Lies You Never Told Me(9)
It’s been nine years, but she still spends half her days in a fog. I don’t know how much actual pain she’s in anymore; it’s hard to know if she’s still suffering, or if she just likes feeling high.
“Mom, you’ve got to keep this job.” I try to keep my voice calm. Sometimes if I get mad, if I yell, Mom will set off on a whole new binge, trying to numb her hurt feelings. “There’s nowhere else that’ll take you.”
“I know, I know. Tomorrow. I promise.”
Tomorrow. The single most overused word in Mom’s vocabulary. Tomorrow I’ll go to the doctor. Tomorrow I’ll go to work. Tomorrow I’ll do those dishes, take out the trash, eat something, change my clothes. Tomorrow I’ll stop using. I grab the cigarette in the ashtray and stab it out almost violently.
“The rate you’re going, you’re going to set the place on fire before we get evicted.”
I stomp into my bedroom and shut the door firmly behind me. I can still hear the TV through the wall. Someone on a game show asks for a vowel. I stick the phone into my stereo dock and turn on Adele to try to drown out the noise.
My room is sparse, but comfortable. There’s a small wooden desk I found on the side of the road and spray-painted teal; the cheerful yellow curtains and pillowy duvet were bought out of my movie-theater wages. White fairy lights crisscross a tall bookshelf, stacked high with all my books.
I sink down onto the bed and start unlacing my shoes. I have just enough time to shower before I have to catch the bus. There’s a past-due electrical bill on my desk, and the other utilities will be along again soon. Ever since our last eviction, I’ve taken charge of the household bills.
Sometimes it feels like I’m juggling knives. No, not knives; sharp as they are, knives are light. I’m juggling anvils. Keeping the power on, finishing my homework on time, getting to all my shifts at work, making sure Mom eats enough. Every one is a weight that, any minute, could fall straight on my head.
Tomorrow I’ll go through Mom’s room, try to find her stash. Flush it. Not that it’ll matter; she’s got a half dozen doctors ready and willing to prescribe her more. Mom’s a mess, but she’s a cunning mess, good at manipulating what she needs out of people. But maybe I can slow her down a little.
I take a deep breath, rummage in my bag for my script. Sometimes you have to keep moving so you don’t give up entirely. I take a minute to leaf through, scanning the lines. Mr. Hunter’s words come drifting back. You’re really quite remarkable.
But what does that matter? I realize with a dull pang that the magic of the day has vanished. Shakespeare isn’t going to pay the bills. Shakespeare isn’t going to help my mom get to work on time, or help her stay clean. I throw the script onto my desk and pick up my towel. Time to get ready for work.
Because Shakespeare isn’t going to get me out of this hellhole.
FIVE
Gabe
“You gonna be all healed up in time for Big Bend this Christmas?” asks Caleb Scott, picking the crust off one of his three peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. “I got a new tent. Super lightweight, good for the trail.”
It’s lunchtime on Tuesday, and we’re sitting at a cement table in the outdoor lunch area. The sun is mild in the sky, the heat finally broken. A few yards away a game of ultimate Frisbee rages up and down the lawn. Guitar music drifts aimlessly through the air from where a girl sits under a tree playing.
“Ugh,” says Irene Novak, before I can reply. She’s next to Caleb, doodling in her history textbook. She’s transformed Thomas Jefferson into a psycho clown, penciling a creepy painted leer on his face. “You guys are nuts. A week with no shower, no electricity, no cell coverage? Kill me.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why you ain’t invited,” Caleb drawls. He’s the only person I know in Austin with an actual Texas accent. “We don’t need a repeat of the Enchanted Rock trip.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” Irene says, peering wryly over the frame of her cat-eye glasses. Her hair is purple this week, short and shaggy around her ears. “Twenty-four hours with nothing but crickets and wind. Never again.”
“More like twenty-four hours with crickets, wind, and your bitching.” Caleb pauses to shove half his sandwich in his mouth. He’s six foot four and built like a tree trunk; the dude never stops eating. “I’m trying to get a little peace and quiet on this trip.”
I know better than to take their bickering seriously. Caleb and Irene have been best friends since kindergarten. I don’t know how, exactly—they’re nothing alike. He’s the definition of mellow, a guy whose idea of a good time is stargazing on the edge of town with his dog and a six-pack. Irene, on the other hand, keeps a running, snarky commentary on everything that happens, her hands always busy, always sketching or scrawling. The manic energy comes in handy when she’s tagging street signs or stenciling pictures on walls.
“I’m down,” I say to Caleb. “My shoulder’s still pretty stiff, but I think it’ll be fine by then. I just have to talk my mom and dad into it. And, uh, Sasha.”
Irene snorts, but doesn’t look up from her book. “Better find a backup backpacker, Caleb. Gabe’s gonna be home for the holidays.”
“Hey, I’m my own man.”