Reminders of Him(2)

“Who wouldn’t want a kitten?”

“Me.”

She huffs, like my response is completely unreasonable. “I’ll make you a deal,” she says. “I’ll leave the electric on for two weeks if you take a kitten.” What in the hell kind of place is this? “Fine,” she says, responding to my silence as if it’s a negotiation tactic. “The month. I’ll leave the electric on for the whole month if you just take one kitten.” She walks into her apartment but leaves the door open.

I don’t want a kitten at all, ever, but not having to spend $250 on an electricity deposit this month would be worth several kittens.

She reappears with a small black-and-orange kitten. She places it in my hands. “There ya go. My name is Ruth if you need anything, but try not to need anything.” She goes to close her door again.

“Wait. Can you tell me where I can find a pay phone?”

She chuckles. “Yeah, back in 2005.” She closes her door completely.

The kitten meows, but it’s not a sweet meow. It sounds more like a cry for help. “You and me both,” I mutter.

I make my way toward the stairs with my suitcase and my . . . kitten. Maybe I should have held out a few more months before coming back here. I worked to save up just over $2,000, but most of that was spent on moving here. I should have saved up more. What if I don’t find a job right away? And now I’m tasked with the responsibility of keeping a kitten alive.

My life just became ten times more difficult than it was yesterday.

I make it up to the apartment with the kitten clinging to my shirt. I insert the key in the lock and have to use both hands to pull on the door and get the key to turn. When I push open the door to my new apartment, I hold my breath, afraid of what it’s going to smell like.

I flip on the light switch and look around, releasing my breath slowly. There’s not much of a smell. That’s both good and bad.

There’s a couch in the living room, but that’s literally all there is. A small living room, an even smaller kitchen, no dining room. No bedroom. It’s an efficiency apartment with a closet and a bathroom so small the toilet touches the tub.

The place is a dump. A five-hundred-square-foot absolute shithole, but it’s a step up for me. I’ve gone from sharing a one-hundred-square-foot cell with a roommate, to living in transitional housing with six roommates, to a five-hundred-square-foot apartment I can call my own.

I’m twenty-six years old, and this is the first time I’ve ever officially lived somewhere alone. It’s both terrifying and liberating.

I don’t know if I can afford this place after the month is up, but I’m going to try. Even if that means applying to every business I walk past.

Having my own apartment can only serve to help as I plead my case to the Landrys. It’ll show I’m independent now. Even if that independence will be a struggle.

The kitten wants down, so I put her on the floor in the living room. She walks around, crying out for whoever she left downstairs. I feel a pang in my chest as I watch her searching corners for a way out. A way back home. A way back to her mother and siblings.

She looks like a bumblebee, or something out of Halloween, with her black and orange splotches.

“What are we going to name you?”

I know she’ll more than likely be nameless for a few days while I think about it. I take the responsibility of naming things very seriously. The last time I was responsible for naming someone, I took it more seriously than I’ve ever taken anything. That could have been because the whole time I sat in my cell during my pregnancy, all there was to do was think about baby names.

I chose the name Diem because I knew as soon as I was released, I was going to make my way back here and do everything in my power to find her.

Here I am.

Carpe Diem.





CHAPTER TWO


LEDGER

I’m pulling my truck into the alley behind the bar when I notice the nail polish still on the fingernails of my right hand. Shit. I forgot I played dress-up with a four-year-old last night.

At least the purple matches my work shirt.

Roman is tossing bags of trash into the dumpster when I exit the truck. He sees the gift sack in my hand and knows it’s for him, so he reaches for it. “Let me guess. Coffee mug?” He peeks inside.

It’s a coffee mug. It always is.

He doesn’t say thank you. He never does.

We don’t acknowledge the sobriety these mugs symbolize, but I buy him one every Friday. This is the ninety-sixth mug I’ve bought him.

I should probably stop because his apartment is full of coffee mugs, but I’m too far in to give up now. He’s almost at one hundred weeks sober, and I’ve been holding on to that one-hundredth-milestone mug for a while now. It’s a Denver Broncos mug. His least favorite team.

Roman gestures toward the back door of the bar. “There’s a couple inside harassing other customers. You might want to keep an eye on them.”

That’s odd. We don’t normally have to deal with unruly people this early in the evening. It isn’t even six o’clock yet. “Where are they sitting?”

“Next to the jukebox.” His eyes fall to my hand. “Nice nails, man.”

“Right?” I hold up my hand and wiggle my fingers. “She did pretty good for a four-year-old.”