Say the Word(74)

Those dreams had died the day she went into the girl’s locker room after gym class one day toward the end of her senior year, peed on a little white stick, and watched as it turned blue. And that woman she’d been back then had died too — not at first, but over time. A gradual withering away, like a penknife scraping against the bark of a mighty tree. Her curves had disappeared, unsustainable on a diet of liquid alone, and the lines appearing on her face each day were not from laughter, but stress and sorrow. As a little girl, I’d sometimes catch her staring at herself in the mirror, tracing the weathered skin as though it belonged to a stranger, as slow tears dripped down her face and fell onto her tattered blouse.

Her drinking had increased with age, spurred in part, perhaps, by my father’s addictions. She couldn’t care for Jamie and me — she could barely care for herself — but I couldn’t bring myself to hate her. How could you hate someone who’d had her heart broken by life? Who’d been beaten down by her fate and never found the strength within herself to rise again?

No, I didn’t hate her. I simply didn’t understand her.

“Where you been? ’S late.” She was slumped over in her chair on the far side of the room. My father was nowhere to be seen — assumedly, he’d already fallen into a liquor-induced stupor in bed. I thanked my stars for that.

“Out,” I told her, still hovering near the doorway. I tried to stay as far from her as possible when she got this way. Not because she was a mean or abusive drunk — quite the opposite, actually — but because I couldn’t bear to see the wasted potential that her life had boiled down to. Talent, ambition, beauty, charisma — all of it squandered in the bottom of a bottle of gin. A ghost of the woman, the mother, she might’ve been.

“Don’ get sassy with me, girlie,” she slurred, gesturing at me with a near-empty tumbler. She nearly toppled over with the effort, the glass falling from her hand and rolling under the coffee table. I sighed. I’d be spending my pre-dawn hours cleaning the house before school tomorrow.

“Let’s get you to bed, Mom.” Judging that she’d never make it by herself in this condition, I walked over to her and placed one hand on her arm. “Come on.”

She turned to me, her eyes clearing of the haze for a moment as she examined my face. “You’re a good girl, Luxie.”

“Okay, Mom, come on,” I said, rapidly blinking away the film of tears that had appeared in my eyes. “Time for bed.”

“Dunno what we’d do without you ‘round here,” she continued, refusing to budge from her chair despite my tugging.

I rolled my eyes. “Quite the party you had here tonight.”

“It’s a goin’ away party.” She giggled.

“What?” I dropped my hands, staring at her intently. “Mom! What did you just say?”

“I said,” she whisper-yelled between fits of laughter. “It’s a goin’ away party.”

“For who?” I asked, my heart beginning to race.

As quickly as her levity had arrived, it vanished, replaced by a forlorn look and hunched shoulders. “For us, for the house. Bank called. Can’t pay the bills. Gotta move.”

The blood began to pound in my ears. “When?”

She shook her head back and forth in slow denial.

“Mom!” I snapped my fingers in front of her eyes, trying to focus her attention. “When do we have to move?”

“End of next month,” she mumbled, her eyes drifting closed again. “Where’s my drink?”

I stood stock-still, contemplating her words and feeling my heart sink down to my stomach. If it were true, if the house was in foreclosure, there was no way we’d be able to pay for the best care for Jamie. And without the best care, he might not make it at all.

I stood for a long time in the flickering darkness, looking down at my mother passed out cold in her chair. I could see nothing but an unscalable mountain before me, with no visible footholds or convenient paths up the massive peak. It was the most treacherous of cliffs, ascending in a straight sheet of rock and ice, up into the clouds and far out of sight.

Even attempting a climb would be futile — a hopeless endeavor.

But then, from a tiny corner in the back of my mind, a single image forced its way to the forefront of my thoughts.

Hannibal.

I saw him looking up at that selfsame crag and telling the wisest, most trusted of his generals to f*ck off, before making his way resolutely over the Alps. Despite everyone’s doubts, regardless of their predictions of certain death… he’d found a way. He’d forged a way.

And, for Jamie, so would I.





Chapter Twenty-Three





Now


It was hard to get out of bed the next morning. In all honesty, I contemplated calling out sick, but ruled against it when I realized it was Friday — not to mention the fact that my boss was also my ex-boyfriend who, coincidentally, hated me and would most certainly notice if I didn’t show up.

I’d been up all night, ensconced in a bundle of indecision about the things I’d learned in Red Hook. Half of me was impulsive, craving action and immediate results. That half wanted to call the police, the FBI, the mayor, and the freaking President, just so I could tell someone what I suspected was happening on a forgotten dock in a dark corner of my city. But my other half, the half that had studied journalism for four years, urged caution, warning me that I might not know the full story just yet. Not only did I lack any physical proof, if I went forward with this information too soon I could end up warning Santos and his friends of an impending raid before it happened. The people operating out of the old brewery obviously had police connections — just how high those connections went was yet unclear. Until I knew for sure, I’d have to proceed with the assumption that Santos might not be the only officer involved.