Rodent

by Lisa J. Lawrence

  I lied. Lied like our lives depended on it. Because they did. I found the words to mix truth and fiction, to spin it better, and fought to keep those small people by me.

  I told him about Mom being stressed at work and with her boyfriend lately, probably had a bit too much to drink. How she came home to find me with my boyfriend, who she had never met before. She wanted to know what was going on.

  “I was pretty rude to her,” I told him. “I said some awful things. She got mad.” He waited for me to go on. “She wanted to keep talking, but I told her to leave me alone. I closed the bedroom door and wouldn’t let her in. I guess Will got nervous and called the police.”

  “Was anyone hurt?” he asked, watching my face.

  “No, just yelling.”

  “Has this happened before?”

  “No.” I shrugged. “She’s usually an awesome mom.” I cringed inwardly—maybe awesome was overkill.

  His eyes swept the burst binder, the papers all over the floor. “My homework,” I said. “I threw it when she wouldn’t stop talking to me.” Basically, I’m a jerk.

  “What did you mean when you said You did this to your boyfriend?” he asked.

  I thought fast. “I didn’t think it was a good idea for him to come over in the first place, but he kind of talked me into it. Turns out I was right.” Sorry, Will.

  He asked if we had any relatives to stay with that night, with Mom in the drunk tank. Which was pretty funny. We’d have been better off if I’d just stayed with Maisie and Evan myself, but I couldn’t say it.

  “We have an uncle,” I said.

  I called Uncle Richie to come and pick us up—luckily caught him at the beginning of a binge, so he’d only had a few. Still, I clutched the door the whole ride to his place and wouldn’t let him go over thirty kilometers an hour. He showed us to Jacquie’s empty room, still just as she had left it. Rumpled clothes on the floor. Unmade bed. Makeup still open on her vanity. One last blow at the end of it all.

  *

  Every time I drift off, my body jerks awake, ready to run again. I sleep sometime after the sun comes through the curtains. Maisie and Evan are still sound asleep after last night.

  Evan wakes me up in the late morning to go pee. When I take him out, I find Uncle Richie at a table ridged with brown coffee rings. He’s holding a newspaper, a box of donuts at his elbow.

  He pulls me aside while Evan’s in the bathroom. We whisper in the kitchen, the counters heaped with crusty dishes.

  “I talked to your mom this morning. Her man, he broke up with her at work last night. She had a bit too much to drink.” He swallows, rubbing at his charcoal stubble. “It got kind of ugly. She lost her job.” As an afterthought, he says, “I’m sorry you kids had a rough night.”

  Had a rough night.

  He must see my nostrils flare, because he adds, “I’m going to pick her up this morning. Just try and go easy. She’s had a rough life.”

  Compared to our walk in the park? I can’t even speak.

  He drives us home first.

  A patchwork of papers over the carpet. A gash in Maisie and Evan’s door. It did happen. I gather the remnants of Will’s binder and run a finger over his black, scratchy writing. A bruise in my chest.

  They still won’t leave me, Maisie and Evan. But when Mom comes through the door, Evan runs to her. Kisses and apologies. Maisie stays next to me on the sofa, her eyes cold. The first crack in my frost, first pang in that numbness. Not because she rejected Mom, but because I see myself. I see it all starting again, no matter how hard I try to make it different for her. Broken pieces in my hands.

  We pass, two silent bodies moving around each other. Mom waits until later in the day, when I go to our bedroom to get the laundry basket.

  “Isabelle, I’m sorry.” Her voice breaks like a twelve-year-old boy’s.

  “Don’t talk to me.” I push past her back into the hall. “Don’t ever talk to me.”

  I want to run far away from this place, but Jacquie’s gone. Will’s gone. Nowhere in this world for me. I drag my cot out of her room and jam it into Maisie and Evan’s.

  “Like a sleepover!” Maisie says, and Evan hops back and forth between my bed and his.

  Later, when they’re asleep and snoring, I let myself think the thought. Let myself admit it wasn’t just her. I relive the moment when I flew at Will and said those unthinkable words. No, Isabelle, that wasn’t Mom. You lost Will all on your own. Then I cry.

  *

  Over the weekend—strange, disjointed days—a plan takes shape. A vague plan. Saturday, I take a bus to the mall and buy a new binder for Will, the best one I can find. Evan and Maisie tag along, and I spend a buck on the kiddie rides for them.

  Then I park myself in their room, papers spread across all three beds, and try to piece things together. Check dates. Put the pages in order, which is an accomplishment. Will is a prolific note taker. In the end, it looks pretty good. I stick a new piece of loose-leaf in the front and sit there with a pen for a long time. What can I possibly say after all that happened? I end up writing Sorry, Will across the top line, knowing it’s not nearly enough.

  Monday morning I hang out at Maisie’s school until I know I’m late. Hallways empty. I sneak into the library. Ms. Hillary watches me unload my books but doesn’t say anything as I disappear in a copy of The Catcher in the Rye.

  The bell rings after the first period. I wait. Then a little more. Now everyone must be gone. I can’t face those people right now, especially him.

  Mr. Drummond is at his desk, wiry hair going in all directions, scribbling away at something. He looks up at me. “Isabelle.” Drops his pen. “We missed you this morning.”

  I go to the door and ask if I can close it. He nods. I pull up a chair without being asked. “Mr. Drummond, I have a request,” I say. He waits for me to continue. “Something happened at home this weekend, something bad. And Will was there.” He cocks his head, probably wondering why I’m telling him this. “I’d like your permission to transfer out of this class and finish the term in another English class.”

  His bushy eyebrows jump. “I—well—should I ask?”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s highly unusual, Isabelle.”

  “Please. It’s the only way I’ll finish.”

  He leans back in his chair, round belly up, and exhales. Watches me as if I’m a specimen in a petri dish. “And what about next term, and in the cafeteria and hallways and everywhere else?”

  “I’m moving out on my own at the end of this term. I’ll have to work and finish school part-time.”

  Slow shake of his head.

  “I’d leave now, but I don’t want to redo these courses.” When he doesn’t answer, I say, “I can’t live there anymore.” Clear my throat to steady my voice.

  “Okay.” He nods. Sighs. “Okay. Let me see what I can do. Ms. Furbank might have a spot, but not at the same time as my class. Hers is in the second period.”

  “I have a spare. That’ll work.”

  “I’ll talk to her today.”

  As I push back my chair to leave, he says, “Isabelle—two things.” I sit back down. “One, I want you to finish the short-story assignment I gave you. After that, Ms. Furbank can have you.”

  The story. I forgot about it. It’s science fiction. About a guy who discovers a new planet. I hate the story assignment and everything connected to that night.

  “Second—think about something for me.”

  I nod, folding my hands in my lap.

  “When you come from a difficult family, like you do—like I do—remember to put yourself at the top of the list once in a while. Your life can’t always be a reaction to somebody or something else.”

  I nod dumbly. What is he talking about?

  “Maybe you won’t really hear me right now, but think about it, will you?”

  “Okay.”

  “Otherwise, you’ll wake up one day in your forties and find you’ve lived your entire life as a character
in someone else’s bad screenplay.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Okay.” He gives me a firm nod. Now we’re done.

  I’m so distracted by his pep talk, I reach the hallway before I remember Will’s binder and have to run it back to him.

  I spend the rest of my spare and lunch hour writing the story for Mr. Drummond, pulling it out in Biology and Spanish when I’m supposed to be working on projects. At the end of the day, I slide it under his closed door. Goodbye, Mr. Drummond. Goodbye, Will.

  *

  At home, I find Mom passed out on the sofa, an empty mickey by her dangling fingers. Doesn’t matter. No job to wake her up for. I think of pulling a blanket over her but don’t.

  “Why is Mom sleeping on the sofa?” Evan asks. Maisie stands by me, watching.

  “She must be tired, Evan.” It’s painful to talk this much crap.

  When they’re in bed, I start pulling out boxes, the same ones I use for every move. I start with the summer clothes, things they don’t need right now. In an hour I’ve already done three. The same old routine. I hope the eviction notice doesn’t come until I finish my classes.

  I’ll start riding her soon to find another job. I just need to get through this term first, because who knows where we’ll end up after that. Different part of the city. Maybe even a different city. Doesn’t matter. I’ll have my own place then, with a lock and key. Maisie and Evan can come over every night. They’ll know how to phone me. She can leave them with me when she goes to work. They can sleep at my place. I’ll take care of them. And there won’t be anyone banging in, throwing words, books, bottles. No more running. I’m putting myself at the top of the list, like Mr. Drummond said.

  *

  I show up at Ms. Furbank’s class the next day, Damien waving wildly from the back. Those pink streaks make all the eyes on me a little more bearable. I find an empty desk near the front and face forward.

  Ms. Furbank introduces me before she gets started. Tight smile from Zara in the next row. She probably thinks I’m here to challenge her position as Reigning Queen and Champion of the World.

  Ms. Furbank is different than Mr. Drummond—more worksheets and notes. She starts the short-story unit today, which I take as permission to zone out entirely.

  Jacquie, how can you disappear at the exact moment I’m ready to move out? I didn’t even ask Uncle Richie if he’d heard anything—he probably hasn’t.

  At the end of class, Ms. Furbank waves me over. “Mr. Drummond wants to see you. He’s in his room.”

  Okay. I round the corner, expecting Will, my mom, Mr. Talmage. One big therapy session. I’m relieved he’s alone, shuffling papers.

  “Mr. Drummond?” I say, startling him.

  “Isabelle! Sit down, please.” I know the drill by now. “How was your new class?” He doesn’t wait for the answer. Instead he digs in a pile and pulls out my story. Flicks through the pages. I wasn’t expecting this.

  “I read your story. It’s quite good.”

  I don’t know what to say. “Thanks?”

  “A little dark, with the poisoning of the mother. Should I be worried?”

  I smile and shake my head.

  “Good. Okay. I’m going to suggest one of two things here. One, therapy.” He winks. “Or two, you consider writing a one-act play for the drama festival in March.” Always knocking me off-balance, this man.

  I give him a long look. Has he already forgotten the Words on the Wall fiasco? “I don’t know. Remember last time?”

  “You’re the writer! No one would even see you. You could adapt this story. They’d love it. Half the drama department would fight over something this creepy.”

  I suddenly remember. “I won’t be here.”

  “Well, you could write it before you leave, or if you change your mind…”

  So that’s what this is about. Throw me a bone so I’ll stick around. “I’ll think about it,” I say, knowing I won’t.

  Still, as I leave, the old warmth rises up again. I try to crush it flat—no good ever came of it.

  *

  I move between the library, the computer lab, my classes. A drone. Waiting to see him but terrified. Crippling shame—what he saw, what I did. I search for and duck away from every tall head. He knows where I am and doesn’t come, so there’s my answer. What right do I have to cry? I knew from the first day how this would end. I knew.

  I finally finish the story in my notebook about Abby, scribbling away whenever I have the chance, filling my head with that family, their doom. The mother gets married. The sisters die. The end.

  *

  Mom is barely conscious while we’re awake, worse than she’s been other times. How can I push her to find a job? She can’t even brush her teeth or make a sandwich.

  Friday, I come home, Maisie and Evan fighting over who gets to be first through the door. “Stop it, you two. It’s not a race,” I say.

  Empty sofa today. The usual bottle carnage spread through the apartment, across the table, by the sink. I check the bathroom—not in the tub.

  In the dim bedroom, I see the outline of her bare feet when I open the door. There, in bed. I pull the door shut. Something in me starts to buzz, that old vibration. I open the door again. Sour smell. Dread rising in my throat. What’s wrong with me? I flick on the light.

  She’s sprawled across the bed with a trail of vomit from her mouth. White face, still chest. I open my mouth to scream—don’t know if any sound comes out.

  Then flashing lights and uniforms fill this space again. Small hands claw at my neck. Uncle Richie frantic over the phone. Everywhere, that high-pitched vibration, like breaking glass.

  TWENTY-THREE

  We wait, Evan wilting against my neck. I perch on the edge of the plastic chair, Maisie at my arm. Uncle Richie, eyes like pouches, stares at nothing. His coffee grows cold in his hand.

  Colors come and go. Blobs of people. Voices talking about change for the parking meter. Scrubs wheeling things back and forth. All outside our bubble of silence. Even one word will burst it, and all of this will be real.

  Evan slumps against me now, his soft hair at my jaw. Slow breath. Maisie gets up to find the bathroom and wanders in the hall, her coat a red dot weaving around wheels and brisk legs. I’m frozen to this spot.

  Until the woman in the white coat comes. I can barely turn my head. Wait as she opens her mouth.

  “She’s alive…” I don’t hear anything else she says.

  Some time passes (A minute? An hour?), and then we pile into the back of Uncle Richie’s car, nobody buckled in. Wait as he sobs like a baby against the steering wheel. Then we drive through the city, Evan in my lap and Maisie falling asleep against my shoulder.

  Uncle Richie carries Maisie up, Evan still in my arms. We lower them into their beds, my muscles numb.

  Collapse.

  *

  A gray form takes shape in my mind, nudging me awake.

  I blink. It’s still dark through the window, but the noises of morning traffic drift up. I remember. As though every day of our lives was leading up to yesterday. Now what?

  I slip from my cot and ease the door shut behind me. They’re still quiet in their beds. Mom’s door hangs open. I close that one too, turning my head away. My feet step silently on the carpet as I head to the living room. There’s a hint of dawn through the kitchen window, still dim. I freeze at the creak of sofa springs.

  He stayed. Uncle Richie’s dark head bobs up, his leather jacket slipping from his arms. I sit next to him as he rubs his face, stubble chafing his fingers.

  “Did you sleep?” I ask.

  He shakes his head.

  We sit in silence for a minute, watching the room grow lighter. He gets up and flicks on the television. The morning news: an apartment fire, a petition to save a local duck pond, another homicide.

  Within an hour Maisie and Evan wander out, two pale ghosts.

  “Where’s Mom?” Evan says.

  Maisie whispers in my ear, “Did Mom die?”


  “No,” I say. “Mom’s in the hospital, getting better.”

  “Why is she sick?” Evan asks, brown eyes on my face.

  I get up to make them breakfast. Can’t answer their questions yet. Another memory for them to pull out later—the day Mom almost died. This just gets better and better.

  We cuddle under a blanket, watching cartoons. Uncle Richie sits at the table and knocks back cup after cup of coffee. His eyes on the TV but not really seeing.

  He phones the hospital midmorning, shutting himself in the bedroom to talk. His voice rumbles through the closed door. Then he comes out and stands in front of us, Evan craning his neck to see the TV. “Your mom’s awake, doing okay.” He says to me, “She wants to see you.”

  Me. Do I want to see her? My world turned on its head and shaken. Still holding those broken pieces in my hand. What can Mom possibly say or not say at this point that would make any difference?

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Go see her.” Not a request. When I turn my head away, trying to ignore him, he says, “I’ll drive you.”

  “Fine.” I wear the same clothes I slept in. Skip the shower. Skip breakfast. Whatever.

  In the hospital parking lot, I slam the car door behind me, Maisie and Evan’s small faces in the backseat. The electric window lowers as I walk away. “Call me when you want me to pick you up,” he says. I keep walking.

  I retrace my steps from last night, which happened a long, long time ago. Up to the nurses’ station. I try not to look at the plastic chairs.

  “I’m here to see Marnie Bennett,” I say to a nurse in pink scrubs. “I’m her daughter.” She nods and points me in the right direction.

  Outside the door, I take a deep breath. Now I feel it: the pounding. That vibration starting up again. I remember the white face, the still chest. I’m suddenly sweating, shivering. Should I knock?

  I throw open the door and stand in the doorway.

  Greasy hair limp against her head. Thin arms in a bland hospital gown. She puts a drink back on a tray over the bed, smiling. Like we’re going out for lunch or something.