On reflex, I reached for her and put my hands on her shoulders. She jumped back, looking at me like I’d just tried to give her a wedgie.
Note to self: Don’t rush the physical affection.
“Uh, where have you two been staying?”
Waylay shrugged. “I stayed at my friend’s house the last two nights. Her parents don’t mind an extra kid for dinner. Dunno where she stayed.”
The only time “responsible” could be applied to Tina was when she was impersonating me over the years. Even still, I found myself horrified at my sister’s approach to parenting.
“It’s clear,” Knox called from inside.
“Told ya.” Waylay bounded up the steps, and I followed.
The trailer was worse on the inside than it was outside.
The carpet had worn through in front of the door, leaving long, gnarled strings that stretched out in all directions. A recliner faced a cheap wooden console with the dusty outline of a TV stand. A small, pink beanbag sat directly in front of it.
“She took the TV. But I grabbed the remote while she wasn’t looking,” Waylay said proudly.
“Nice job, kid,” Knox said, giving her hair a ruffle.
Swallowing hard, I left them in the living room and poked my head into the dingy kitchen.
The contents of the cabinets had been emptied into an overflowing garbage can in the middle of the green linoleum. Boxes of cereal, cans of soup, long since defrosted pizza snacks. There wasn’t a vegetable in sight.
There was a bedroom on each end. The one with the double bed had an ashtray on either side. Instead of curtains, thin bedsheets were tacked directly to the wall to block out the sun. The closet and dresser were mostly empty. Everything had either ended up on the floor or been hauled out the door. On instinct, I peeked under the bed and found two empty bourbon bottles.
Some things never changed.
“She’s coming back, you know,” Waylay said, poking her head inside.
“I know,” I agreed. What the girl didn’t know was that sometimes it was years between visits.
“My room’s on the other end if you wanna see it,” she said.
“I’d like that if you don’t mind.”
I closed the door on Tina’s depressing bedroom and followed my niece through the living room. Exhaustion and overwhelm made my eyeballs feel hot and dry. “Where’s Knox?” I asked.
“Talkin’ to Mr. Gibbons outside. He’s the landlord. Mom owes a shit-ton of back rent,” she said, leading the way to the flimsy fake wood door off the living room. A hand-lettered sign said “KEEP OUT” in glitter and four shades of pink marker.
I decided to save the lecture on swearing for later when I wasn’t mostly asleep on my feet.
Waylay’s room was small but tidy. There was a twin bed under a pretty pink quilt. A sagging bookshelf held a few books but was mostly dedicated to hair accessories organized in colorful bins.
Was it possible Waylay Witt was a girlie girl?
She flopped down on her bed. “So? What are we doing?”
“Well,” I said brightly. “I like your room. As for the rest of the place, I think we can make it work. A little scrubbing, some organization…” A vat of lighter fluid and a box of matches.
Knox prowled into the room like a pissed-off lion at the zoo. He took up too much space and most of the oxygen. “Get your shit, Way.”
“Uh. All of it?” she asked.
His nod was brisk. “All of it. Naomi.”
&n