Because of Him

by Jessica Roe

  Ain't that friggin' weird?

  He accepts me for who I am and I wonder if given the chance, the others would too. I think about going to see the rest of the family, maybe explaining to them that I'm not as bad as I look, when I hear muffled voices near my door. I creep closer to listen.

  “Can we go see her?” Ila asks. She sounds super excited.

  “No,” Felicia replies sternly. “Your father and I don't want you kids spending time with her. That girl is nothing but a bad influence. You are to stay away from her while she's living here, do you hear me?”

  I sigh quietly and back away; I don't need to listen to any more of that. I feel stupid for my moment of weakness, for thinking I could get my family to like me.

  Instead I empty my duffel out over the bed, scattering my possessions: a few items of clothing, a couple of CD's, a tattered old copy of The Princess Bride that I've loved ever since I was a kid—not that I'd admit it to anyone, not even my new brother.

  The only picture I have of my mom slips out of the bag and drifts to the top of the pile. I swallow hard and pick it up, studying it with a heavy heart. It was taken years ago, years and years ago, when I was only three or four and the drugs hadn't yet begun to destroy her body...not on the outside anyway. Her wide grin is devilish and her arms circle over her head in a mocking ballerina pose. She looks so young and beautiful, wild and vibrant, untouchable. The kind of woman that people just have to know, the kind of woman my father risked his whole family for because he just had to have her. This picture looks nothing like the mother I remember, nothing like the hollow shell of a woman she became, nothing like the lifeless body I found in our tiny little apartment three months ago.

  I'm not even sure why I keep the picture, why I carry it around and hold it close to me like it's so damned precious. My mom never loved me, not really. Not as much as she loved getting high. I raised myself, left alone for hours, days at a time. I spent my childhood cowering in corners, praying for her to return yet dreading it, wondering what kind of stranger she'd bring with her this time.

  But despite all that...I can never get rid of this photo. She will always have a hold over me. She was my mother and I will always love her, even if that love is toxic.

  I place the photo face down on the bedside table underneath a lampshade—pink, obviously—and I know it's time to call Fen before I let thoughts of my mother take me under to that special dark place only she could create in me.

  Fen cares about me. In fact she's probably one of the only people who have ever cared about me. Mom and I met her in Chicago when we first moved there six months ago. She's an ex addict, now committed to helping other addicts. She wanted to help my mom but mom hated her. She said she hated her for her unwanted help, but I think deep down she really hated her for being someone she never could.

  For me it was an entirely different story. I loved Fen right away. She managed to break through my grumpy, bitchy walls and just see me. For the first time in my life somebody was taking care of me. She made me home cooked meals, helped with my homework, scolded me when she thought I was making bad decisions. She was the first responsible adult I'd ever had in my life. And then when my mother died she took me in, helped me through the all consuming grief and guilt and made me see that my mother's death, her overdose, wasn't my fault.

  I wanted more than anything to stay with Fen. I think I could have been happy there. But when my father was contacted he decided that after seventeen years of non-existent parenting he was going to take me in for my final year of high school. I think the guilt must have finally gotten to him.

  Fen answers after eleven rings and that makes me smile; she's forever misplacing her cellphone. For a moment I feel something very close to home sickness.

  “Give it time,” Fen tells me when I've updated her on everything that's happened since I left her yesterday—barring the super hot make out session with a complete stranger. “Once they see how amazing you are they're going to love you. They'll be kicking themselves for all the wasted years.”

  I'm not entirely sure she's telling the truth, but she's a successful life coach these days so I figure she's got to know somethin' about somethin'. “'Kay.”

  She chuckles down the phone. “Hey...miss you, grumpy.”

  The weight in my chest eases.

  IT'S NEARLY AN hour before Oliver finally comes up. He looks highly uncomfortable being in such close confines with me and he won't meet my eyes. I wonder if it's guilt or just general dislike.

  “We will all be sitting down for dinner shortly,” he tells me, though he directs it at the hideous pink lamp. “You're welcome to join us...if you'd like.”

  I actually do want to join them, but I can tell he's only offering to be polite. “It's okay. I'm not hungry,” I lie. “I already had pie.”

  He looks relieved by this easy out. “Very well then. Good night. I trust you'll...you'll sleep well.”

  When he leaves me alone, my heavy heart returns.

  THE NEXT MORNING I lay in bed for a stupid long time trying to ignore my rumbling stomach though it's really all I can think about. I keep psyching myself up to go downstairs and get breakfast but I don't feel comfortable enough here to just walk in and help myself. I can hear everyone else in the house going about their business, getting ready for whatever the hell these suburban folks spend their summer days doing, but nobody knocks on my door to check on me. Not even Zac.

  Eventually the noises die down and I hear the front door slam a couple times. The house sounds empty so I decide to stop being such a coward and go downstairs.

  When I enter the kitchen I discover that I'm not as alone as I thought I was; Nash sits at the kitchen island, eating cereal while he reads a newspaper. He glances up as I enter and his eyes linger for a moment on my Wile E. Coyote pyjamas. I've had them since I was thirteen and though I have to reluctantly admit I haven't exactly gained a whole lot of height since then, they're small enough that the pants legs barely reach my ankles. He raises a questioning eyebrow.

  “I like the Coyote,” I say with a shrug, like that should be enough of an answer.

  A hint of a smile graces his lips and for a moment I'm surprised—that's my smile right there. The curve of our bottom lip, the way one corner tilts higher than the other, even the pale pink colour. I always thought I looked just like my mom but there's bits of me in all of my family and I realize I must have taken after Oliver more than I thought.

  “I like the Coyote too,” Nash admits, pulling me from my thoughts. “I gunned for him when I was a kid.”

  “Right! The Roadrunner was such a little bitch.”

  He snorts at that. “I always hoped the Coyote would finally kick his ass. Hey, what about Tweety Bird?”

  “Ugh, hated him. I was definitely on Team Sylvester. Tom or Jerry?”

  “Tom, obviously. Itchy or Scratchy?”

  “Scratchy for sure. Itchy needs to be taught a serious lesson. Though I don't know if that one counts with it being a cartoon within a cartoon and all.”

  “True.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Okay, here's one...Popeye or Bluto?”

  I gasp with faux horror and place a hand over my heart. “How dare you! Popeye is the one good guy I dig. If anyone can make spinach look awesome, they're okay in my book.”

  “You might be right. What about...Angelica Pickles?”

  A giggle escapes me without my permission. “From the Rugrats? We're really stretching now. But yeah, she was definitely my favourite. The others were little snots.”

  He ponders for a moment. “I think it really says something about us that we sympathise with all the bad guys.”

  “Except for Bluto,” I remind him

  He nods. “Except for Bluto.”

  “It's possible we both have the minds of villains.”

  “That's unfortunate.”

  “And we watch way too many cartoons.”

  “True dat.”

  We grin at each other for a long moment and I think this,
this is when we bond. But then his face hardens as if he's suddenly remembered who I am and why he hates me and I know our banter is over. He clears his throat and goes back to his newspaper and I huff loudly, turning to search for breakfast.

  “Bowls are in the cupboard to your left,” he grunts without even looking up at me.

  “Thanks.”

  “Whatever.”

  Obviously I want to throw my bowl at his face for being such a jerk, but I refrain, which is kind of awesome for me. I've been known for my quick temper. “Got any plans today?” I ask instead, trying for conversation as I sit down opposite him.

  “Yep.”

  I wait a couple of beats. “Well?”

  He sighs. “Going across the street to visit our neighbour. She's my best buddy's Grams so I promised I'd look in on her while he's away for a couple days.”

  “Your best friend lives with her?”

  “Yup. Yolanda had a fall last year and she's not been doing so great ever since. He moved back here from NYC to take care of her.”

  “That was nice of him.”

  “Well, she practically raised him, so...”

  “Oh. Did he live with her when he was a kid?”

  “Naw, his parents were just away a lot. He spent most of his time at her place.”

  “So, can I come?”

  “Where?”

  “With you. To your friend's place.”

  “Why?”

  I stir my cereal until it's soggy mush—just how I like it—to avoid looking him in the eye. I'm not about to admit that I'm lonely. “Because I'm bored and I don't know anyone yet.”

  He sighs again, like I'm a big pain in the ass inconvenience. If he keeps sighing like that he's going to make himself dizzy. “Fine,” he agrees through gritted teeth. “But you better hurry your ass up and get your crap together. I don't wanna hang around waiting on you all day.”

  I SHOWER AND change in record time.

  When I bounce downstairs Nash is already halfway out the door; the grumpy a-hole had been about to leave without me.

  As we cross the street, at least three feet apart, he runs a hand through his short hair—a shade or two lighter than mine and Zac's—and looks over at me with a serious expression. His eyes, like all of Oliver's kids, are the exact same mossy green brown as mine. He and Zac don't look all that much alike. Zac is thin and wiry whereas Nash has inherited Oliver's height and broadness. He's all muscle.

  “Look,” he starts. “Yolanda is a real nice old lady, okay? We've known her all our lives and she's always been good to us. So don't be a bitch. And don't...steal anything, or whatever the hell kind of trouble it is you get up to.”

  I shake my head in annoyance, thinking I should probably just let him know that I've never stolen a damn thing in my life, not even at my most desperate when my mom had forgotten to feed me for three days straight. But I don't tell him, and I'm not sure why. I expected my family to be hesitant when it came to me but I never thought they'd be this judgemental, and I think I've already lost the will to change their minds, if I even had it in the first place. I want them to like me just for being me, like Zac instantly did, and not because I have to convince them to.

  Yolanda's house is similar to Oliver's but the outside is white and the shutters rose pink, and the wraparound porch is weathered. Nash lets himself in without even knocking on the front door and I realize this place must be like a second home to him.

  An older woman, maybe about seventy five, limps around the corner, a wide smile on her face. “Nash, I thought that might be you. Now tell me why you've been back home for a whole week and this is the first time you've made it over here?”

  He ducks his head. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  She tugs his ear once and turns my way, looking me up and down. Yolanda's a babe. Tall and slender, though her back is slightly haunched from using her cane, with silvery white hair that curls stylishly around the top of her neck and sparkling blue eyes. She's totally classy. I can just tell she had all the hot soldiers chasing after her when she was younger, and she probably has all the wrinkly bingo players hobbling after her now.

  Her bright eyes flicker from my boots to my hair and she smiles. “You must be Blair,” she guesses, taking hold of my hand. Her skin is super soft, like silk. “I've heard many things about you—they say you're a bad girl.” She winks at me to show she's not judging and I like her immediately. I get the feeling that maybe once, maybe even still, she was kind of a bad girl too.

  “WHAT THE HECK is this?” I ask Yolanda, giving my drink a suspicious sniff. She, Nash and I settled down at her kitchen table so she could serve us some weird purple stuff in old fashioned teacups.

  The inside of her house is nice—weird, but nice. It's a curiously random mix of old lady floral patterns and young masculine styles.

  “It's black cherry tea,” Yolanda tells me. “Made it myself. It's very nice. And good for you.”

  “Looks like some kind of potion to me.” I'm not a very tactful kinda gal.

  “Well, perhaps I'm an evil witch.” She raises her eyebrows and wriggles her fingers in my direction, and I can't help but laugh.

  “No, you're just a mad old bitch.” My eyes widen. I keep forgetting that I'm amongst civilized company now. “God, sorry. That was rude, even for me.”

  Nash begins to rise, looking incensed. “Blair! What the-”

  But Yolanda waves her hand in his face to shut him up, laughing so hard she almost spits out her tea. “Oh honey,” she says, still chuckling. “You and I are going to get along just fine.”

  Yolanda is smart and witty and seriously inappropriate. Within an hour of our meeting she's telling me all about the things she and her husband, who passed away five years ago, used to get up to in the sixties and seventies. She was a serious bad ass, like totally wild. I've got nothing on her.

  Obviously, I kind of adore her.

  Nash, on the other hand, is seriously disgruntled. Whether that's because of me or because some of Yolanda's stories are just a little bit kinky, I'm not sure.

  I've never really liked old people. They smell weird and it freaks me out how utterly breakable their skin looks, but Yolanda is cool. And she has wicked awesome yet completely random taste in music.

  “You really listen to Black Eyed Peas?” I ask, sliding the CD out from between Vera Lynn and Kelly Clarkson.

  “They've got the funk,” she informs me quite seriously.

  When Nash and I leave a while later, Yolanda takes my arm in a surprisingly firm grip. “Come along and see me again tomorrow,” she demands, and I think she might understand how alienated I feel back at Oliver's place.

  “Sure,” I say casually, because I really do want to, but it's not like I want to sound too keen. “But I'm not drinking your witchy tea.”

  “You'll drink what you're given, you ungrateful little wretch.” Her eyes twinkle as she teases me, and I think she probably likes having somebody around who doesn't treat her like a fragile old lady.

  BACK AT OLIVER'S—I doubt I'll ever think of this place as home—the house is full once again, and it's noisy.

  Jemma and Ila are yelling at each across the living room. Their shrieks are loud and high pitched and hard to understand but I get the gist of it—they're pissed about having to share a room.

  “It's called privacy, you dork!” Jemma shouts.

  “It's my room!” Ila retorts, red faced.

  “Our room.”

  “Only 'till you go to college. Oh wait, you have to be smart to go to college. Bad luck!”

  “I hate you so much, you little dweeb!”

  Felicia bustles in, tidying up around them and making half hearted shushing noises. I guess she's more used to sibling rivalry than I am because it doesn't seem to bother her so much.

  “You know,” I say, leaning against the doorway as I watch them. “I wouldn't mind sharing with Ila.” I'd do anything if it meant putting a stop to their screeching. Growing up I'd always wanted siblings, but I hadn't reali
zed they'd be this annoying. And noisy. “Jemma can have her old room back.”

  Jemma's face lights up. “Really?”

  “Sure-”

  “No way on this earth,” Felicia interrupts. “You will not be sharing a room with my youngest daughter. I will not have you influencing her in any way.”

  Even Jemma looks embarrassed by that. “Mom! Seriously, take a chill pill.”

  But all Felicia says is, “My word is final.” And then she stomps out, leaving the three of us behind in awkward silence.

  THE NEXT DAY I skip over to Yolanda's just before lunch. I'd wanted to come earlier, anything to get out of the house, but I'd persuaded myself to wait for a reasonable hour. A sigh of relief escapes me as I cross the road; the atmosphere back at Oliver's was so cold.

  Last night I'd wanted to go out and explore the town, maybe find some place I could kick back and party. I'd made the mistake of asking Jemma if there were any places to chill but Oliver had overheard and assumed I was up to something nefarious. Drugs, probably. Or an evil plan of some general kind. Either way, I didn't go. I am, after all, trying my hardest to stay on Oliver's good side. My main priority is graduating high school so I can leave for college next year and never come back here, and I can't do that if he sends me away, so I'll give him no excuse. Fun can come later.

  Right now I'm being a good girl.

  Yolanda makes me more of her funky tea. “It's mango, dear,” she tells me, tugging on one of my colourful stripes. “It's not going to bite you in the behind. Drink up.” I do what she says because I think a pissed off Yolanda would be scary as hell. And though you'd have to torture me endlessly before I'd admit it, this fruit tea is super yum.

  “So you live with your grandson, huh?”

  “I do indeed.”

  “Is he as grumpy as Nash?”

  She chuckles. “Grumpier. But I'm a lucky old thing to have him taking care of me. If not for him I'd be stuck in one of those homes with all the other wrinkly old farts.”