish I had it in me to get all excited like Cara does. Smile. Squeal.

  She raises her eyebrows. Her skin is pale. If she weren’t standing there scowling at me, I’d think she was dead.

  I hand her the cash.

  “W-what’s this?” she stutters.

  “It’s for you.”

  She squints. “Where did you get this?” She counts it. “This is a lot of money here. Where did this come from?” She sounds worried—angry, almost.

  “It’s all yours. That should help, right?”

  She puts the money on the kitchen table and whispers, “Adele, where did that money come from?”

  Wow, this is so not turning out how I envisioned it. I imagined my mother hugging me and tears and some oh-you-are-the-best-daughter-a-mom-could-ever-have shit. Not scowls and suspicion. I can’t win.

  “Mom, seriously, calm down. I didn’t steal it or anything. I . . . ” I go quiet
because I don’t want to tell her I sold the clothes. They’re the same clothes she pesters me to wear every day.

  “You what?” she prompts.

  I blurt out, “I sold my clothes.”

  My mother pounds the counter and throws the mail at me.

  I duck and yell, “Oh my God, Mom. You’re acting like I sold crack or gave hand jobs on the corner. What the hell?”

  “Hand jobs? What are you talking about?” she yells back.

  The moment is officially ruined, so I blabber out the whole story all at once. “I felt bad about last night and how much money Daddy owes you. I thought I could sell the clothes in my closet to help out with bills. So that’s what I did. I sold my clothes. They didn’t fit anyway. There, are you happy now? I’m not some drug-dealing whore. Does that make you happy, Mom? Because all I wanted to do was make you happy.”

  I can’t hold back my tears, and this aggravates me. I hate when I’m the only one crying. This makes me fume even more. Before I can stop myself, I punch the wall next to the refrigerator. It makes an indent in the drywall.

  “Adele! Stop it! Stopitstopitstopitstopit!” my mother screeches.

  “Why is this MY life?” I scream at the top of my lungs. Then I run the five measly steps to the bathroom and slam the door so hard that my towel, which had been hanging on the hook, falls to the ground. I kick it. It is completely unsatisfying, which makes me want to punch something again. I slam down the toilet lid and sit. After rocking back and forth a few times, I realize that I can’t stay in here all night. I need to let the rage out.

  I fling open the bathroom door, ready to stomp across the hall, when I hear Meggie whimpering in our room.

  “Damnit.” I cringe and turn my head, fully expecting my mother to come flying down the hallway, furious that I’ve woken Meggie up.