Under Rose-Tainted Skies(5)

It’s Sunday. Mom crashes down the stairs, dragging a suitcase behind her. It slams into a step, pops her on the butt. She slams into a step, collides with the wall. The whole descent has the elegance of an elephant performing Swan Lake on a pogo stick.

As a fangirl of anything sci-fi, Mom’s almost always wearing a shirt adorned with an alien or a Captain Somebody of Something. Today is no exception. Some creepy green interstellar species is flashing a peace sign at me. Slung over Mom’s arm is a garment bag that holds a designer suit for tomorrow’s conference. She’s only ever conservative at conferences. In real time, her hair is the colour of a fire engine and she has a peace lily tattooed on her wrist.

Crash. Bang. Wallop. Down the stairs she comes. ‘Are you sure you don’t need some help?’ I cringe, watching the battle through my fingers.

‘I got it,’ she says, touching down on even ground. I exhale, stop chewing holes in the side of my tongue. The bitter taste of blood hits the back of my throat. In the twenty seconds it’s taken her to get from top to bottom, I’ve watched her trip and break her neck eight times.

‘What’ve you got in there?’ I flick my eyes towards the tattered suitcase. ‘Bricks?’

‘Ha-di-ha-ha.’ She snorts. It’s funny because her suitcase actually is full of brick samples and various other building materials she’s showcasing at the conference. ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this to you again,’ she says, all joking a distant memory.

‘I’m fine. I swear.’ I twirl, because nothing says I’m mentally stable quite like an impromptu pirouette. She’s beating herself up. I can tell. The fight with her luggage may be over, but she’s still wincing. ‘Mom, really, I’m fine. It’s only for two days—’

‘Less, if I can get away sooner,’ she interjects, dipping into her purse. She pulls out a compact, dabs her cheeks with pink powder. I smile to myself, recall the early mornings when I was still at school. We used to share the bathroom mirror. I brushed my hair while she painted her face bright colours.

Make-up days for Mom are almost non-existent now. She stopped wearing it when I got sick and there wasn’t much call for her to leave the house. Guilt is a squeezing sensation in the pit of my stomach.

She needs these trips, these brief moments away. She needs to be with grown-ups every now and then. To feel social and not secluded. I’m secretly hoping that she’ll go out, get drunk, and shamelessly flirt with some dark-haired, dark-eyed Latino who sweeps her off her feet. I’ve seen the staff photos on her work website. Apparently, construction is where all the hot guys hang out.

‘Okay.’ She snaps her compact shut. ‘Hotel, conference centre, cell, pager—’

‘Numbers are all pinned to the fridge.’

She nods; a smile lacking any humour sits on her lips. ‘I’ll call—’

‘Before you go to bed and when you wake up. I know the drill, Mom. Go, have fun, stop worrying. PS: did you pack that silky blue shirt? The one that ties around your neck?’

‘It’s not that kind of conference.’

‘I’m just saying, it’s a cute shirt.’

‘Hush.’ She kisses my forehead and heads out the door. ‘Oh . . .’ She turns around, slapping the heel of her hand against her forehead. ‘I almost forgot, Helping Hands is delivering tonight at six. They didn’t have a slot open tomorrow.’

‘Six tonight. Got it.’ I tap my temple.

‘Should I write it down on the fridge?’

‘Go.’

I stand at the door as she loads herself into the car. I test my toes against the step, inching my foot down, like the concrete is red-hot lava. I’m so focused on putting a whole foot flat, outside in the wilderness, that I almost miss Mom pull away. She honks the horn, I wave, and she’s gone.

My fingers curl into the door frame so tightly it’s a wonder they don’t pierce the wood. But I can do it, one whole foot outside my front door, without my chest getting tight.

The step has been in shadow. The cold of the concrete seeps through my sock and makes my foot feel wet. It’s weirdly refreshing, like splashing your face with cool water. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, exhaling ecstasy when I hear a cough. My eyes pop open and he’s there again. The new boy next door. Muscles still bulging under the weight of a new box, this time full of groceries. He flicks his head at me.

‘Hi.’

Like a rabbit reacting to the sound of a gunshot, I retract my foot, scurry back inside, and slam the door shut.

That was close is my first thought. Followed by What was close? Pleasant conversation? Ugh. I press my back up against the door and wilt to the floor. I instantly dislike that a stranger has seen my crazy side, not once but twice within a week. I curl inwards, try hard to split the floor with my mind so I can seep through it.

Once I’m done reassembling my self-esteem, life goes the way it always does.

Technically, I don’t have to study on weekends, but I do anyway. I’m learning to speak French for a trip I’ll never take. I watch some TV, eat, sleep, build a pretty impressive yet rather unstable castle of saliva and peanut butter cookies.

I’m in the middle of licking and sticking a broken turret when my phone sings like a cuckoo. It’s a notification from The Hub telling me six people are talking about Dream Stalker, this supposedly pee-your-pants horror movie that just came out.