Текст книги "Torn Away"

Автор книги: Jennifer Brown

Соавторы: Jennifer Brown
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

Even though on the inside I didn’t want to dignify his question with a response, I found my head shaking vehemently. “No,” I said. “He…” But I didn’t know how to continue. I didn’t have any excuse for why Ronnie had done what he had. I was still so angry at him myself.

“He didn’t want you no more,” Clay finished for me, and as much as I hated to admit it, that was as close to the truth as he could have gotten. Ronnie didn’t want me anymore.

Clay looked out into the backyard, shaking his head ruefully. “So the way I see it,” he said, “you gonna be a senior next year. And then you got your own life to get on with. I can live with puttin’ you up for a year, I s’pose, as long as there ain’t no shit going on. No babies, no drugs, none of that shit. But after you graduate, I reckon it’s time for you to go. I ain’t lookin’ for no long-term reunion here, and neither is anyone else in this house.” He took another drink, then crushed the can in his fist, burping under his breath. “And you need to understand, them two girls of mine are number one for me, okay? You ain’t never gonna be on the same level as them. And I’m sorry if that’s hard to hear, but it’s just the way it is. I’m bein’ honest with ya, just in case you got some big ideas about fairness. Fairness left the building sixteen years ago. Like Elvis.” He chuckled at his own joke. “I feel sorry for ya and everything, because what went down wasn’t your fault, but you gotta know there’s such a thing as too little too late.”

The door swung open and Tonette clomped through it, her toes hanging over a pair of turquoise-colored wedge heels. Her hair was damp, as if she’d showered recently, and her boobs were hanging out of a tight T-shirt with a glittery skull emblazoned across the front.

She looked at Clay and me with amusement in her eyes and handed Clay another beer, then popped one for herself.

“You’re chubbier than I pictured you,” she said. She gazed at me as I felt my face turn red, and then laughed as if it were the funniest thing she’d ever said, her lips wet with beer and lip gloss.

“I’m not fat,” I said, trying not to sound as snippy as I felt. I turned my gaze back down to my hands, rubbing the smooth stomach of the kitten with both thumbs now.

“Don’t get all boo-hoo about it,” she said. “We can’t all be supermodels. Besides, Clay says your mama was kinda beefy, so it makes sense.”

I glared at her.

Clay noticed the kitten in my hand. “What you got there?” he asked, and my first inclination was to hide it. I balled it up in my fist, covering it, which was dumb, since he obviously knew it was there.

He held out his hand. Slowly, I leaned over and handed it to him, waiting for recognition to register on his face.

He turned the kitten over and looked at it. “Six?” he said. “What’s that mean?”

“Six years old,” I said, not understanding how he could not know.

He snorted again and placed the kitten in Tonette’s outstretched hand. “You six years old now?” he asked.

“It’s the only one I could find. The others were all shattered,” I said.

“Other what?”

“Cats, stupid,” Tonette said, thumping his biceps with the hand that was still holding my kitten. “She musta had a collection.” She handed the kitten back to me.

“I did,” I said. Confusion etched itself across my heart. “You sent them to me on my birthday every year.”

Clay raised one eyebrow. “I did?”

Tonette looked from him to me and back again, frowning like if he had been sending me gifts for my birthday, it had been a personal betrayal against her. “You did?” she echoed.

“No, I didn’t,” he said, to her rather than to me.

For a moment, I thought maybe he was putting on an act to keep Tonette from getting mad. Maybe he’d had to send them on the sly so Tonette wouldn’t know about them, and to admit to it now would mean admitting to sixteen years’ worth of betrayal. I sat there uncomfortably, afraid to say any more.

“I didn’t send you those,” he said, pointing at the kitten. “Your mama probably gave them to you and just said I did.”

“But I got them in the mail,” I said. “I opened them up myself. In front of Mom.”

“Maybe they come from a secret admirer,” he said, “ ’cause they sure as hell didn’t come from me. Hell, maybe they came from your real dad.”

“You are my real dad,” I muttered, but doubt began to needle at me. Could Clay have been right about my mom? Did she have… others? Did I belong to one of them?

Of course not, I told myself. Why would I believe anything that came out of this liar’s mouth, especially when it came to Mom? He didn’t know her.

Or at least one of us didn’t.

“Well, whoever give it to you, you better put it away tight. If Terry’s boys get hold of it, they’ll use it for batting practice,” Tonette said.

Again, I tucked the kitten into my palm, which was sweaty now. “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

The screen door opened again and Terry poked her head out. She had the baby on one hip, his T-shirt adhered to his chest with drool, a Cheerio stuck to his chin.

“You comin’ or what?” she asked me.

I stood up and started cramming my things into my backpack, zipping the kitten into a small pocket in the front, hoping it would be safe there.

“Back off, Terry, can’t you see I’m bonding with my long-lost daughter here?” Clay shot at her, and then he and Tonette both cracked up, Tonette’s belly bouncing against the fabric of her shirt, both of them swigging beer.

I swung my backpack full of clothes over one shoulder and headed toward my aunt, leaving Tonette and Clay on the porch, glad to be taking my valuables with me.

I had a feeling Terry’s boys were the least of my worries here.

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

“I feel for your mama,” Terry said, holding a pair of jean shorts—mom shorts—up for inspection. She was standing in front of her open closet and tossing shirts and shorts to where I sat on the bed. I definitely wasn’t going to be in style, but at least I’d be able to change my clothes. Finally. “Taking care of kids by yourself is no picnic. The idea of something happening to me and leaving the boys alone with no mama is one of my biggest fears.”

I tilted my face down. I wondered if that was one of Mom’s fears, too. Had she ever been able to guess that, if something were to happen to her, Ronnie wouldn’t be there for me?

“I guess at least you got Clay, for whatever that’s worth,” Terry said, shrugging.

“Clay says he’s not my real father,” I blurted.

She waved her hand at me. “Don’t listen to him. That’s what he says when he tries to make himself feel better about how everything went down. It’s the party line around here. Your grandfather is fond of reminding Clay that it’s possible he’s not. But that’s just who Harold is. Never believes anything for sure until he sees it himself. He’s the skeptical type. Of course Clay’s your father.”

“And if he isn’t?” I asked, taking a tank top that Terry was holding up against my torso.

“Well, at least you got a place to stay,” she said.

But would that be enough? Because at the moment it felt like it could never be enough. People needed more than a place to stay, more than a porch to sleep on. They needed a home, right? They needed love.

“I miss my mom,” I said, barely able to croak out the words. I missed her so much, and saying it aloud only made it feel like a piece of me had fallen away. “I didn’t get to say good-bye.”

She gave me a sympathetic look. “We got to be pretty good friends when she was married to Clay,” she said. “You know that?” I shook my head and she nodded, tossing a T-shirt at me. “I never understood how someone like her got mixed up with someone like him in the first place. She was sweet. And real smart.”

She tossed a few more items across the bed and told me to try them on in the bathroom, to bring back the things that didn’t fit. But I didn’t want to leave. For the first time since Kolby went to Milton, I felt like I had an ally, someone who cared.

“Will you take me to her funeral?” I asked before my brain could catch up with my mouth.

She looked surprised. “They didn’t have the funerals yet?” she asked.

I shook my head. “I tried to call my stepdad last night to find out when they are, though. When I know for sure, will you take me?”

She chewed on her lip and looked over at Jimmy’s crib, as if the thought of driving three hours north to Elizabeth was frightening for her. As if it would somehow be bad for Jimmy. But after a few seconds, she nodded.

“I’ll have to make sure Mother will watch Nathan and Kyle,” she said, almost to herself. “But, yeah. I will. You should get a chance to say good-bye at least. It’s not right that he sent you here without that much.”

I had to restrain myself from throwing my arms around her. I practically floated out of the room. I tried on everything, not even caring that most of her clothes looked so out of style I would have been mortified to wear them in front of my friends.

I gathered all my new clothes and headed down to the basement, where the rickety washer and dryer gathered cobwebs in the far corner.

I’d never been fond of basements, and being stuck in one by myself when the deadliest tornado in forty years ripped through my house didn’t help matters much at all. But I was still on a high from my conversation with Terry, and besides, the basement was preferable to the rest of the house, where I might run across Grandmother Billie, who mostly sat in front of the TV all day eating popcorn from a green plastic bowl, or Clay and Tonette, who alternately clanked around under the hood of an old car in the driveway and fought in the kitchen.

I was almost done folding my small load of laundry when I heard Nathan and Kyle burst into the house on a wave of fighting, followed by the whiny, animated voices of my half sisters. I listened for a while, trying to make out conversations, folding more and more slowly as I neared the bottom of the dryer. I stacked everything in the laundry basket and was about to carry it upstairs when suddenly the single lightbulb flickered out.

At first I froze, the basket pressed against my hip. Almost immediately, I felt panic rise in me, the sound of tornado sirens echoing against the walls of my brain. I could hear wind batting against the smudged, filthy windows and flinched, expecting the next gust, or the one after that, to be the one that sent glass flying or sent the roof flying or sent me flying.

I took a deep breath and swallowed, trying not to let my imagination get away with me, trying not to let my heart jump into my throat, trying not to panic. After all, it’s not like a light going out in the basement is a big deal. Happens all the time. Not every dim basement means a tornado is coming.

I set the basket down and headed for the stairs, my hands out in front of me. I’d go upstairs and ask Grandmother Billie where she kept the lightbulbs. I’d replace it myself, so next time I had to do laundry I’d know it was fresh. She’d probably be thrilled to give me an extra chore.

But when I got to the top of the stairs, the door wouldn’t open.

“Hello?” I said. I tried the handle again. It turned, but the door didn’t budge. “Hello?” I repeated, louder, and then knocked on the door. I thought I heard movement on the other side. Or was that the muffled chug of a storm coming?

I groped around on the walls for the light switch but couldn’t find it, then remembered that the switch was on the kitchen wall outside the basement door. The lightbulb hadn’t gone out; someone had turned it out.

“Hello?” I said again, this time my voice close to a yell. I felt electricity in the air, and a cottony feeling in my ears, as if they were going to pop. I couldn’t tell if it was my imagination, but I didn’t care—in my mind, I was right back in the eye of a storm that would surely destroy me. I pounded on the door. “Is someone there?”

This time, I was sure I heard someone on the other side. Giggling. I turned the handle and pushed again, then pushed harder. The door started to open, then squeezed shut, as if someone was putting their weight against it.

“Lexi? Meg? Come on, let me out!” I yelled. My heart raced as my eyes refused to adjust to the darkness. What if it wasn’t one of them, but was a chair or something wedged under the doorknob? “Let me out!” I yelled again.

I turned the knob and pushed harder. The door popped open about an inch and then slammed shut again. Sirens blared in my head, swooping up and down, up and down, making me dizzy and nauseous. “Let me out!”

The sun ducked behind a cloud and the basement darkened, even as my eyes tried to adjust. Panic made my skin tingle. I put my shoulder against the door and shoved with all my might, and it finally gave, kitchen light bathing my face. The door swung open with such force the doorknob embedded itself in the wall, the crash reverberating through the house.

Lexi stood by the stove, her hand over her mouth. She looked like she’d been laughing but was now staring at me as I stood at the top of the basement stairs, breathless, my arms stretched out at my sides. Meg, standing nearby, looked incredulous, her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide.

Lexi and I stared at each other for a moment. And then everyone in the house, it seemed, dropped what they were doing and came running. Tonette got there first, with Clay right behind her.

“What the hell happened?” he demanded of Lexi, but Lexi simply pointed at me, one hand still hovering over her mouth. He turned to me, his face red with anger. “What’s going on here?”

“They wouldn’t let me out,” I said, my voice sounding shrill and whiny. “They turned out the light.”

Grandmother Billie rushed in and stood between us, looking back and forth as if ready to punish but unsure who to dole out the punishment to, followed by Harold, who immediately went to the door. He pulled it away from the wall.

“Hole in the damn wall,” he said, and Billie hurried over to see the damage. “Right through the damn wallpaper.”

“I didn’t mean to,” I said. “I was scared. It was dark down there.”

Tonette rolled her eyes. “You’re scared of the dark? What are you, five?”

“No,” I said. “The tornado…”

“Oh, here we go with the tornado stuff. Fan-freakin-tastic, Clay,” Tonette said, “your kid’s got baggage.”

“Why are you yelling at me?” he said, his voice high, his shoulders shrugged, and his hands spread out.

“I’m sorry,” I said to my father, who was glaring at me. “It was their fault for shutting me down there.”

“We were playing a trick is all,” Lexi said, and her innocent act made me sick to my stomach.

Clay looked from Lexi to me and back again, his hands balled at his sides. He breathed slowly through flared nostrils.

“You gonna hafta fix this wall now, Clay,” Grandfather Harold said, and I withered under the glare I could feel coming from him and Grandmother Billie. Grandfather Harold surveyed the kitchen. “Gonna have to replace the wallpaper in the whole damn room, I guess.”

“Always something in this place,” my grandmother said, and scurried off, as if the tension in the room was too much for her.

Finally, Clay pursed his lips so tight they became white. He turned his face up to the ceiling and cursed. “Sonofabitch!” He seemed to struggle against indecision for a few seconds, his body twitching to go one way and then another, and then he let loose and stomped away.

I hated that Lexi and Meg were watching me cower under Clay’s rage. But when I turned my eyes to them, they almost looked frightened, too. I wondered if they’d had to endure moments like this themselves. I wondered if that was why they were so relentlessly trying to draw me into some sort of fight. Did they really hate me, or did they want to use me to deflect Clay’s attention off them?

“Nice going, orphan,” Meg said with a smirk.

I didn’t bother to answer, just left, forgetting about my laundry, which was still down in the basement. Forgetting about Meg and Lexi and the hole in the wall and my grandfather, who still stood, pressing his dry, blunt fingertips against it. Forgetting about everything but getting away.

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN

I stormed onto the porch and pulled my backpack from behind the couch. My hands were shaking, and I still could hear the faintest ring of a siren in the back of my mind. I hated myself for letting them get to me. I hated myself for being scared. But mostly I hated being here. I wanted out.

I dug out my cell phone and called Ronnie’s number. He didn’t answer. I waited for voice mail.

“Ronnie,” I said, and as if someone had punched me in the gut, suddenly I couldn’t breathe. It was like when Marin was a baby and she’d fall down and hurt herself. You knew it was bad by how she cried. If she cried right away, it was nothing and you could probably ignore that it ever happened and she’d get up and toddle along on her merry way. But if there was a pause—especially a long pause—you knew it was bad because the tears had plugged up her throat. When she breathed again, you had to cover your ears. You knew she was going to let out a wallop of a cry. My throat felt plugged up like that, and I had to wait until my lungs would move again before I could finish my message. “Ronnie,” I begged. “Please. Please let me come back. They hate me here. They’re mean and they want me gone and I’m scared. Please, Ronnie. Mom wouldn’t want me here. She would want me with you. Please at least let me come up for the funerals. Tell me when they are. I’ve got a ride. You don’t even have to come get me.”

The voice mail beeped that I had exceeded my time limit. I thought about calling again. And again and again, leaving the same message over and over, begging until he relented, the way Marin used to do sometimes. Ronnie always gave in to her. Maybe he would give in to me, too. Maybe he would find it in his heart to let me have my way, even if only just this once.

But instead of calling Ronnie again, I decided to call Dani.

“Hey, Jers, what’s up?”

I sniffled, wanting to sound happy and excited to be talking to her, too, but hearing her voice only made the tears keep coming. She sounded normal, like her life was normal. It was unfair, and I missed her, and I wanted my life to be normal, too. “Hi,” I said.

“You okay? You don’t sound good.”

“I’m not good.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I hate it here. I want to come home.” I knew how ridiculous that sounded—there was no home to come to.

“Is it really bad?” she asked.

I told her about Meg and Lexi, about Clay’s claims that he wasn’t really my father, about Tonette saying I was fat, and about the girls shutting me in the basement. “I keep trying to call Ronnie, but he won’t answer his phone,” I said. “Did you ask your mom about letting me stay with you?”

Dani paused, and I knew her well enough to know that she was probably twisting the end of her auburn hair around two fingers nervously, her brow furrowed, her top two teeth sunk into her bottom lip while she tried to figure out how best to break bad news to me. “She talked to Ronnie,” she said. “Jers, he’s in bad shape. Mom said he’s a total mess and that the whole thing is really sad but she can’t get involved because she’s not related to you and she doesn’t want to get into some sort of custody issue. She said it would probably take some time and you would be homesick, but that you would get over it, and that living with your real dad is probably the best place for you to be right now.”

“She doesn’t know him,” I said angrily. “He’s a disgusting alcoholic. And he’s mean. He yells at me and his face gets really red when he’s mad and I’m scared of him. I’m scared of what he’ll do next. Tell her that. Tell her I’m sleeping outside and that I hear coyotes out here all night long and that nobody is going to fight for custody, because nobody wants me. Especially not here.”

“Maybe it’s not as bad as you think it is,” she said. She sounded uncomfortable, as if she were reaching for excuses. “I mean, I know it hurts to be called names, but it’s not like you’re in any sort of danger.”

“You don’t understand,” I said bitterly. “You don’t have to live on a porch. You…” I didn’t finish. You have a mom.

“I know. You’re right. I’m sorry, Jers, I really am. Maybe she’ll change her mind. I’ll keep asking.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Do you have power back?”

“We got ours back last night. Which was good, because our phones were dead. But a lot of people still don’t have service. Who knows how long it’ll be before they get all the towers working? We’ve got air-conditioning again, thank God, because it felt like it was about ninety today. But they’re saying it’ll be another week, probably, before they get everyone else’s power on. Not that it really matters on the south side of town. Electricity is kind of useless when you don’t have a house to put it in, you know?”

I thought about our house. About Ronnie building it up again. And living in it alone.

“Have you heard from Jane yet?”

“Uh-uh. But I heard from Josie Maitlin that Jane’s house was totally destroyed, like yours. Josie didn’t know for sure, but she thought maybe Jane went up to Kansas City to stay with family.”

I sagged with relief. Generally speaking, Josie Maitlin was an endless source of toxic gossip, but for once her report passed on good news. Jane had made it through the tornado alive. “And she’s okay?” I asked.

“Josie said she thought she heard that Jane got hurt, but she didn’t know for sure. Nobody really knows anything about anybody right now. We’re all going on what we hear. Some people have been meeting up at the library, because it’s got power and computers and stuff. I saw a couple kids from theater club there yesterday. It was a real cry-fest.”

I felt a pang in my chest. I wanted to be there so badly. Dani’s mom was wrong—those were the people I needed most right now, not mean, drunk Clay Cameron.

We talked a little more, the mosquitoes coming out and pestering me as it got closer to evening. I was hungry, and I wondered if I’d be welcome inside for dinner with everyone else, or if they were all still pissed at me.

Finally, Dani had to go, but before we hung up, she said, “One more thing.”

“Yeah?”

She paused, and then said, “You’re not gonna like this.”

“Just tell me.”

“Okay. So… my mom said Ronnie told her it would be too hard on you to come to the funerals. He said he doesn’t want to cause you any more pain.”

Anger hissed through me. “Like he hasn’t already caused enough? Does he really think I’m not going to feel any pain if I don’t go to the funerals? Like, what? I’ll forget they’re dead?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “My mom tried to tell him how messed up it would be for you not to be there, but he said you’ve been through enough already and he wasn’t going to change his mind about it.”

“Well, too bad for him,” I said. “I’ve got a ride and he can’t keep me from showing up. When are they?”

There was such a long pause, I didn’t even need Dani to answer. I knew, deep down, what she was going to say. But when she did speak again, her words still punched me in the chest, gutted me. “They were this afternoon.”

She kept talking—saying something about the flowers and the crowd and who knew what else, but I had tuned her out completely. Mom and Marin were gone, buried, and I hadn’t been there to say good-bye.

“You there? Jers? I’m really sorry. I wanted to tell you, but my mom wouldn’t let me. She said it wasn’t our place.”

I pressed my fingers against my temple. “I should probably go,” I mumbled, trying to understand how my best friend could keep this from me, regardless of “place.” What was “place” when it came to dead mothers, anyway? Nothing. “Place” was being there for your friend.

“So I’ll call you if anything changes with Mom?” Dani said.

“Yeah,” I said through numb lips. “But I don’t know how long it will be before my phone’s shut off. Nobody here is going to pay the bill, that’s for sure.”

“Don’t worry, Jers, it will all work out somehow. It has to, right?”

I wasn’t sure if she was talking about the phone bill or the missed funerals or my mom or what, so I just agreed and hung up, feeling myself shut down bit by broken bit.

Before I put the phone away, I called Jane, but, as usual, she didn’t answer.

“Hey, Janie, it’s Jersey,” I said to her voice mail. “I thought you should know that I’m okay, but I’m living down in Caster City with my father. My mom and Marin died in the tornado and my stepdad is a real mess. I heard you’re in Kansas City. I also heard that you might have gotten hurt. I hope you’re okay. Give me a call as soon as you can. I don’t know how much longer I’ll have a phone. I miss you.”

I hung up, hoping she would call me back before it was too late. Suddenly it seemed as if this would be the fate of every connection I’d ever had—that I wouldn’t get a chance to say good-bye. They’d wonder how I was doing at first, but after a while they’d stop thinking about me as much. They’d move on. And eventually they’d forget me altogether. Out of sight, out of mind. It was one thing to lose the people you love. That happens to everybody.

But it was another thing to lose them because you just… faded away.

I didn’t want to fade away.

I started to put my phone in my backpack but decided that if I was going to drop off the radar, I wanted to talk to Kolby once more. To thank him for being there when I had nothing. Or maybe simply to hear his voice. I missed him.

I dialed.

“Hello?”

I blinked. I had been expecting Kolby’s voice but was greeted instead by his little sister.

“Tracy?”

“Yeah? Who is this?”

“It’s Jersey. Is Kolby there?”

“No.”

“Oh. You know when he’ll be back?”

There was some clicking, and muffled noises of movement. I thought I could hear her mother’s voice getting softer and fading into the background, and then I could hear Tracy breathing into the phone. Finally, she said, “No, he’s in the hospital right now.”

That was not at all what I’d been expecting to hear. “What? Why? What happened?”

“It’s not really a big deal or anything, I don’t think, but he’s got some kind of infection on his arm. Where he got cut. The doctors said something about it being a fungus and they’re just wanting to be safe. It’s really gross-looking.”

I remembered how I’d tried to wrap his arm with that bandanna, to keep the wound clean, and immediately I felt guilty. I’d been calling to thank him for taking care of me those first couple days, and here he was in the hospital because I hadn’t taken good enough care of him.

“Is he going to be okay?” I asked.

“Yeah, you know Kolby,” she said. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll call back. Tell him I said I hope he gets better soon.”

“Okay, Jersey.”

I hung up, thinking about how randomly we’d all been affected by the tornado. I’d lost everything. Jane was missing. Kolby was in the hospital. Dani was totally fine. It didn’t make sense.

I dropped the phone into Marin’s purse and pulled out a piece of gum. I chewed it, the flash of flavor making my mouth water, and thought about all the times I’d called Marin a nuisance, had made her feel unwelcome and unwanted, the same way I was feeling now. Not being wanted was the loneliest feeling in the world, it seemed, and if I could have had one more moment with Marin, I would have been sure to tell her I didn’t mean it. She wasn’t a pest. I loved her. She was wanted. More than she could ever know.

I didn’t have a picture to draw on this piece of foil. Only a message, so I wrote it in careful bubble letters: Marin is not a nuisance.

I folded the foil and stashed it in the zippered compartment, liking the way the pieces bounced against one another in the open pocket, glinting at me happily.

Unsure of what to do next, I pulled out Mom’s lipstick, rolled it all the way to the top, and smelled it. The waxy scent reminded me of Mom, who had given the lipstick to Marin one night out of the blue.

“Marin,” she’d said, holding out the little tube in the palm of her hand. “I don’t think this color really works for me. Would you like it?”

I didn’t wear lipstick and my mother knew that. But Marin lived to squish makeup onto her face. Anything to make her feel more grown up, more like Mom.

Marin, who had been sitting on the other end of the sofa, sat up, her thumb popping wetly out of her mouth as her eyes grew wide.

“Yes!” she gasped, and stampeded over me with her hand outstretched. Mom had placed the lipstick gently in her hand and admonished her, “Only around the house, okay?”

“Okay, Mama,” Marin had responded, pulling the lid off the lipstick and peering down into the tube earnestly. “It’s for special only.”

She’d run off and put it in her purse. She’d never worn it. Not one time. Marin, who loved lipstick like nothing else. She’d kept it special, like she’d promised.

Once I asked her why she didn’t ever wear it.

“It’s for special,” she’d replied. “I like it sharp.”

I knew what she’d meant. She liked the way the lipstick angled up into a tip. She liked how new it was.

I spread some on my lips and pushed them together, smearing it around. Then I capped it quickly, afraid that if I left it open too long I would lose the scent of my mom forever. With her face already receding from my memory, I couldn’t afford to lose any more pieces of her. I licked my lips, liking the way the wax felt smooth against my tongue, liking the way it tasted.

I dug around a bit more, then picked up the playing cards, spreading them out to play a quick couple games of Chameleon.

I played until the house was dark, except for the blue of the constantly running television flickering onto the porch from the living room. I stashed Marin’s purse and went inside.

As quietly as I could, I tiptoed to the bathroom, hoping to go unnoticed. But as I passed the living room on my way back, Grandmother Billie’s voice cut through the recorded laugh track of whatever sitcom she was watching.

“I don’t know if you think you’re gettin’ outta doin’ those dishes tonight because of that scene with the door, but you’re not,” she said.

With a sigh, I went into the kitchen and bellied up to the sink, which was positively overflowing with dishes. They must have had a feast. I filled the sink with water and started scrubbing, hearing Marin’s little voice in my head, singing the song she always sang in the bath. “B is for bubble. Bubble, bubble, bubble…”