A Fistful of God (5 page)

I bolted inside and saw Mom leaning against the door. I shook. I couldn’t tell if she’d been drinking until I saw her walk or heard her talk, but I had no faith that she’d be OK. I had to get her away or they’d never want me back. I forced myself to stumble between a group of kids eating cookies and laughing.

“You leaving already?” Jackson’s words spun me around.

I hadn’t even noticed him. Ten minutes ago I’d have had my internal radar telling me his position, and now I’d given that up, too.

I shrugged, hoping he wouldn’t look around and see Mom. “I gotta go.”

He did, anyway. “Tell her hi from me.” He caught her glance and waved.

She started toward us. I met her halfway and dragged her back out again. The smell engulfed me. Not booze but a perfume so strong she must have poured it on. Or had she taken to drinking it? Some people, desperate drunks, did that.

“I don’t mind waiting.” She stopped, looking like she expected me to bounce over to some group and join in like I belonged. “You aren’t finished, are you?”

“It’s OK, Mom.” I held my breath on the smell and dragged her out the door. We passed under the doorframe, and I looked over my shoulder. The leftover haze of the fire drifted across Lucy, who watched me. I thought of the word I’d scrawled on my paper, fast and sloppy so no one could read it. It had burned up, I’d seen the ashes, I swear I had, but I was so afraid Mom would read it, read the word
Mom
written in my handwriting and wonder why.

I shook my head. “No. I don’t want to stay.”

4

Given a choice, I would not have spent the rest of that day with my mother. She didn’t give me any choice, and I didn’t have my usual escapes handy. No school. No babysitting jobs. I couldn’t even pretend I had a lot of cleaning to do around the apartment. She’d done it all the day before—
my
fault.

She’d also gone through my closet. How she had the gall to do that I don’t know. It’s
my
stuff in there, and when she told me, it was as if she thought I’d have no reason to be upset. She said, “Your shoes are in pretty bad shape. Most of them have holes in them.”

I gaped at her and finally asked, “What were you doing looking at my shoes?”

She didn’t tell me. “Why don’t we go get you a new pair?” She smiled, like it was some sort of brilliant idea. I suppose, for someone who’d spent the last five years ignoring everything that had to do with her daughter, it was a big step. “Where do you like to buy shoes?”

That was rich. “The thrift store, Mom,” I said. “That’s the only place you can get them with holes already in them.” Even though the Donaldsons overpay me every time I sit for them, it doesn’t stretch far.

She blinked at me, all confused. “Don’t you like new shoes?”

I rolled my eyes. “How should I know? When was the last time you bought me new ones?” For my dad’s funeral, probably.

I guess she remembered that, too. Her face went pale, but she just nodded. “All right, I give up. I’m buying you some shoes, that’s all.” As if she had to force me.

So I ended up with a pair of sneakers that no one else had worn before. They felt tight in all kinds of odd places, and every time I looked down, one of the laces had come undone. I felt like a first-grader, re-tying my shoes and doing a terrible job on it.

I thought of asking her why. We could afford a better apartment or take a cruise with all the money she’d save, now it wasn’t all going for booze. But just because it had been almost a week since she’d taken a drink didn’t mean she’d never start again.

“There,” she said as we got back to the car. “That’s taken care of.”

As if all the years I had to hustle babysitting jobs just so I could buy someone else’s crap from the thrift store had been erased by one tiny show of being a good mommy.

“This’ll cut into your booze money.”

“Aidyn!” Mom’s face went white and her shoulders heaved. “I know—heaven knows I neglected you. I cheated you out of so much—”

“So what do I have to pay this time?”

Her hand holding the keys up to the ignition shook. “I’m not asking you to pay anything. I’m the one who gave up drinking.”

“So you’re thinking you’ll save what, a couple of hundred a week? More than that?” But she only bought the cheap stuff.

Mom yanked on the gearshift like it was my neck, and put it into drive. “I am trying so hard. And I’ve said I’m sorry. Can’t you try? Maybe try to forgive me, just a little?”

“Is that what this is for? A bribe? If I’m nice, will you buy me something else?”

She glared at me and nodded. “OK, you want to call it that, fine. I’ll make a deal with you. This pair of shoes for a week of good behavior, how’s that?” Without looking at me again, she pulled out of the parking lot.

“No, thanks.” I spun the box toward her and it clipped her jaw. “I never have learned how to be nice.”

Her hands tightened on the wheel. “Never mind, Aidyn. I just keep hoping, that’s all.” She pushed the empty box back at me and drove to the grocery store.

Shopping went fast since I refused to talk. A few times Mom asked me if I wanted something particular. I’d shrug. I would not give her another weapon against me. I trailed after her and pretended she bought decent food every day. After she loaded the last gallon of milk into the cart and said, “Let’s go,” she headed up the one aisle we hadn’t gone through, and turned back so fast she nearly plowed me down.

The booze aisle. No wonder. I caught up to her and grabbed the side of the cart. “What’s the matter? Afraid of meeting your demon lover?”

When I saw her expression I felt like the devil myself, screaming insults I didn’t understand because of my own hurt feelings.

“Are you ever going to stop?” Her question broke; she swallowed and pulled away. I couldn’t answer, and she said, “Do you want me to start drinking again?”

“No,” I whispered.

“I’ll never forget that I’m a drunk. Even if you never say another word about it. I promise I will never forget.”

I wouldn’t either. But I’d hurt her, and I hated feeling so ashamed.

After we put the food away and our cupboards looked happier, Mom dragged me out for a walk. Anyone would have thought that we’d never argued. Mom had always been like that, I suppose, able to shrug off disagreements, but I never realized it was something that would stay after the drunk wore off.

“Aren’t you mad at me?” I asked.

Her mouth tightened. “I’m trying as hard as I can to make this work.” She shoved her keys in her pocket and tied a sweater around her waist.

“Mom.” She looked at me, not angry, not impatient, just waiting until I whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Her smile came quick and surprised. “That’s all right, baby.”

As soon as we reached the courtyard between the long arms of our apartment building I had to tie my shoe again. Mom waited, idly studying what used to be a rose garden. As I straightened, she shook her head. “What a waste. This could be a beautiful place, but the landlady never lets anybody do anything about it.”

I wasn’t interested in gardens. “How come you won’t yell at me unless you’re drunk?”

She shoulders sagged, and she turned away, shaking her head.

“I mean it. It’s like you have to drink up enough courage to tell me what a rotten, selfish kid I am. And when you sober up—”

“I feel so guilty I want to die,” she whispered. She hurried across the street without looking. I let her get as far as the corner before I caught up.

She waited for the light to change, her arms crossed, hugging herself. “What I say when I’m drunk is not the truth.”

I snorted and marched toward the thrift store across the street. My reflection glared at me from the dusty windows. I looked angry, but I could never explain. Not to Mom, not to anyone.

My shoelace had come loose again and I stopped. “What about all the times you said you hate me? What about that?”

Mom grabbed my arm and jerked me upright. “Aidyn, that’s not the truth.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Both her mouth and the fingers gripping my arm went slack and she backed away. Something slammed into my thighs. Lucas shouted, “Aidyn!”

Mrs. Donaldson, coming out of the thrift store behind him, tried to smile. It wavered and slid away when I glared at her.

“He saw you and had to come say hi,” she said. By then Lucas had climbed halfway up my leg, so I shifted him to my hip and looked at Mom.

She ignored me, just looked at Mrs. Donaldson, who blushed, shrugged and finally said, “How you doing, Beth?”

Mom nodded. “All right. You?”

As Mrs. Donaldson explained why she’d left Andy home with her husband, Lucas grabbed my face, turning my head so we were eye to eye.

“Where are you going?”

I shrugged. “For a walk.”

“Can we go with you?”

I set him on the sidewalk. “If your mom doesn’t mind.”

“Mommy, Aidyn says we can walk with them, ‘K?”

Mrs. Donaldson tried another sick smile and glanced at Mom, who held her hand out as if to say, please come.

Lucas grabbed my hand and pulled. “We heard you from inside.”

“Yeah. Your mom said you saw me.”

He stopped to frown up at me. “Didn’t. I
heard
you. We were looking at shirts, and I heard you yelling at your mommy.” His hands went to his hips.

“Lucas,” Mrs. Donaldson said.

“You weren’t yelling
loud
,” Lucas went on. “I just heard you a little.”

Mom choked like she wanted to laugh. I spun away. Lucas called my name, and I heard Mom and Mrs. Donaldson laughing. My shoelace tripped me up, and I slammed the sidewalk, all my weight sliding me on my knees across the cement. Pain shot up my bones and into my stomach.

After a minute, I rolled to a crouch and poked at the new rip in my jeans. Lucas patted my shoulder, but I shrugged him off.

How could Mom laugh about me yelling at her? Or was she laughing at my embarrassment? If I’d realized everyone knew I was a drunk, I wouldn’t be able to laugh at all. I’d want to die.

Lucas squatted next to me and stuck his head between my head and knee. “No blood,” he announced. “You’ll live.”

By then Mom and Mrs. Donaldson had caught up.

“Are you OK?” Mom asked. Once again, she pulled me up. “I’m not sure those shoes were such a good idea.”

“I just need different laces or something,” I muttered.

Lucas took my other hand. “We’ll help you cross the street. Better be careful, Aidyn.” He turned to study the colors of the stop light.

I glanced over my shoulder and caught Mrs. Donaldson giving me one of her “poor kid” looks, and Mom, giving Mrs. Donaldson a look even stranger.

“I quit drinking,” Mom said.

“I noticed.”

Mom snorted. She turned to Mrs. Donaldson, snorted again and in seconds they were both hysterical. I glared at them. What was so funny?

I wanted to cry. Die. Disappear. Like I already had.

After a minute Mom tried to calm down. “Margie, you are the best.” She grabbed Mrs. Donaldson’s arm as if they were friends, as if Mrs. Donaldson wasn’t the pity queen for Mom’s poor, neglected little kid, and started to laugh again. The two of them staggered across the street, howling, and my heart sank. So that was it. Mom had lied. Well, not exactly lied. She
had
stopped drinking but she must have started up again.

Lucas dragged me after our mothers. If I hadn’t been so scared he’d steer me into a car, I’d have shut my eyes. Mom thought she could fool Mrs. Donaldson, and I guess she could, but not me. She couldn’t fool me. She’d started drinking again, and it must feel so good to her to think how Mrs. Donaldson, at least, believed her lies.

5

On Monday I rushed to my usual lunch break hiding place as soon as I finished eating. Jackson managed to catch me just as I dragged open the heavy library door.

“Lucy’s mailing you a map.” He held onto the door and kept me from shutting it on him.

“To where?” I figured he’d tell me some stupid joke, like, to China.

“To her house. She handed them out at the meeting, but you’d gone by then.”

I couldn’t think of anything more intelligent than, “Oh?” so I said nothing. I leaned on the door’s edge, balancing my weight with it. In a minute, Mrs. Swenson would yell at me to shut it, and I’d have an excuse to leave Jackson outside, with me safe in the library’s silence.

“We’re having a pizza party Friday night. You have to come.”

“I have to?” I bounced the door on my hip to get Mrs. Swenson’s attention.

He grinned. “We all decided. Naw, just kidding. But everyone’s invited, and Lucy wanted me to make sure you knew about it. I’ll pick you up if you don’t have a ride. I’m getting Shannon, too.” He leaned on the door, smiling.

Inside I cringed. Ever since I’d started high school, I’d longed for him to notice me. Now he had, and it was not what I’d imagined it would be. Not at all.

“Where is Shannon, anyway?”

He shrugged. “She didn’t come to school today. Why?”

“I just figured she’d be with you.” And where was Mrs. Swenson?

“Yeah? So don’t forget the party, OK?”

I said, “OK,” only because he seemed to be waiting for an answer.

“Great. Let me know if you need a ride.” He took off, just in time for Mrs. Swenson to notice I’d been air conditioning the whole campus and yell at me.

****

When the phone rang that night I never thought it would be for me until Mom said, “No, this is Beth.” I hate when people think she’s me. Do I sound like a falling-down drunk? But we both sounded sober now.

She handed me the receiver. I didn’t understand her smirk until I heard Jackson’s voice.

I turned my back on her, though I couldn’t stop her from listening. “How’d you get my number?”

“Phone book? I just called to find out if your mom is bringing you Friday or if you need me.”

Did I need him? I closed my eyes. I hadn’t daydreamed about him since the youth group meeting. I’d been too scared it would betray me somehow, show on my face or in my voice or write itself across the sky.