Chapter One
Daisy
“Mom, you need to eat something,” I urge, glaring at her as she scours the kitchen cupboards.
She’s almost unrecognizable to me these days. Her previously thick, blond hair is now limp and lifeless. She’s thin to the point of emaciated, and her skin has a sallow, bloated appearance.
“I don’t need food. I need a drink!” she hisses, leveling me with a look that could freeze water.
“You know there’s nothing in the house,” I remind her for the hundredth time.
“Thanks to you!” she accuses hotly. “Why don’t you just fuck off! Go and play little-miss-do-gooder somewhere else! No one asked you to come back here and be my fucking nursemaid!”
I take a deep breath, praying for patience. “Uh, beg to differ, Mom. Pretty sure it was you on the end of the line a few months ago, telling me you’d kill yourself if I didn’t come back. You wanted my help, and here I am. But I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself.”
Things started well when I first came back to my hometown. I got Mom enrolled on the twelve-step program and dried her out—for all of two weeks. Then I found the empty vodka bottles hidden under her bed and at the back of the cupboards. God knows how she managed to get hold of them, but I guess when you’re an addict, you find a way. I suspect an old boyfriend is bringing her supplies, but I have no idea who, and Mom isn’t about to tell me.
“What’s the point in trying to help myself?” she demands bitterly. “Your lying, cheating asshole of a father didn’t think I was worth anything, so why should I? He proved that the day he walked out to go live with his fancy woman.”
A day I remember all too well. It was the day she first got wasted. I was ten years old when I came home from school to find my father gone and my mother passed out on the living room floor—an episode that put her in the hospital with alcohol poisoning. She was more careful after that, but I knew she was still drinking to excess. I was lucky if there was food in the cupboards and clean laundry—chores I quickly learned to do myself.
We fought about her drinking constantly as the years passed. I tried to get her to stop, but she wouldn’t listen. She just wanted to forget the man who betrayed her, and vodka helped her to do that, along with a succession of men.
“I can’t do this right now. I have to get to work,” I say wearily, knowing from experience that this conversation will just play on a loop until she works herself up into a tantrum. “There’s soup and bread in the refrig—"
Her hand shoots out, and she grabs my wrist, her fingers digging into my flesh. “Bring me something back, Daisy! Just one bottle. Please! They won’t miss one bottle!”
“You know I can’t do that,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Please, Daisy! I just need one little drink, and then I’ll quit, I promise!” she pleads, her eyes hopeful.
I can feel the tears threatening at the back of my eyes, but I hold firm. “No, Mom. I won’t help you destroy yourself. You asked me back for a reason. You have to try at least.”
“Bitch!” she hisses at me, deliberately digging her nails into my skin. “So fucking self-righteous, aren’t you? Think you’re better than everyone else!”
“Oh, I know I’m not better than everyone else, Mom. You made sure to remind me of that every single day!” I snap, anger rising in my stomach. “Now, please let me go. You’re hurting me.”
I know why she’s hurting me. She needs an outlet for her pain, and I’m the nearest target. But understanding her actions doesn’t excuse them. It never has.
“You don’t care about me! You only care about yourself and that stupid fucking job!” she spits, releasing my wrist and shoving me away from her as if I’m contaminated.
I grimace as I rub my tender flesh. “That stupid fucking job is the only thing keeping a roof over our heads, right now!”
“Go on, then. Fuck off to your little bar job. If you’re lucky, I might be dead by the time you get home!” She stomps off into the living room, slumping down on the sofa in front of the TV, and I know from experience that the conversation is over.
Every day is like this—a battle of wills. She alternates between telling me how much she hates me, breaking down in tears, and smashing things up. It’s exhausting, and I don’t know how much longer I can do it.
Pushing my troubling thoughts aside, I pull on my padded jacket, scarf, and woolly hat before grabbing up my purse and making my way outside. It’s freezing, and a fine layer of snow already coats the ground. I climb behind the wheel of my Chevy and crank the engine.
Nothing.
I try again.
Nothing.
“Crap! Crap! Crap!” I curse, resting my head against the steering wheel in defeat.
The battery is dead. I knew it was on its way out, but I just spent the last of my savings getting a burst pipe fixed in the bathroom.