I try to imagine what she looked like when the night began, confident and sexy. At some point in the night, her curse got the better of her, and this blur of a woman is all who's left.
I finish my English lit assignment just as the dryer rolls to a stop. After placing the folded clothes inside the Army bag, I start back to the house. The neighborhood has slowly begun to stretch its arms during the hour or so I was hidden in the Laundromat. Cars roll up to the intersections, waiting at the lights. Several women in need of their morning coffee stand at the bus stop, tote bags over their shoulders. Voices and music escape out of open windows as I walk past. Peaceful silence has lifted its veil, allowing chaos to resume its reign.
"I don't understand!" Her desperate wails reach me before I can see her. "Why didn't you tell me?"
I stop in front of the neighbor's house to find my distraught mother standing in the middle of our lawn and Nick next to his car with his suitcase in hand.
"I'm so sorry, Faye." His voice cracks in response. "I really am." He turns his back to her and tosses his suitcase in the passenger side of the shiny black BMW.
My mother collapses to her knees when he enters the driver's side without looking back. She covers her face to capture her tears. I can feel her heart breaking from here.
The tires spit out rocks as he tears out of the driveway, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. Rubber connects with asphalt, and the squeal echoes down the street. I make eye contact with his green eyes and flash him my middle finger, still adorned with his wedding band, meaning every word the gesture signifies. He flinches.
"Asshole," I mutter, wishing I could hang him by his balls.
I turn back to the devastation he left behind--and I don't mean the driveway.
With a heavy sigh, I adjust the straps on my shoulders and approach the frail woman collapsed on the front lawn.
"What are you staring at?" I snap at our neighbor who's standing on her front porch with a coffee mug in her hand, fixated on the spectacle like she's watching a reality show.
She's wrapped in a torn terry robe, her hair a misshapen mass of curls, like she just crawled out of bed--which she probably has. Then again, I know she always looks like this, no matter what time of day. There's no reason to make an effort when she just has to sit at home to collect a paycheck.
"You really shouldn't be allowed out of your house looking like that, Gayle. You'll give the kids nightmares."
A couple of boys laugh as they pass by on their way to the bus stop. The middle-aged woman scowls at me. She glances at the broken heap on the front lawn with a judgmental shake of her head before disappearing inside. The screen door squeaks loudly before it crashes shut behind her.
I can sense others watching too, eyes peering out behind curtains.
I set the bag of clean clothes on the stoop and kneel down beside my mother, my hand on her back. "C'mon, Mom. Let's go inside."
"He ... lied to me," she forces out between broken sobs. She lifts her head from her hands, her big blue eyes bloodshot. "Why ... didn't ... he tell me ... he's still married?"
"Because he's a selfish prick," I tell her, filtering the honesty. If I were truly being honest with her, I would've used a lot more expletives. I wrap my arm around her thin waist and coax her up. "Let's get you inside, so the neighbors don't make money off you on YouTube."
She's not listening to me, but she lets me guide her to her feet. "Why? I don't ... understand. I thought ... he ... loved me. I ... believed him."
"I know you did," I soothe as we slowly move toward
the front door. I did too, I finish in my head.
I bend down and pull on a strap of the duffel bag, slinging it over my shoulder. I keep one hand on my mother to keep her from toppling into the pit of despair and guide her up the stairs.
We somehow manage to climb to the second floor where the door was left ajar. I shut the marred door with the long, jagged crack down its center and secure the dead bolt.
"Why didn't I know? I should have known," my mother says in hiccuping gasps.
I don't have an answer for her because I should have known--which only lights up the fiery rage inside my chest.
"I'm so sorry, Lana," she whimpers, her slender shoulders rounding.
She disappears into her room, and I follow.
"You have nothing to apologize for, Mom," I say with a disheartened sigh.
She slowly sits on the edge of her bed, her shimmery eyes focused on the floor. "I loved him," she whispers, a tear glistening on her flushed cheek.
"I know."