Rodent

by Lisa J. Lawrence

  Mom is at the table, reading a newspaper. This is new.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Checking jobs in the classifieds,” she says.

  Okay… I don’t have time to ask her more—off to work. Through my shift, her words pick at me. Why is she looking for work? Did she lose her job? I didn’t hear about any big scene or drunken breakdown. Maybe her boss doesn’t like Oliver hanging around, chatting her up at work.

  Hasan tries to talk to me, asks me how Jacquie’s doing. I volunteer to clean the bathrooms, scrubbing the urinals to a shiny white.

  I press back home through the wet flakes and corner Mom in the bathroom as soon as I get in.

  “Why are you looking for work? Something happen with your job?” I start in before even saying hello.

  She pulls down on an eyelid, adding a curve of black liner. Blinks at a lash in her eye and dabs the eyeliner with toilet paper.

  “No, nothing happened. Oliver wants me to look for a different kind of work.”

  I sit down on the edge of the tub. “Why?”

  “Well”—she starts on the other eye—“he doesn’t like the”—she pauses—“attention from the other men there.”

  It takes me a second. He’s jealous. Mom has to find another job because Oliver is jealous.

  “That doesn’t seem quite fair to me,” I say. “You were doing that job when he met you.”

  She puts down the eyeliner, inspecting each eye in the mirror. “I don’t expect you to understand, Isabelle. Someday you will.”

  I imagine Will telling me to quit a job or drop a class because other guys might pay attention to me. No, I think I understand now. Oliver’s a prick.

  “So what kind of job are you thinking of?” Something in a convent, I think.

  “Maybe working in an office?” She moves on to the hair straightener now. Working in an office? Mom left school after grade eleven and has worked in bars forever. Who will give her a chance? I’m not crazy about her job either, but having Oliver call the shots makes something flare in me.

  “What next? Oliver’s going to dress you, tell you how to be a mother?” I say.

  “Relationships are all about compromise,” she says, probably quoting Oliver.

  I shake my head and go scrub dishes in the sink. An uneasy feeling moves through me. It was hard enough keeping things together before, when it was just the four of us. At least I know Mom’s crap. Now there’s Oliver, pushing and pulling from the sidelines. I don’t know what I’m dealing with.

  When she leaves for work, I wish I could call Will. I actually have his phone number now. Knowing my luck, Nancy would answer and want to have a conversation about birth control or abstinence. What would I say to him anyway? I’ve done my best to shield him from all of this.

  Thinking about Will gives me another idea though. After I get Maisie and Evan to bed, I pull out my homework in the living room. Will asked when we could get together again. Here I am, sitting by myself in an empty room night after night. Maisie and Evan are out cold until morning. Mom’s at work until three or four. Why couldn’t Will be here with me for an hour or two? Besides the fact that he’d see our really ugly sofa.

  No. Is even seeing this apartment too much? The camp cot in the bedroom. Bathrobe guy wandering the halls. Fridge stocked with beer and not much else. But he already knows my mom is a drunk and I live in a dump. He seems okay with that. Every time I talk myself out of asking him over, the idea pops back again. When else am I going to see him, especially with Mom out with Oliver all the time? At this rate, we’ll have a date when all the planets align and world peace is achieved.

  I go back and forth about it until English the next morning, when his foot against mine gives me a boost of courage. While Mr. Drummond writes the elements of a short story on the board, I scratch a note on a piece of paper: Talk after class. Drop it over my shoulder. For some reason, my stomach flutters. Afraid he won’t think it’s a good idea, that he’ll see too much if he comes, that he’ll think it’s too much effort for an hour or two with me.

  Mr. Drummond gives us an assignment: write a short story, due in a week. I think of my notebook with my tale of the twins and their suicide pact, or the story I wrote about the bullied nutjob. I think I’ll start something new.

  At the end of class, I pull Will down the hall a bit, away from Mr. Drummond’s door, and tell him about my idea. He stands there, smiling like an idiot. “Of course I’ll come.”

  I try to explain the timing, how it’ll have to work. How he’ll have to bus to me, all the details. He’s not really listening—he’s smiling, jittery.

  When I stop talking, he stoops to kiss me. There’s a shuffling noise off to the side, and I pull away. Mr. Drummond turns on his heel to go back into the classroom. My face is on fire.

  “Okay, you’re late for Chemistry,” I say, shoving Will in that general direction.

  We work out some details at lunch, like what day would be the best. I tell him which bus to catch from the school and when it runs. When Maisie and Evan will be asleep.

  “You haven’t told your family about me, have you?” he says.

  I shake my head, watching his reaction. “I’m not embarrassed, Will. I don’t trust my mom with a lot of things.”

  He nods.

  “I will eventually, when I know she can handle it.”

  “Okay.”

  *

  That night, lying in my cot, I think about the story I’ll write for English. I know exactly what it’ll be: a girl who runs away from home and, using her street smarts, manages to eat and find a place to stay every night. She dodges seedy pimps. Outsmarts dealers. Does some wrestler moves on the guy who thinks he’ll have his way with her. Returns home with a new respect for life.

  Where are you, Jacquie, and how do you survive? Because I don’t think it’s a part-time job at Safeway. My mind wanders to dark places. I try to steer it back. Almost succeed.

  I’m still awake when Mom comes home from her date with Oliver. She leaves the hall light on, opening the door a crack to see her way into the bedroom. I hear her drop her clothes on the floor, the clink of earrings in a dish.

  “You’re home early,” I say.

  “Isabelle. You startled me.”

  I lie in the dark and hear her sniff.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Yes, yes. Fine.” Knowing I know better. “Just working through some stuff with Oliver.”

  She pads around the room for another minute before shutting the door behind her, leaving me in the dark again. I hear the refrigerator door open, the clink of bottles.

  I stay awake a long time.

  *

  Thursday, the temperature drops, and there’s an icy wind.

  “Do you still want to come over tonight?” I ask Will. “We could pick another day.”

  “No, I’ll come.”

  Evan starts to cry on the way home from day care, getting a full blast of it in the face. I pick him up, his back to the wind, and carry him the rest of the way.

  At home a few empties dot the table. I drop Evan and search for Mom, my snowy shoes leaving tracks across the carpet. I find her stretched out on the bed. My heart sinks. The plan won’t work if she doesn’t leave tonight.

  I tap on her feet. “Mom. Mom, wake up.”

  She cracks open an eye and lifts her neck off the pillow. Okay, not too far gone. “Hi, love. Just having a little nap before work.” She rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling. Puffy eyes.

  I sit next to her, the springs creaking. “What is it?”

  She closes her eyes and shakes her head. “Just being sensitive.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, something Oliver said hurt my feelings.” She stops. I think she’s finished. “He said I have ‘baggage.’ I took it badly.”

  Something twinges in me. How would I feel if Will said those words to me? Even if they were true. Especially because they are true. “I’m sorry.” What a joke, him saying that to he
r. A forty-year-old compulsive talker who lives with his parents, and she’s the one with baggage. I consider hiring a hit man.

  “We’re just going through a bumpy patch. All relationships have them,” she says, pulling herself up.

  “I’ll make supper,” I tell her, trying to help. Possibly feeling a tiny bit guilty about sneaking Will in later.

  She has a double rum and Coke with her tuna sandwich. Cheeks low, eyes flat. I can see we’re going to skip the giggly stage tonight and go straight to weepy.

  When she reaches for a refill, I put my hand on hers. “Wait until after work, okay?”

  She nods, knowing I’m right.

  I offer her some of my money to take a taxi tonight rather than the bus. She uses her tip money to catch a taxi home each night, but we can’t normally afford it both ways. “No, no. I’ll just bundle up,” she says. And she’s gone, right on schedule.

  I straighten up and give Maisie and Evan a quick bath. Wash the dishes. Rush through bedtime stories to have them in bed ten minutes early. I want them out cold when Will comes. I get a little panicky when Evan gets up twice to pee.

  “Enough,” I tell him, “or I’ll skip stories tomorrow night.” That seems to work.

  A couple of minutes to fix myself up, and then there’s a quiet tap on the door. Someone else must have buzzed him in.

  I open the door and there he is, ears bright red. Snowflakes in his hair. I reach up and put a warm palm on each cheek, then tiptoe to Maisie and Evan’s room to see if they’re still awake. Sound asleep. I ease their door shut behind me.

  “Okay, we’re good.”

  I know I should be embarrassed about everything—the mismatched dining set, fraying flowered sofa. Hideous shag carpet. He probably already saw the guy in the bathrobe. Definitely rode in the pissy elevator. I’m so happy he’s here, though, I don’t even care. It’s like being in the prop room again.

  I kiss his cold mouth and press his ear against my cheek to warm it. “I can’t believe you took the bus in this.” I ask him how long he can stay, and we work out the bus schedule.

  “My mom’s working tonight,” he says, “but she usually calls around 11:00 on the home phone.”

  “She doesn’t know you’re here, does she?” He shakes his head. So I’m not the only one sneaking around. “Well, I’ll try not to get pregnant,” I tell him. He laughs, and I worry Maisie and Evan might wake up.

  We sit on the sofa and pull out our English stories, which was the plan. We don’t get too far.

  “What’s yours about?” I ask.

  “It’s science fiction. About a guy who discovers a new planet.”

  “Is that what you read?”

  “Mostly,” he says.

  “Who’s your favorite author?” I ask.

  “Ray Bradbury.”

  Then it turns into a sort of question-and-answer session, with me asking all the questions. “Favorite food?” I ask.

  “Lasagna.”

  I try not to cringe. “Favorite color?”

  “Anything but orange.”

  I go on for a while, then make it more complicated. “Favorite moment?”

  He thinks for a second, tapping his pen against the page. “The first time you kissed me. I thought you were leaving.”

  That’s a personal favorite of mine too. I smile.

  “How about you?” he says.

  “I’m not done yet. Worst moment?”

  His face falls thinking about this one. I’m almost sorry I asked. “There are a few—my parents’ divorce, losing you before, and seeing you with that guy at the dance.”

  Jamie. Will still thinks about that? At this point, I know the Q-and-A can’t ever get to me. Worst moment? How would I choose? Any one of a thousand bad days with Mom. Seeing Claude hurt her. The time I hit her. Watching Maisie crumble on her birthday. And also Will, holding Amanda, smiling down at her. I understand why he deflated when I asked him this one.

  But he’s here now. I take his hand in mine and run my thumb along his palm. Love these hands, these long fingers.

  I can’t stop now. “What are you most afraid of?”

  He doesn’t take long to answer. “Failing.” He looks away. “And this ending.” I envy him, that he can say the words I can’t say out loud. To his list I silently add: foster care, losing Maisie and Evan.

  “Will,” I say, trying to pick the right words, “when did you start to like me more than as a friend?” What I really want to ask is, Why do you like me? Sounds too desperate.

  The gray leaves his face. “I think I always liked you. I used to watch you in English.”

  “Why?” My alluring beauty? Animal magnetism?

  “I guess I felt like I already knew you,” he says. That’s pretty good too. “What about you?”

  I can handle this one. “In the prop room. I thought you were a little weird before then.” I regret the words as soon as I say them. Watch his face to see how he takes it.

  He laughs. We’re okay.

  “Well, you were reading a thesaurus the first time I saw you,” I add.

  “I’m glad you gave me a chance.” He slides our books to the floor and pulls me close, my face in the curve of his neck. My heart beats faster, floating. Everything disappears. He runs a finger up and down my arm, and his mouth finds mine. Slow, every move slow. A hand on my thigh. On the small of my back, his fingers against my bare skin. Breath on my neck. I’m falling somewhere warm, dark.

  “What is this?”

  Crashing back. Ice cold. Mom.

  We’re on our feet in less than two seconds, not touching. Gasping like fish.

  “Who the hell are you?” Eyes wild, she leans against the wall and swings an arm toward Will. His mouth opens but doesn’t make a sound. She’s already turned back to me. Stumbles forward.

  I tap my hand against him. “Go.”

  “You slut,” she spits. Words like a punch in the gut.

  “Go.” I push against Will again. Instead, he edges in front of me, protecting me from this.

  “You little whore. Always so anxious to get me off to work. Now I see why.” She charges forward, tumbling against me. Will grabs my shoulders to stop me from falling backward.

  “Go, Will! Leave!” I shout at him. I can handle her, this. Can’t handle him seeing it.

  She raises her hand to me in a clumsy slap. I catch her wrist and push her away. She falls to the floor.

  “Get out of here!” I shove Will toward the door, still open to the hallway. He stands between Mom and me. Hands out, like he can hold us in place.

  “Will, please.” I’m pleading now. He looks at me, something set in his face, and dashes for the door as Mom pushes herself up. He’s gone when she comes at me again.

  “You and your secrets. How many have there been?” Ugly words, face twisted. I don’t want to hit her again. When she grabs me, hands pinching my shoulders, I push her away. Her knees buckle.

  “Stop it, Mom!”

  “So much to say about my life. Sneaking around like a tramp—” She looks around, her eyes frantic. Picks up Will’s binder and hurls it at me. I dodge. It bursts against the back of a chair, papers raining.

  I back toward the bedrooms as she pulls herself up and staggers after me. Maisie and Evan. I dodge into their room. A crack of moonlight through the blind. I hold myself against their door. Wham. Her body slams it. Doorknob fighting against my hand.

  “Open this door!” she screams, cursing.

  Shadows move in their beds. Evan starts to cry. What was I thinking, coming in here? I wanted to protect them but led her straight to them.

  “It’s okay, Evan. Maisie, it’s me!” I shout over her voice. Maisie squeals, terrified.

  Bang against the door, something hard. “You think you know it all. Whadda you know?”

  “Stop, Mom!”

  Evan clings to my leg, wailing. Mom goes on slamming things against the door, hurling words at me.

  It’s quiet for a second. Then, “Isabelle, it’s me!�
� Will?

  “Get out of here! What are you doing?”

  “Out of my way!” Mom’s hoarse voice. There’s a scuffle, then a thud and a cry from Will. She hit him with something?

  The door gives a crack, and I slam it shut again. It’s harder with Evan hanging on me. I try to pull my thoughts together, form a plan. If I can hold her off in the hallway, Will could get Maisie and Evan out the door and down to the lobby. I might have to push her down to make a break for it myself. Then where?

  Now I hear them, the sirens. No!

  “Go to Maisie!” I holler at Evan. Maisie cowers in the corner of her bed.

  Will is shouting to me. Mom is screaming at him. The door bangs back and forth between us. Then come the loud voices, the knob suddenly quiet in my hands. I step back as they push through the door, the uniforms. Mom, restrained by strong arms, thrashes, swears. Will is pushed back. One of them flicks on the light, stinging our eyes. Evan and Maisie are wild, clinging to me.

  “Are you okay?” someone asks. I can’t answer.

  The uniforms move in, dragging Mom away, then reach for Maisie and Evan. I turn and see him, standing on the edge of it all. It was him.

  “You did this!” I shout.

  Will’s face is white. I lunge at him and scream every curse word I can think of. Arms hold me back, their voices in my ear. Maisie and Evan are hysterical behind me. Uniforms guide Will out the door, out of sight.

  It all disintegrates before my eyes. Everything shatters.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I stare at the dark wall of Jacquie’s room, my arm stretched across Evan and Maisie. Evan is sleeping now. Maisie is still shifting next to me. It’s a narrow bed—no one can roll over tonight.

  I’m numb. Every thought jumbled together. A vibration runs through me and overpowers every feeling. Just one survives—the feeling that something has been broken. Irreparably. I can hold on to the pieces, but it’ll never be whole again. I wish I could sleep, or at least forget for a few hours. Will’s face as I flew at him. Mom. I never expected those words from her, even during the worst of it.

  After Will was escorted out, Maisie, Evan and I huddled together on the sofa. Evan curled up in my lap, Maisie glued to my side. The officer who came to talk to me said, “Can you tell me what happened here? Your boyfriend didn’t say much.” Will, still trying to edge in front, protect me.