Carry Me Home

by Jessica Therrien

  “Let’s just go, Mom,” I whisper.

  Mom looks at Art with apologetic eyes.

  “It’s okay,” he tells her. “I’ll call you later.”

  He kisses her on the cheek and passes the judging faces as he exits the restaurant.

  “I’m sorry,” Lucy says, but the tone of her words is hardly genuine. “He’s a piece of shit—”

  “Stop it. Just stop.” Mom’s teeth are gritted in anger, her face stern with rage. “Get some to-go boxes,” she barks at me.

  I jump up and do as she says.

  The whole ride home, all of us keep quiet and make a point to scowl out our respective windows.

  When we get inside, Lucy’s soft apologetic words surprise me.

  “Mom,” she says, and a glimmer of the sweet sister I used to know shines through. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you, but he’s not a good guy. Do you know who he is? He is a murderer. He killed Gabe’s brother. He didn’t tell you that? Of course he didn’t.”

  “This has to stop, Lucy.” Mom is sitting blank-faced at the kitchen table, her voice stripped of all tenderness. “Your behavior is out of control. You’re grounded. And I’m taking off your bedroom door. You need to learn to respect people. To respect me.”

  I feel like I’m deciding how to defuse a bomb, only I have no idea which wire to cut. I just stare at the two of them trying to figure out whose side I’m on.

  Lucy looks hurt, but I know Mom’s words won’t go unpunished. It doesn’t take long for her to laugh it off. “Fine,” she says. “Fuck you guys. I’m out of here. I don’t need you.”

  “Did you hear what I said?” Mom challenges her. “You’re grounded.”

  Lucy shakes her head and smiles like a lunatic. “What are you going to do? Go ahead. Call your boyfriend. You think I don’t know how to hide from the cops? You’re lucky if I ever come back. Come on Dani.”

  She yanks her friend by the hand and slams the front door behind her.

  CHAPTER 35

  Lucy

  I HAVEN’T BEEN HOME in days. I’m sure the police are looking for me, but they can’t touch me here. Not in this hole.

  As much as I hate being at Paco’s cousin’s, it’s a good place to hide. If Mendoza is searching for us, there are about five Crazy Eights here who’ll shoot his ass before he finds me.

  The boys went out for beer. Until they get back I’ve glued myself to this shit-colored sofa stained with who knows what. Dani is keeping Paco’s cousin and his friends busy with her flirtatious laughter as they pass the pipe. But I’m not over this Mendoza thing.

  Weed smoke floats in a thin sheet above my head tempting me to join them, but I’m too pissed to do anything but sit and sulk. More than anything, I feel betrayed by Mom and Ruth. They didn’t even pretend to listen to me, just pushed me away.

  If I’m being honest with myself, I’ve always felt separate from them. Always second best. I can’t blame Ruth. A certain amount of love gets showered on the family’s first child. I get it. But I’ve always seen my mother’s effort to do things for me as her obligation to make up for that lack of attention. It’s never been out of a true connection with me. The two of them have their own little world. They’ve spent hours on road trips singing Broadway show tunes to the max, belting out the notes with the heat of their souls while I watched in back, knowing the words, but lacking the passion to sing along.

  Their bond has driven a wedge between us since the beginning. And I’m not resentful of it. I’m actually grateful my sister is a younger version of my mother. Someone my mom can live vicariously through, replaying her theater days in high school. I’m glad they have each other. But it has set me apart.

  Is it so wrong that while they bonded with each other, I bonded with my friends? I want to feel the way they do with someone. My friends accept me and love me the way I am. My toughness, my wild moods and disinterest in school, it’s not something that makes me different like with Mom and Ruth. It’s what makes my friends like me. It’s what makes us the same. And so I let myself get comfortable with them. I love them like family and bond with Dani like a sister. She gets me and knows me like Mom and Ruth do with each other. Isn’t it fair that I get that, too?

  It wasn’t Ruth who stood by my side when I was trying to protect Mom from dating a murderer. It was Dani.

  “Stop being so depressed, Chica. They’ll forgive you,” Dani pets my head on the couch. She knows all the reasons I’m moping. “Come on. Shawn’s got some medicine for you.”

  She dangles a little baggie of crystals in front of my face.

  “No way,” I push her hand away, remembering the awful feeling of coming down from that glorious high.

  “Whatevs. I’m doing it.” She picks through the rocks and loads the pipe.

  It doesn’t take much to convince me in my shitty mood—just a look. Dani raises her eyebrows waiting for me to cave, and I do. I shake my head at her and take a hit, letting the bliss wash over me as I exhale a massive cloud of white smoke. It feels good to forget everything. My Mom and Ruth. Mendoza. The shadows of guilt that follow me, and the secrets I keep in the tight fist of my heart.

  Without this drug I am the walking dead. It brings me back to life. Dani and I take turns until I’ve been re-born. It feels like I’ve shed fifty pounds of old skin and I’m a new sleek and gleaming version of myself. I shove the remaining rocks and pipe into my purse, following Dani to the kitchen.

  When Gabe and Paco get back I’ve given over to the devil’s call. I am transformed. Everything is vivid and beautiful. I want to clean and color. But Gabe is a better distraction.

  I pull him to the bedroom, dragging his shirt up over his head in a frenzied rush. He laughs with surprise, a low soft humming crackle, but goes with it. Our lips crash together. My hands slide along the contours of his chest and the natural lines that form around toned muscle. His skin is smooth and brown like bourbon.

  I can’t move fast enough toward him, against him. Forget slow and sensual. I want him like crazy. We kiss too hard and bump into furniture, but I don’t care. He follows my lead, letting me rip clothes off and tackle him into the bed. The high devours me, and we spend hours knotting up the yellowing sheets, ignoring the sounds of a party just outside the door. The night comes and goes, and our naked bodies turn hot with a feverish rush and then cold again with the chill of sweat. Over and over and over.

  And then I crash. I hit the wall of oncoming sobriety and with it comes the weight. Walking across the room feels like slugging through tar. I can’t bring myself to sit up.

  So we sleep.

  When the sun burns through the ragged sheets tacked up on the window as curtains, Gabe nudges me in the side. “Come on. We’ve been sleeping forever. Get up.”

  I can’t even muster the will to refuse. I’m naked, curled into a ball around one of the drool stained pillows and it’s my only anchor against the awful feeling. My veins have been filled with cooling cement.

  “It’s like two o’clock. Get up, lazy.”

  I don’t bother opening my eyes. “Tell Paco I need more medicine.”

  “Huh?” I can tell by the way he says it, he’s genuinely confused, which makes me confused.

  I pop one eye open, just one. “You know, the stuff,” I whimper. Talking is too hard.

  “You need some Advil or something?”

  “Fuck, Gabe. The fucking Meth! I need a hit. I can barely move right now.”

  All I hear is the door slam. Then yelling. I don’t care what it’s about.

  The door slams again, but I can hear him in the room. His feet shuffling, his angry breathing. He’s searching for something, and I’m too curious to not look. I open the one eye again. He has my clothes in a bunched up ball in his arms. I close my eye again and feel his gentle hands on my feet, slowly sliding them inside the rough unpleasant fabric of my jeans.

  I let him dress me, but only because I don’t have the energy to stop him. He half carries me to the door. I’m not the only one spun o
ut. Dani and Paco are slugs on the couch, half-dead, half asleep. Some of the other guys are moving like sloths throughout the apartment.

  “Wait!” I gather my breath for the single plea, remembering the drugs I stashed. “My purse.”

  Gabe grabs it for me, and I make it in a lazy fog to the car and sleep while he drives.

  When we stop I wake up. The pink stucco of my building orients me. I’m home. The feeling I get upon seeing the place is equal parts panic and relief. He holds me up as we slug our way to the front door. It’s unlocked even though no one is home. Mom is lazy and forgetful like that. I miss her.

  Gabe lays me in my bed and sits on the edge. He stares at the floor for a while, biting at his lip ring with a tight angry jawline.

  “Fucking Paco,” he whispers to himself. Then he leans over me, checking my face. I’m pale with hunger, starving and thirsty, parched as a lake cracked and drying into an empty bed of waste. “That stuff is evil, Luz.” He kisses my cheek and his breath warms my ear. “I’m calling your mom.”

  I don’t argue. I’m saving my energy for when he leaves the room. And he does. He pulls out his cell phone and wanders out the door to make the call.

  I lunge for my purse and pull out the pipe and crystals, stuffing them under my mattress.

  CHAPTER 36

  Mom

  SPANKING, GROUNDING, SCOLDING, SHAME, those tactics only work on a child who still respects their parent as a superior. That child will be angry and hateful, but they’ll do as they’re told. They’ll stay home and blast loud music in retaliation.

  What do you do when your child realizes there is nothing you can do to stop her? When she isn’t afraid to leave and never come back?

  It’s terrifying to know our roles have been reversed. Lucy’s in charge, and there are no rules. She can do whatever she wants, because if I say “no” or try to parent her, she’ll just take off, and I’d rather have her home than out on the streets for days. At least she’s safe when she’s here.

  Tonight I’m watching TV by myself in the near pitch-black living room. I keep all the lights off because the only way I know she’s here without checking every five minutes is that I can see the flickering of her computer screen from beneath the door.

  Wine, my nightly elixir, keeps me from obsessing over what to do about her. It numbs me, though never completely. Tonight it doesn’t seem to be working.

  I look around my small apartment and wonder how I’ve gotten here. This was supposed to be a new beginning for us, but as I watch the subtle blue light flash down the hallway, I feel nothing but regret in the empty pit of my stomach.

  How selfish am I to chase after my own dreams before my children have found their place in the world? I did this to her, I think. How can I be angry at her? I brought her here. I fed her to the wolves. She isn’t a bad person, I tell myself. She’s just fallen in with the wrong crowd. I can save her. I will save her.

  Things have started disappearing out of my house, a camera, a bottle of wine, and I know it’s her friends, but she denies it so vehemently and viciously that I’ve stopped asking about the stuff. I’ll have to face it eventually. They’re stealing. Maybe more wine will give me courage. I gulp down the rest of my merlot, and reach for the bottle on the coffee table but it’s empty.

  Where does she go when she disappears? What does she do out there? She has completely slipped away from me, and I know in my heart she’s in with some really bad people. Her behavior is erratic and frenzied. I know she’s on speed, but the coward in me will not confront it. The coward in me won’t turn in my baby or call the police. The coward in me has won.

  Quiet voices drift down the hallway, making me lift my drooping eyes. Any other time I might have pretended not to hear, but the wine makes me the tiniest bit braver. I slip off the couch to check her room, planning to use my routine goodnight as the excuse to peer inside.

  I creep into the hall and slowly open her door just a crack. The room is dark, but I see the figures of people all around. Lucy turns and glares at me, but there is something else that keeps my attention and turns me into a manikin where I stand. There is a grown man at her computer. His head is shaved and a large 8 ball is tattooed onto the back of his shiny scalp. He turns, and our eyes connect. I don’t have the strength of will to feign confidence and, at the very least, give him my death-stare. Instead, the coward in me closes the door without a word and goes to bed.

  * * *

  It’s one of those nights where the only proof I slept is the vague memory of a dream. My sweating brow and pounding heart are with me always, my companions into the morning. They escort me to Lucy’s room. She’s gone, of course.

  The window is left open. All that remains of her desktop computer is an outline of dust around the clean circular imprint of the base. They’ve stolen it, or she sold it, but the entire computer is gone.

  Worry worms into my chest until it finds its way to my heart.

  The house is eerily quiet. I breathe in a sigh of relief at the peace, but deep down, I’m terrified.

  I think of all the time I’ve spent driving around combing the streets, knocking on doors until I found her, then guilting her into coming home. I don’t even know where to look now, but I’m exhausted at the thought of another night of not knowing where she is. I tell myself it doesn’t matter right now. It’s early, not even dark. She could come back.

  I head for my closet to change out of my nightgown when I hear the door slam in the living room. It makes the hair on my arms stand on end. For a second, I honestly wonder if I’m about to come face to face with one of her gang friends, but the sound of her calling settles my nerves.

  “Mom!” I hear her yell. “MOM!!!”

  “I’m right here,” I say, coming into the hallway. “You don’t have to yell.”

  “Fine. I need some money.”

  She looks awful. Pale and skinny, hair straight and stringy with oil like she hasn’t bathed in days.

  “You don’t even say hello? Just 'I need some money?' Where have you been? Have you been gone all night?”

  “Oh, God. I’ve been out, okay?”

  I decide to ignore her obvious foul mood by changing the subject. No sense in pushing her. At least she’s home.

  “Well, I’m about to make breakfast? Do you want some eggs?”

  “I’m not staying for breakfast. I need some money for food and stuff. I’m meeting a friend right now.”

  My heart pounds hard in my chest, and I brace myself for the blowback. “I don’t have any money, Lucy. You know that we’re barely making it as it is. I gave you your allowance, what happened to that?”

  “That was nothing. I already spent it. I know you have money. Go to the ATM or something. My friend is waiting for me!”

  I think about what Art said. They eventually need money.

  “I don’t have any money, and that’s that,” I say walking casually toward my room. “I’m sorry, but maybe you should just stay here today. I can take the day off if you want.” I don’t wait for an answer. I’m too anxious to get away before the fury in her rises. I need to be steadfast and consistent, that’s what everyone has told me. I close the door, removing myself from the argument before it starts. It seems like a good defense, but I can already hear her barging down the hall.

  I slip into the bathroom just as she reaches my bedroom. I try to close the door but she pushes it with ungodly strength. “Let me in!”

  We grapple for what seems like eternity, but she is stronger than me, and I scream as she fits her skinny body through the opening. This is not my daughter, I think, shaking as I’m pinned to the wall by the barrage of her words. She’s always had a temper, but this violent, rough, version of her triggers uncontrollable panic.

  “You can’t do this to me!” she screams, her pale face brightening red with anger. “I won’t be your prisoner!”

  I manage to push my way by, and she stands watching me with disgust. I’m actually scared of my own daughter. The thought fuels mo
re tears, and I head down the hall, grabbing my purse before running out the door. I have to get away from her.

  Outside is still cool and damp with morning. My bare feet slap the concrete steps, scooping up filth as I run. The only place I can think of is my car. I make it down to the garage and look around frantically, but she hasn’t followed. As I sit with my head on the steering wheel, tears fall on my knees, and the sobs and cries of helplessness wheeze out of me.

  I can’t seem to catch my breath, so I pull out my phone and dial the crisis number the police had given me the last time they picked her up. I’m almost incoherent on the phone, I know that, but the person on the other end of the line is patient and kind. With a few deep breaths she gets me to calm down and tell her what’s going on.

  Just as I’m regaining composure, loud slaps makes me scream in surprise. Lucy is outside the car pounding on the window. My first instinct is to lock the doors, and her frustration boils over. She screams at me to get out. It’s this moment that I’m certain I’ve lost my daughter. Whatever has taken hold of her has won, and I just want to hide. I can’t deal with this, and I’m scared. Scared for myself and scared for her. Suddenly, the pounding stops and Lucy is gone.

  I realize the person on the other end of the phone is still there, pleading with me to tell her what’s happening. I can’t believe I have to tell this story about my own daughter and my fear of her. I have to call the police they say, or else the abuse will continue. Abuse, I think. Abuse.

  I thank them and tell them she’s gone, that I’m safe and I’ll do what they tell me. Instead I sit for a long time in my car, stunned and empty.

  I’m not going to call the police, of course. She’s my daughter. I love her.

  Somehow I know I’ll regret those words later when I realize doing nothing is not love, but my own form of abuse. I sneak upstairs as quietly as possible, and wait for my heart to settle before I call Art.

  “Hey honey,” I say, my voice low and dejected.

  “Morning, beautiful. How’d you sleep?”

  “Not good. Lucy had friends over last night and now her computer is gone.”