Blake, as usual, sees a bit too much. “It’s that girl, isn’t it?”
I merely stare at him.
He steeples his fingers. “Stop rubbing your hands together and tell me what happened.”
Never Good Enough
Ava
The second I open the scarred door to the small public apartment Mom and I share, I wrinkle my nose. The stench is overwhelming—something acidic and rotting.
Dropping the school bag, I stomp inside and open the windows to air the place out. We don’t have any pets—animals cost money—and I know what’s caused the gross smell. My stomach sinks as I rub a hand over my mouth, bracing myself for another difficult scene.
I go to the bedroom and see Mom passed out at the foot of the bed. She’s half sitting up, back against the bed and slumped over to one side. Puke covers her chin and shirt. This close, the odor is much worse, laced with stale alcohol.
I sigh. She should be at work. She’ll probably lose her job for missing another shift—if she hasn’t already. But I don’t have the energy to be upset with her. It isn’t the first time Mom drank until she passed out or threw up. This is the only way she knows how to deal with Dad’s betrayal, and we’re too poor and unimportant to be helped. I know because I’ve called every clinic in the area, asking if they could do something for her.
“Mom.” I put a hand on her shoulder and shake gently.
Her eyes flutter a bit. “Wha…?”
“Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Mom looks down at herself, makes weak movement with one hand. “Wha…?”
“Come on.” I wrap an arm around her torso and pull her up.
“I’m fine. Don’ need anyone.”
“I know.”
“Hafta go to work…” She glances at the clock, registers the time. It galvanizes her. “Shit, I’m late!”
“Your shift is probably over by now.”
“No, no, I have to get to work.”
“Mom, you can’t go in like this. Let’s get cleaned up first. Then we’ll call your supervisor and say you were sick.” That isn’t really a lie. Mom is sick. Sick in her soul, her
body.
All because Dad turned out to be an asshole.
I half carry her to the bathroom and turn on the water. Mom huddles on the floor, not caring that her clothes are gross, and starts crying into her hands. “I got nothin’,” she sobs. “My God, Beau.”
I look away, unable to bear her misery but at the same time too angry to be kind. When she makes no move to get into the shower, I push her toward the tub. She resists, sitting like a sack of flour on the cold tiles. “What am I gonna to do? What am I gonna do?” she wails.
“How about you get into the damn shower?” I glare down at her. “You know what? I’m glad Dad’s dead! My only regret is that he didn’t suffer, because he sure should have.”
Mom lifts her head and stares. From her slack expression, I don’t know if she’s registering half of what I’m saying, but I’m too furious to care.
“If somehow he comes back from the dead, he better not show his face here or I’ll kill him again!”
She moves so fast I almost don’t see it. Her palm cracks against my cheek hard enough to make my head snap to the side. Stunned, I put a hand on the stinging spot.
“Don’t you dare say that, you little bitch!” Spittle flies from her mouth, her eyes wide and bloodshot. “He’s my everything! You’re nothing! Nothing, you hear!”
That hurts far more than the slap, but I swallow my tears. “I’m your daughter.”