by Angie Morel
The Faces of Lions
Copyright © 2016 Angie Morel
This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental. Names, places, characters, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination. The author holds all rights to this work. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the author.
For Rory.
Cancer takes the best of us.
I miss you brother.
Chapter 1
My mom was dead.
Her body was a few feet from where I stood, but there was no need for me to get any closer to confirm the fact. I could tell by her expression, I’d seen it before.
It was on the face of boy by the name of Quinton Williams, who got stabbed in the chest in the hallway right after fourth period study hall when I was in eighth grade. A crowd gathered after he’d collapsed, legs failing to carry him after the perpetrator, who happened to be the ex-boyfriend of a girl he was seeing. They later called it a one-in-a-million shot. The knife was long and the ex was pissed, punching it into the side of Quinton’s chest with such force that the blade, after slipping between ribs, managed to sever the aorta on the top side of his heart.
It didn’t look like a big deal, barely any blood, but as he lie there, one hand flush against the stab wound, eyes wide as he took in the surrounding students from his position on the floor, I knew he was a goner. I knew by the way the dazed, shocked look solidified on his face. A few more seconds had to pass before the other students, and finally a teacher or two (always late to such events), noticed that the words of encouragement still being spoken from the crowd were useless. He was gone.
That’s how I knew. My mom wore the same saucer-eyed, what-the-hell-just-happened-to-me look as Quinton.
She was in the kitchen and had been in the process of pouring milk over my little sister’s cereal when she dropped to the floor. The gallon jug, still clutched in her fist, had landed on its side, allowing the milk to glug out and pool around her shoulders and head. Small milk footprints dotted the space around her body, evidence of my little sister Mary trying to wake her up. An uncomfortable tug pulled at my insides as my eyes lingered on each of those wet spots, knowing the panic that my sister must’ve felt. I could picture exactly how it went down, like a scene from a movie.
And, as if I was watching a movie right now, my mind had a tough time processing the reality of what I saw in the kitchen.
Five minutes ago…
One second I was asleep, the next, awake.
Lying on my side, I blinked at the wall a few times, confused for a moment as my mind made the transition from dream to reality. Strange dream. In it, I was on the hunt for some unknown object buried in the depths of one of the many couch, chair, and loveseat cushions inhabiting my dream. And just as I jammed my hand into the crevice of a puffy, multi-cushioned, twenty-foot-long couch, my entire body twitched, popping me out of sleep.
It didn’t take long for the surreal images to fade, along with the slight urge my fingers had to dig at the bedding beneath me. Strange dream, indeed. But then again, I’d take strange any day over the nightmares that visited me most nights.
Assuming my subconscious mind sent a jolt to awaken me, having had enough of my dream self and the frantic cushion diving going on, I allowed the steady buzz of the fan beside the bed to lull me, tugging my eyelids closed again.
Box fans were a must when living in stacked, over-crowded environments such as mine. Typically used in windows to pull the hot air from outside in to mix with the even hotter air inside (poor people’s AC), the old style fans that sounded like jet engines had the additional benefit of blocking out neighbors when solid sleep was needed.
And being sick like I’d been, nothing sounded better than a couple hours of solid sleep.
Swallowing, I winced at the rawness of my throat. And then my mind drifted to another sore subject—missed schoolwork. No doubt there’d be a load of it waiting for me on Monday. I never missed school, and with it being the tail end of August, the new session had only started up three weeks ago and here I’d already missed two days. That was not cool with me. Having diploma in hand and scholarship possibilities lined up upon graduation were of vital importance. That was the only way out of this dead-end, dream-sucking life. In fact, I would’ve drug myself to school no matter how bad I felt had I not been throwing up all day yesterday and part of this morning—
“Asha, wake up!”
My eyes popped open, hearing the familiar voice over the sound of the fan. All thoughts of schoolwork fled. Rolling over and instantly alert, I locked onto the silhouette of my little sister. “Mary? What is it?”
Mary stood beside the bed, shifting foot to foot. After my eyes adjusted to the dim light of the room, I could tell she was crying. Shit. I had a no touching rule when I slept. No one was to touch me, even to wake me from a nightmare (and actually, the rule was because of my nightmares), so my poor sister had probably been saying my name over and over, trying to get me to wake up. Now I knew it was her voice that caused me to snap awake.
That was the one downside of an old style box fan, and why I didn’t use it very often. Just as it drowned out the sounds occurring beyond the walls of the apartment, it created a vacuum of noise within the immediate area, enough that a bomb could go off in the same room and you’d barely be disturbed.
Taking a deep breath to stretch my tight lungs, I reached over and twisted the knob of the fan to the off position. The rotating blades stilled after a couple of seconds, leaving my ears humming in the absence of noise.
The hum in my ears didn’t overpower the low grumble of thunder from outside. Right before I took to bed (an eye squint across the room at the digital clock revealed that an hour had passed) a storm rolled in, spreading black oily clouds across the entire sky, which is why the fan was positioned on the floor beside my bed and the window closed. Hopefully it wasn’t a large storm system and what I was hearing was the tail end of it. The tenants here would not take kindly to being cooped up for the weekend.
“What’s going on Junebug? Where’s Mom?” I asked, hoping our fabulous mother hadn’t left the apartment like she sometimes did, to be gone for days, or was passed out from one of her frequent benders…or better yet, barfing up bargain shelf whiskey in front of her five-year-old, mumbling about how she must’ve eaten something bad, flu’s going around…yeah, right. Of course she was fine (well, sober at least) an hour ago, so it was hard to believe she could tumble downhill so quickly—but then again, it certainly wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.
“Mommy fell down and…and I can’t wake her up!” She graduated to big, hiccupping sobs.
“Hush now. I’ll check on her okay? Just let me get up.” Gaaaaah, there wasn’t enough medicine in the world for this, I thought. (A silly thought, considering what I’d be facing in about two minutes). After pushing up to a sitting position, the heavy ache in my head sloshed around before settling in behind my eyes.
“What about Harvey, is he still here?” I asked, sliding my legs out from under the tangled sheet and dropping my feet to the floor.
Harvey was our half-brother and two years older than me. He was a gangbanger, or banger for short, and only came to stay at the apartment when he needed some sleep and to mooch food. The gang he was in controlled about a ten block area of the neighborhood. Outside the apartment he was known as Paco, short for Apocalypse, but inside we called him Harvey. His real name was Harvard. No one called him Harvard. The real kicker was that his name represented one of the most prestigious universities in the
world and he’d dropped out of high school three years ago when he was fifteen. Having a background in Geometry and Modern US History wasn’t required for the illustrious job of pushing drugs and propagating violence.
“Harvey’s sleeping on the couch and won’t wake up and mommy’s in the kitchen she was getting milk for my cereal ‘cause I was hungry and it was storming bad and really loud thunder and…and um she fell and the milk spilled all over and I didn’t know what to do! I didn’t know what to do!” Mary had sucked in a big lungful of air after that long, run-together explanation, and then continued crying. As her shoulders shook, she twisted her shirt around and around her fingers.
Anger bubbled up inside, making my teeth clench. Anger directed at my mother. It was a familiar feeling. Pulling Mary between my legs, I hugged her tight.
“Shhhhh, I’ll take care of it. You just wait here, okay? Sit on my bed.” My hand patted the spot.
Mary sat beside me, nodding her head, sniffling. My arm went around her and rubbed, giving her a touch more reassurance before I leaned forward and stood. Testing my legs first, I found them to be steady and then walked out into the hall. At that point I made the pleasant discovery that I didn’t feel too bad after all, particularly since the throbbing in my head had eased. Glancing back, I tossed a quick smile at Mary before gently shutting the door.
As soon as the door clicked, the smile dropped from my face.
I was going to KILL my mother.
She knew better than to mess with Mary. We had an agreement. A few years ago I told her that she’d be better off pretending Mary didn’t exist, because if I ever found out that she touched her or harmed her in any way (like she’d done to me, directly or indirectly), I’d kill her. And while explaining this to her, I made sure to describe in detail how I’d do it and how easy it would be to make it look like an accident. As my mother knew me to be a serious child, she believed my words. I believed my words.
The steps I took towards the kitchen grew more purposeful. Goddamn Girl on a Mission, I thought, narrowing my eyes. How the hell a sixteen-year-old was supposed to continuously deal with this shit…
And that’s when I saw her, and knew instantly that it was an entirely different kind of shit I’d be dealing with. This wasn’t some drunken binge pass-out, or some drug-induced coma. No, no, there wasn’t any coming back from this one. It was at that moment my mind flashed back a couple of years to surprised-faced Quinton on the middle school hallway floor after study hall, where I, among the few, actually studied.
This was like that.
The absurd thought hit me that it looked like I wouldn’t have to kill my mom after all because, well…she was already dead.
Chapter 2
I backed out of the kitchen and into the hallway where I leaned against the cracked wall. My eyes closed as I slid down the wall to the floor.
The word love was never a word used to describe my feelings towards my mom. Hate came close. Even as a small child I recall the vast disappointment I felt at my mom’s many stupid decisions and actions—most of those involving the constant stream of drugs and alcohol and men. Those substances and diversions always came first before such pesky things as her children. And then she’d try to get herself straight. And fail. And then the cycle would repeat itself, over and over again.
Was she a pathetic excuse for a mother? Most definitely.
For a human being? Probably.
But now, sitting in the hallway, not ten feet from her dead body, I realized something. I didn’t hate her anymore. In fact, I didn’t feel anything—no grief at her passing, no anger because of her many shortcomings and failures.
Fear was creeping in, though. With our mom gone, how on earth could I prevent the state from taking Mary away?
A hand squirmed into mine and I opened my eyes, looking into the chocolate brown ones of my sister. I must’ve really been lost in my thoughts not to have heard her approach.
“Mommy?”
In that single word was a question I didn’t want to answer. Soft as a whisper I placed my hands against Mary’s cheeks and touched my forehead to her brow.
“I’m sorry baby, she’s gone.”
Mary face crumpled as she started to cry. Pulling her into my lap, I wrapping my limbs around her body, wishing I had the ability to absorb her pain. “Shhhhh, it’s okay,” I whispered, over and over.
After what seemed like hours but was probably ten minutes, Mary fell asleep. Wanting to investigate what was happening, I knew I needed to get up. My little sister felt heavier than normal, as if sorrow had doubled her weight. Managing to use my legs to push against the wall, I shimmied up with Mary cradled in my arms, and then carried her into our bedroom. After placing her on the bed, I tenderly moved a strand of corkscrew hair out of her face.
Pulling a sigh from the depths of my soul, I tugged a worn blanket up to Mary’s shoulders. The cover wasn’t needed in the warm stuffiness of the apartment, but doing it made me feel better, as if it were a layer of protection against pain. Turning, I walked out of the room to see what was up with my brother.
“Harvey,” I said, looming over him, studying his face. No response. He was lying on his back with his arm flung over the arm of the couch. His head was resting on a mushy pillow the color of mustard and his face was tilted towards me, completely slack.
“Paco!” I nudged him roughly with my leg.
Nothing.
Grabbing his shoulders, I shook him, hard.
Again, no reaction.
What was going on? Could he possibly be dead, like our mom?
Leaning down, I put my ear next to his mouth. There was no tickle of breath against my ear, or any sound that I could detect. Either he was breathing really soft or…
Nah, I couldn’t wrap my head around the other option. Both of them couldn’t be dead.
I drew back and placed my fingers on his throat, next to his Adam’s apple. There it was, his pulse, barely bumping against my fingertips. I pushed down harder. Was that his pulse, or was it mine? No, it had to be his…so why wouldn’t he wake up? Standing straight again, I looked him over. If he was doped up I was going to be pissed, particularly now when we needed him. Plus, he knew better than to do that shit at home.
Crossing my arms, I glanced down the short hallway that led to the kitchen and caught a glimpse of my mother’s legs. I turned back towards my brother. This was surreal.
What I needed to do was call 911. Scanning the area, I spotted my brother’s cell phone on the end table. Passcode required. I tried Mary’s birthday, his birthday, my birthday, even (and this would be a long stretch) our mom’s birthday. Each failed attempt made my jaw clench tighter.
Before I could help it, I threw the phone across the room, where it hit the wall and bounced off, the slim case not protecting it from my anger. It landed on the floor and came to rest face up, displaying a cracked screen.
We didn’t have a landline or a cell phone because my mother never paid bills on time. I shot another glance into the kitchen so I could glare at her legs. See, I told you that we needed a phone! I was constantly telling you that!
Blowing out a breath, I decided the best course of action would be to go across the hall to Mrs. Lansky’s. She was a nice lady, she’d let me use the phone. As quiet as possible, I went into the bedroom to change, trading my boxers and t-shirt that I’d slept in for ragged cut-offs and a royal blue tank top. After verifying that Mary was still sleeping soundly, I walked back out into the living room.
“HARVEY!!” I paused—still nothing.
I made my way to the pile of shoes by the front door. Our apartment, like half in my building, had a very odd layout. The entry door was off the kitchen, and the kitchen was connected to the living room by a hallway, and the living room was connected to the two bedrooms by yet another hallway. There was only one window set in the outside wall of each room, so any light that came in was offset by the darkness of the hallways that lined the inside walls of the apartment.
I co
uld never figure out the reasoning behind designing an apartment this way. The other half of the apartments in each building had a more open, traditional layout, with the entry door off of the living room and no useless long hallways swallowing up space and light. Maybe the architect or building designers had been having a really bad day when they designed this half. Or maybe they thought it was funny. Or maybe they just didn’t give a shit.
After jamming my feet into flip flops, I opened the door and stepped out of the apartment. The entire length of the corridor was lit by four evenly spaced lights which were mounted on the wall about six inches from the ceiling. At best, they emitted a glow the color of weak tea, like the illumination was afraid to venture too far from the security of the wire cage surrounding the bare bulb. It was dim in the hallway, but sometimes that was a good thing.
Mrs. Lansky’s door was across from and about four feet to the right of our apartment door. We were located on the south end of the fourth floor. There were ten apartments per floor and seven floors total in the building where I lived. Three other identical brown brick monstrosities sat facing each other, angled in the corners of a long rectangular patchy lot that framed a broken playground.
Project paradise.
After pulling the door shut behind me, I took a couple of long strides to Mrs. Lansky’s door. Hanging on a nail was a wreath that encircled her apartment number. Years had faded the once bright yellow flowers to a pale buttery hue and a fine layer of dust had settled into all the nooks and crannies, giving the flowers a gray furry look. There was a wooden plaque glued to the bottom portion of the wreath that said Jesus loves YOU!
Staring at the words, I cocked a brow. Jesus had a funny way of showing it, I thought, frowning. At least in my case. I knocked.
After a moment, I said, “Mrs. Lansky? It’s Asha, can I use your phone?”