by A B Whelan
Ashley
THURSDAY
A bottle of cheap red wine and a mini-mart warm burrito are my driving companions as I turn onto my street in the gloomy, misty veil of the night. My mother’s white Mercedes gleams under the street lamp parked in my designated spot in front of my apartment building. I stop in the middle of the road to ponder the sweet idea of escape, of stomping on the gas pedal and speeding off into the unknown, away from here, away from her admonishment.
My cell phone chimes.
It’s her.
I missed my chance to slip away.
She must have been standing by the window like a surveillance operator.
I park behind my mother’s car, making sure I block in two of my neighbors’ cars. They know where I live. If I’m lucky enough, one of them will knock on my door, and I will be forced to cut short my mother’s unannounced visit.
I unscrew the cap on the wine and take a hearty swig, beating myself up for not accepting Peter’s invitation to join him for a night of drunken sorrow. I declined his offer because I know myself enough to know that tonight, a shot of hard liquor would be enough for me to toss myself at him.
One glance at the saggy, moist burrito sends my stomach twisting and turning. It’s fine, I’m not hungry anyway. I grab my purse and drag myself into the building to face my fate.
My apartment door is open and my mother, with rigid scorn on her face and arms crossed over her chest, is standing in the hallway, waiting for me.
“Ashley, where have you been?” she snaps at me.
She sniffs at my clothes and lifts a handful of my sticky hair as I walk past her.
“Mother, not now. I had a really, really long day today. Actually, a really long week. I need to get some sleep.”
“I’d say.” She raises her eyebrows, escorting me deeper into my home, where she moves around with an irritating confidence and a set of inspecting eyes.
I know she is disappointed in me. I was never the perfect daughter to make her proud, and somewhere along the way, I guess I just gave up trying.
With a theatrical sigh, she gently kicks an abandoned shoe to the wall with her foot. When she spots the shoe’s twin underneath the barstool, she turns back, picks it up, and places them together on a shoe rack by the entrance.
“What happened to this place, Ashley? Do you have someone living with you?”
I know it would be easier for her to accept that a stranger is responsible for this mess. But it’s okay to feel upset and disappointed with your children sometimes. Those are completely normal human emotions, so I’ll let her feel them.
“No, Mother, nobody’s living here but me. I didn’t have time to clean up. I’m sorry. It’s been a very hectic week for me. If I knew you were coming, I would have hired someone to tidy up.”
I put my purse on the barstool and start gathering last week’s dirty glasses and plates from the countertop. I think of Peter and a tall glass of anything-as-long-as-it’s-strong, and my soul withdraws into a dark hole.
“I folded your laundry, but you’re not a baby anymore, Ashley. I can’t always come here and take care of you. You need to take charge of your own life. Be an adult.” She doesn’t look at me when she says this. There are dirty clothes all over the floor she must collect and drop in the hamper.
“My patient just died,” I blurt out. “She was raped and strangled by a serial killer. I identified her bloated, dead body by the lakeshore near Escondido this morning.” A shock may pull her out of her perfect pink bubble where her biggest worry in life is what others think of her.
She covers her mouth with both hands and lowers herself onto my bed.
When you know somebody long enough, you can predict her reaction in certain situations. You can read her body language. You know when she will yell or respond calmly. You come up with quick responses in your head before she can even say anything because you know she will say something. You have this urge to have the upper hand, to maintain your dominant position. So, while my mother is muted by shock, I conjure up a full speech about my recent month that I plan to rant at her. She’ll respond by telling me that she warned me not to take on hopeless cases and to instead concentrate on making money. Then I’ll go on the defensive, trying to make her understand that not everybody is as coldhearted as she is.
Skyler trusted me with her life and her problems, and I failed her. I may never be able to recover from this.
But my mother surprises me when she stretches her arm toward me and asks me to sit with her.
My nose twitches with a rising sob, and my eyes blur up with tears.
I sit beside her, lean my head against her shoulder, and weep.
“Why is everybody dying around me? I’m a bad omen,” I say between ragged breaths.
She pats my head with her thin, bony fingers. “Hush now, sweetheart. Don’t say that. Sometimes people we care about die, and we can’t do anything to change that.”
“I should have done better with her. I went to her place and I saw how she lived, how scared she was, how detached she was from life. Yet I got back into my fifty-thousand-dollar car and drove away, as easy as that.” I wipe the tears from my face with the bedsheet. It’s long overdue for a wash anyway.
“You can’t save everybody in this world, Ashley. People are responsible for their own lives. There are books, blogs, groups, and endless ways to improve our lives, our diet, our happiness. You can lead the horse to water, but, well, you know the rest.”
I straighten up. “How can you say that? I was her psychologist. She came to me for help.”
“It’s a horrible tragedy. I talked to Peter. He told me all about it.”
“Peter? Why are you talking to Peter?”
“You haven’t answered my calls all week. What was I supposed to do?”
I rub my face with my hands and no longer find comfort in my mother’s company. I don’t think I’d feel comfort in anyone’s company right now. I think of Omar, and I start to itch all over.
“I really need some sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow. I promise.” I get back to my feet, but when she doesn’t join me, I walk to the foyer and unhook her purse from the hanger and hold it out to indicate that she needs to go.
Taking the purse from my hand, she says, “If every time life threw a curveball at me and I’d given up hope, I’d be six feet under by now. Don’t let this minor setback taint your future. You’ll build a successful practice, I’m sure of it.” She kisses my cheek, lays a thick envelop on the dresser by the door, and leaves.
I don’t open the envelop. I know what’s inside. Money. My mother has a special ability to make me feel lower than I already feel. I stand in the door feeling like a cheap whore, only I didn’t do anything for the payment.
*****
Olivia’s text comes in while I sit in my car in the dark, pulled to the nearest curb by MacArthur Park. I need a little pick-me-up, but tonight I don’t feel like pretending that I’m a runner out on a casual evening exercise.
As I step out of the car, I respond with a thumbs-up to Olivia’s message, asking her to text me tomorrow with the time and place for our lunch date.
The air is clear from an earlier storm that swept through the city. I love the city after a refreshing rain where every breath brings in a dose of good, clean air.
I spot Omar on the bleachers watching tall kids kicking a soccer ball around on a spongy grass field. If these kids are out in this weather, they must be European imports yearning for a good English soccer season.
I sit beside him, and he measures me up.
“You look like shit,” he says, hands in pockets, back curved, wearing only a thin zip-up sweater to protect his skinny frame against the chill.
“I know I look like shit. Why does everybody feel the need to remind me of that?”
“Chill, girl. Just sayin’.”
I hurl the cash roll onto his lap. He jumps up as if I had just spilled hot coffee on him.
“Whoa? Whatcha doing? I’m just h
ere watching the game, bitch.”
“I know you’re holding, so just give me some and I’ll be on my way.”
“You want to buy, you need to go to the shop.”
I start searching him, going through the pockets of his sweater. “Jesus, Omar. Drop the gangster act and hook me up.”
“Yo, bitch! I’ll fucking bash your head in if you touch me again.” He pulls away from me and zips his hoodie up. “You’re one crazy bitch.”
I duck my hands in my pocket. “I’m sorry, Omar, I’m losing my shit.” My nerves are on edge.
“No joke,” he sighs, then rolls his eyes.
“I need to tune out the world for a little bit. Just give me my stuff, and I’ll leave you alone.”
He looks forward to where some boys are celebrating a goal. He flings his arms in the air. “I missed my brotha’s goal ’cause of you.”
“Omar, you’re from Egypt. Stop talking like you’re from the hood. It doesn’t suit you.”
He laughs, shaking his head as he pops the lid off his Jack in the Box soda cup, lifting out a small package.
He bear-hugs me. I feel is fingers slipping the stash into my back pocket. “If I see you on Tinder, I’ll right-swipe you. Maybe I let you grab my junk, or maybe I’ll just stuff it in your mouth.”
I push him away. “Enjoy your game, hot stuff.”
At home, I spread out on my bed, finish the bottle of wine, and do a few lines. Not too much because I’m due in the library tomorrow to do some digging on the Fifty Shades Killer, but enough to make me numb.
Betty
FRIDAY
For the first time this month, I looked up the meeting time of this morning’s run in the Facebook private group of local runners where I am a semi-enthusiastic member. I’ve been stalking their page, admiring those powerful women, promising myself that I’d become more active, but starting new habits requires more strength than I have.
When I was younger and childless, I used to jump into life headfirst and consider the consequences later, but now doing a simple physical activity seems like an impossible task.
Since my fitness dropped to an all-time low, running a few miles takes an incredible effort for me, like moving a building with my bare hands. Most of the time I talk myself out of it. There is always a reason for me to feel tired and depressed or to make excuses for my lack of enthusiasm or spontaneity. I blame the full moon, the foreshadowing of my period and the aftershock of my period, and then my actual period.
If I stay up late, then I’m tired in the morning. If I go to bed early and sleep too much, then I’m drowsy all day.
But not today.
Today I’m ready to grab the day by its balls. I’m going to conquer this day, eat it for breakfast. Today I have a purpose. Today I have something to be excited about.
The energy boost from my early-morning group exercise—where a sizable number of runners pushed me through a few miles—keeps me on my toes as I conjure up a wide variety of breakfast choices for the kids. The pancakes turn out a little soggy and undercooked, the eggs are overcooked, the first batch of bacon is too fatty, and the second is like charcoal, but it doesn’t matter because I own this day, dammit.
The kids march into the kitchen like ants and ask for cereal. My sister’s oldest is the ring leader, and the other dummies simply follow.
Luckily for the kids, I don’t have the time or the nerves to be upset or offended by their lack of respect and empathy this morning. Besides, I’m an independent adult woman who knows how much she is worth. I don’t need verification from my children.
I’m also in a bit of a hurry. I need to leave soon if I plan to grill Sergeant Williams at the police station about the work of the Fifty Shades Killer and make it back to my scheduled open house at one o’clock.
Watching the kids slurp and slobber over their sugary cereal, I stuff as much eggs, bacon, and pancakes as I can into my mouth and discard the rest into the trash can. My kids used to be healthy eaters before these junk-food-loving, lazy pigs moved into my house and led them down the dark road. To keep my sanity, I gave up the fight months ago. Once my sister and her kids move out, life will get back to normal. I hope. But until then, the next time when I feel amped up, I’ll do something productive for myself.
I start the shower, and while I wait for the warm water to come, I check to see how many people liked my sponsored Facebook post about the property.
Forty-seven likes.
Not bad, although I have no idea what number I should compare it to. I only need one person to show up with an intent to buy. One person. That’s all I ask.
I look up to the ceiling, palms pressed together. “Please, God. Just give me one serious buyer. That’s all I’m asking.”
When I step out of the shower, I find my daughter sitting on my bed with my phone in her hands. The blood drains from my face, and I leap to her like a pouncing tiger and rip the phone out of her hands.
Yesterday I took a few pictures of the girls and me shooting our illegal guns. Brad would kill me if he found out.
“Did you look at my photos?” I ask, swiping to get to the photo gallery icon.
“No, why would I?” She’s terrified of me, or at least of the monster that manifested itself in front of her.
“Do you swear?” My voice feels like dragon fire.
She gets back to her feet, as if she is trying to appear taller, a worthy opponent. “You always tell us not to swear.”
“I don’t want you to play on my phone, do you understand? I have important business pictures and documents here. I don’t want you to delete them by accident.”
“Mom,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’m not an idiot.”
I get rid of the gun-range photos as we talk. Then one look at her innocent and frightened face grips my conscience. “I’m sorry for yelling at you,” I say and hand the phone back to her. If she can play her games, all is good.
Electronic devices today are like how cigarettes were in the 1960s. Everybody was smoking back then, hooked, addicted; it was something to do when you got bored. Nobody was aware of or even cared about the side effects. I wonder when the government will put age limits on electronic devices or warnings on the packaging. Ten, fifteen years from now? Ever? Never?
Before Hannah discovered the limitless number of games she could play on my smartphone, she would come to my room and watch me dress as we talked. Now when we are in the same room, she mostly ignores me.
Every pair of my boots and high-heel shoes knew her little dancing feet. The image is becoming hazier with each passing year. Soon it will disappear like the rest of my dusty memories.
We should have mother-daughter times, make new memories, but the whole family has drifted apart, and I don’t know how to steer us back together.
I miss her already, and she hasn’t even left for college yet—and won’t for another ten years. Her body is still here, but her mind is already gone. I think of Skyler’s mother. She will never be able to tell her daughter that she was sorry and how much she loved her. She will never get another opportunity to spend time with her daughter.
My heart aches.
As a feeble attempt at bring back what we once had, I ask Hannah’s help in picking out an outfit for my open house today.
She doesn’t look up from the screen.
I won’t give up that easy.
“Do you think I lost weight?” I ask her, measuring myself up in the mirror.
After a light-speed glance, she says, “Sure you did.”
“You’re just saying that because you don’t want to hurt my feelings,” I press on. I need her to engage.
“No, seriously. Your tummy used to be like this”—she pushes hers out into a melon-sized bulge—“and now it’s like, you know, smaller.” An opportunity to mock me, well, that’s her element, so she puts down the phone for that.
“Do you think I’ll be bikini ready by summer?” I push, because mocking is better than nothing.
She shrugs. “I
don’t know. I can’t see the future.”
I pounce on her and we wrestle, laughing and tickling each other. Brad comes in the room and takes over. He’s the jealous, pushy dog in the pack. Daddy is always more fun to play with, and my daughter jumps trains without as much as a glance of empathy for me.
I slip out of the room, unnoticed. I don’t really feel anything—no sadness, no betrayal. There are callouses on my heart.
Before we went to bed last night, I told Brad that I had a few errands to run today. His shift doesn’t start until four in the afternoon, so I get in my car and leave without putting a note on the fridge. He’ll be here to look after the kids.
I don’t drive alone a lot, so when I do, I pump up the volume on the radio to a near-deafening level and sing along and tap my hands on the steering wheel. For someone who sees me from the outside, I must look mental, but I’m in my own little world, so bite me.
When I’m only ten minutes away from the San Bernardino police station, nervousness brings on my cautious side. I planned the whole spy-girl moment in my head, and it looked simple, yet now all the possible devastating outcomes come crashing down on me. What if Williams is not there? What if he never leaves me alone and I can’t snoop? What if I secretly take pictures of the files and he catches me?
A few drags of a cigarette—I keep a pack in my purse for occasions like this—calms me down.
I get out of the car with Williams’s favorite apple pie in my hand and barge into the station like I own the place.
As I make my way to the offices, a few guys recognize me and call out to me. “Brad’s not in yet.” Or they crack weak jokes like, “Brad sent his wife to work today?”
“I came to see Sergeant Williams. It’s a little secret project for Brad, so please don’t mention it to him that I was here, all right?” I tell each one of them. As long as they believe I’m planning a party with free food and booze, I’ll get a hall pass.