by Jo Raven
Like Raine. I’ll never forget, for as long as I live, the day of the accident, when he found out that Livvy had died. Or that our aunt was coming to pick him up and take him away.
Away from me.
Where he’d be fed, for God’s sakes, and taken care of, and be kept safe. Where he could go to school, and learn stuff, and be happy. That’s what I thought as I cried alone behind the trailer later that day. He’d be happy. And healthy. One day he’d see that it was the right thing to do.
But what if I was wrong? What if I screwed up in every fucking way? After all that, is it any wonder he can’t get why I keep coming back to visit our folks? Or that he’s mad as hell at me?
What is strange, though, is that he makes it sound as if I put others over him when he won’t even talk to me. When he blames me for everything.
And fuck, I can’t really explain what keeps dragging me back here. Why I should feel responsible for Mom when she never took care of me or Raine. Why I should feel guilty I didn’t try to take her away earlier. Save her.
That’s what I want to do. Save her, when she didn’t save me. Like that will somehow make everything right.
She’s sick, I remind myself. Was sick all along. I know that now. Depression. Who knows what else. Now her body is catching up after a lifetime of missed meals and crappy food and chain smoking, after a crappy life. She’s forty, but she looks like she’s sixty.
My chest tightens. I rub my fist over it in circles as I approach the trashy sea of trailers.
Yeah, I can’t understand what brings me here, except she’s my mom, in spite of everything, and I can’t let her die. Especially not all alone in this fucking dump.
Like I told Jesse. We all deserve a second chance.
***
“Hey, Blue!” old Stanford greets me from his perch on the rickety steps of his Spiderman trailer. Well, it mostly looks like something bled all over it, the rust eating up brown patches in the design, but we all know it as the Spiderman trailer.
I salute him and continue on my way, walking past piles of rusty junk and the carcass of a school bus. In all honesty, the place is a junkyard, full of trash people threw away, or trash people living here collected.
But the lot rents are low, and that’s what matters to the residents. Beggars can’t be choosers, I guess.
This park used to be my world, once upon a time. I knew every nook and cranny, every hiding spot, every door that didn’t close well so I could steal some money or food, every dumpster where food was likely to be found.
Sometimes it was a fun place to be. No supervision. No rules.
And sometimes it was pure misery, and hunger, and confusion, and the crushing weight of caring for my little brother. The responsibility of feeding him, and clothing him, and keeping him clean and goddamn alive.
Wasn’t easy.
As a matter of fact, it sucked balls, but I fucking made it work. Until the accident, until Raine had a fucking breakdown and my old man had a fit of rage, and it all fell apart.
Stop thinking about that, I tell myself, walking past Crazy Jo’s trailer. She is a crazy old bat and romance addict, living with her three black cats among stacks of dog-eared paperbacks and faded posters of naked guys.
“Woohoo! Pretty Blue!” She blows kisses at me as I go by, pursing her neon-pink lips and patting her big artificial curls. “Come on, Blue, don’t be blue!”
I wave at her and open my stride. It would’ve been funny if she wasn’t old enough to be my grandmother, her boobs sagging over her belly under her white nightie and her face wrinkled like a prune. As it is, it’s kinda depressing.
“Blue!” a man’s voice rings out, and I wince. “Come over here, have a look at this beauty.” Duane gestures at an exposed car engine. “Doesn’t it make you wanna race again?”
“Nope.” I clench my jaw. “Not really.”
“You kept the blue hair. You kept the name.” He clucks his tongue. “Don’t lie to me, boy.”
“Fuck you,” I mutter as I jog away. “I’m done with racing.”
“You’re gonna be begging me one day to take you back!” he yells at my back and spits. “When you need money and nowhere else to get it. You’ll be fucking begging me on your fucking knees.”
A shiver snakes through me.
It’s the cold, I decide, the sharp wind whistling between the trailers. And yet I’m too warm in my jacket. Too jittery with nerves.
And doubts.
About leaving Madison. Leaving Kayla.
Fucking insane. I didn’t have these doubts two weeks ago. Doubts about being able to take Mom and leave, sure. Doubts about having the cash and strength of will to see this mad plan through, absolutely.
But Kayla wasn’t a factor back then. I barely knew her.
You still barely know her, I remind myself. Knowing how her pussy tastes isn’t enough reason to change your plans.
That wasn’t all, though. She made me soup. And woke me up from a nightmare. And kissed me. Touched me. Put her hand on my chest.
Goddammit, Ocean. Holy fucking shit. Listen to yourself.
Furious at my weakness when it comes to her, I march past two trailers where junkies have moved in lately, barely checking to see if there’s anyone sitting on the porch.
Stop thinking about her. Even if you weren’t planning to spirit your mom away, what would she wanna do with trailer trash like you?
Feeling slightly calmer, I slow down and walk past Margie and Ed Fairchild’s home, toward Floyd’s.
Nothing was ever gonna happen between Kayla and me, anyway. No reason to sweat it. She said it herself. It meant nothing.
So I should suck it up already and fucking let go. No reason to wonder what it’d be like being together with Kayla. Being her boyfriend. Sleeping in the same bed with her, taking care of her, sitting with her to eat at the kitchen table. Making out with her every night.
Kissing her soft lips, holding her in my arms every day.
Fuck.
Enough.
The brown, run-down trailer is owned by Floyd Garth, a friendly sixty-something guy who’s been around since I can remember. He’s smoking, seated in a white plastic chair on his trailer’s porch.
Frigging awesome. Everyone’s outdoors today. Despite the chilly wind, it’s dry and sunshine sometimes pokes through the clouds, luring the inhabitants of Tin Town outdoors.
I put my head down and pretend I didn’t notice him.
He isn’t impressed. “Blue. How is it going?”
“Fine.”
“Haven’t seen your brother around.”
“That’s because he’s not around.”
He scowls at me.
Floyd isn’t annoying or frightening. He isn’t particularly friendly, either. My memories of him when I lived here are a mixed bag. I remember him giving me some ibuprofen for Raine one time my baby bro had been really sick.
I also remember him slamming his door to my face and calling me a filthy beggar a few times when I dared knock on it, asking for food.
Yeah. Fucking mixed bag, for sure. Never sure how to act around him.
So I open my step to leave him behind.
“A doctor came and had a look at your mom the other day,” he calls after me. “Your old man was worried.”
I stop, a shiver rattling my spine. “What did you say?”
“A doctor. All dressed up in a dark suit like a crow.”
I turn around to face Floyd, my spine locked, a thousand questions vying for voice and dying in my throat.
“Doc came here?”
“Yeah. Didn’t you hear what I said? I saw him. Quiet fellow. Serious.”
Never seen a doctor doing house calls around here. Not that I’m not grateful. I sure am, but something’s bothering me. I can’t put my finger on it, until it hits me like a punch and fear washes down my back in an icy wave.
If my old man, who never gave a damn about my mom, brought a doctor, it only means one thing in my mind.
Mom.<
br />
Son of a bitch. I fucking knew something was seriously wrong with her.
Spinning back around, I sprint toward home.
***
Our trailer comes into view as I turn right, pounding on the rutty, muddy street that crosses the park. The trailer was white once, with big windows and a small shed on one side.
My heart in my throat, I run up the three steps and throw the door open.
“Mom!” I walk inside the cramped dining room space with the kitchen on the side, a smell of urine, stale sweat and rotten meat hitting me, and I see her, at her usual place, her knitted blue blanket over her legs, a faraway expression on her thin face. She’s staring outside the dusty window, a magazine laid open on her knees, her dark hair an unkempt nest.
Everything looks normal.
Panting, I lean against the door, trying to get my breathing back under control, when a small noise from my left catches my attention.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” a male voice says, and there is dear old dad, coming out of the bedroom, a beer in his hand. “Hi, Son.”
“It’s Blue to you,” I drawl.
He scratches at the week-old scruff on his sallow face and sneers at me. “That’s not your name.”
“It sure is. It’s the name I fucking chose for myself.” Can’t help taking a step back, which pisses me off. I’m not a little kid anymore. “What are you doing awake?”
He sleeps all day, drinks and plays cards all night. A pattern he didn’t break all my life—until now.
The unease is back, twisting my stomach.
“Didn’t I kick you out, years ago? You have no place here.”
I grit my teeth. “This is my home.”
Home. A word that has haunted me for as long as I can remember.
“Hasn’t been your home since you walked out.”
“You just said it. I didn’t walk out. You fucking sent me away.”
“For good reason. You’re not welcome here, boy. Unless you have a good reason to be.”
Jeez. I have nobody left. I’m not an orphan, but I might as well be. Maybe I was all along and didn’t wanna see it. Accept it.
Dammit, no. I have Mom.
“I have a good reason,” I say, keeping my voice calm. “I’m checking on Mom. Someone has to, seeing as you’re never here.”
He scowls. “Your mom is sick,” he says. “Did she tell you?”
“You tell me.” The small interior tilts a little. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Doctor isn’t sure, but it ain’t looking good, boy. Could be… how did he call it? Lupus. Yeah.”
I slam a hand into the trailer wall to steady myself. My ears are ringing. My worst fears are coming true. “Who is this doctor? I wanna talk to him.”
“Wanna talk to him? Here.” He pats his pockets, pulls out a business card and throws it at me. “Now get out.”
“You fucking kidding me?” Anger pulls me from the trance-like state of shock. “I’m not going anywhere until I know Mom’s okay.”
He pats his pockets again, pulls out a flattened pack of cigarettes. “So you’ll be coming back, I’m guessing?”
“Damn right I will. I’ve been here almost every weekend these past months? Did you even notice?”
He sticks a smoke in the corner of his mouth, lights up and squints at me. “Can’t say I have.”
Liar. Asshole. Goddammit, I feel as if my head’s about to explode.
“Never said I understood women, you know?” he shrugs, as if talking to himself. “Never thought she was sick. I thought it was a woman thing. Hormones, you know? From having you kids.”
Is this an apology?
I scrub a hand over my face. “Whatever.”
Hey, wait a sec. There’s a doctor checking on Mom. I can’t take her away. Not yet. And if she has treatment, if she gets better, then maybe… Maybe she won’t need saving. Maybe she can save herself.
Maybe she’ll look at me and smile. Tell me, hey, Ocean. Thanks for being here. I love you.
My chest is so tight with hope I can barely breathe. Hope for Mom, hope for Kayla. Hope for me.
God, I fucking hate hope. It makes everything so much worse when it inevitably fails to deliver.
***
Mom doesn’t say much when I sit beside her with a cup of coffee. That’s not unusual. When I ask her about the doctor’s visit, she gives a tiny smile I can’t interpret.
Glancing around to make sure my old man isn’t within hearing distance, I lean in, put my hand over hers. “What did the doc tell you, mom? What sort of therapy is needed?”
I vaguely recall what lupus is. Something about light sensitivity. And many complications.
Shit.
She doesn’t answer.
“You’ll be fine,” I tell her, although there’s a knot in my throat. “Okay, Mom? You’ll be fine.”
Mom stirs a little, pulls her hand away from mine. The creases around her mouth deepen. “No money,” she says, her voice like rust. “There’s no money for this.”
“It’ll all be covered, Mom. The state will cover it, right?” It was a rhetorical question, so it’s a shock when she shakes her head. “What do you mean, no?”
“My Badgercare enrollment ended years ago,” she rasps.
“What? Why? It won’t be easy to get back in, and…” Shit. She’ll need to pay for doctor’s visits, medication. I drop my head in my hands. “Hell. You have to re-enroll, Mom, ASAP.”
“I called them. It will take some time. Meanwhile,” she goes on, “your father won’t tell you this. But he has no money for this.”
“Fuck.” No news there.
“The cost—”
“I’ll find a way. I’ll… Goddammit.” I clench my hands into fists and grind my teeth together, fighting to regain my calm. I let out a long breath. “I’ll check if there’s anyone who can push your file in the system. Don’t you worry about it.”
She looks away, stops paying me any attention.
It makes me wonder if she heard me all those times I told her I’ll take her away. That I’ll find a place for us to live, and I’ll take care of her.
Fuck, this mess with the insurance. Can’t fucking believe it. If this is serious, it’ll cost an arm and a leg. But dammit, although she might have disappointed me, forgotten all about me, neglected me–she’s my mom.
She’s my mom.
And despite everything, I know I’d give my damn last penny for her, if that’s the way to make her well.
***
The bedroom door remains firmly closed as I busy myself with the usual chores—cleaning up the accumulated filth in the trailer, doing the laundry in the laundromat down the road, trying to draw my mom into a conversation and maybe find out more about what the doctor said.
Useless. She says nothing more.
I order some pizza and end up putting most of it away in the fridge for later. Mom’s never had much of an appetite, but today it’s even less, and mine isn’t much better.
By late afternoon, the weather has turned to a drizzle, and it’s time for me to go.
Armed with the doctor’s name and phone number, I tell Mom goodbye—to which of course I get no reply—and march through the muddy park to reach my car. I start the engine and swallow hard.
What a fucking bad day.
By the time I pull out of the empty field that doubles up as parking lot and onto the interstate, I’ve managed to stop cursing.
The cemetery isn’t far. A few exits down. The scent of the lilies inside the pick-up is so strong it’s making my sinuses itch. I take the exit, the gears kinda sticking as I downshift. Frowning, I make my way to the gate and park.
It always hits me like a ton of bricks whenever I sit here, with my bunch of flowers, about to visit a girl long dead. The embodiment of my failure. The trigger of my downfall.
And listen to me whining. Fuck, she’s gone, she’s dead and buried, and I’m here feeling sorry for myself.
It’s still drizzling
, and my jacket ain’t stopping rain for shit, so I do what I always do in case of rain: I drop my cell phone into a Ziploc bag and put it back into my pocket. Not the first time my cell died because it got wet, and I can’t afford another right now.
Icons for text messages are flashing on the screen. I ignore them. Not now, dammit.
Let’s do this.
Sucking in a deep breath, I grab the flowers and climb out of the pick-up. I trudge down the familiar path, my feet moving of their own volition. They know the way, even when I’m lost inside my head, like now.
The grave is unremarkable, except for a faded doll sitting on top of the tomb, next to a bunch of dead lilies.
With a sigh, I take the dead flowers and place the fresh bunch in their place.
Then I turn my back to the tomb and slide down, resting against it, stretching out my legs in front of me and laying the dead flowers across my knees.
“Hey, Livvy.” I press the heels of my palms into my eyes. “Guess who’s here. The guy who promised he’d take care of you. The guy who failed you.”
I remember her running through the trailer park with my brother, giggling and yelling. Little terrors, both of them. And then they turned into teenagers and thought they could take on the world. They tried to do what I was doing.
One of them is now dead. Because I was a bad example. Because I didn’t look out for them as I should have.
The sky is darkening with nightfall and angry clouds. The light drizzle is turning into rain, and I let it run down my face, down my neck. I lick the raindrops off my lips, lacking the motivation to move.
Except I need to punch something. Break something. Punish something or someone, when the fault is mine.
For Livvy’s death. Raine’s anger. Mom’s sickness. For ruts that run so deep that no matter what you do, you can’t escape.
Holy shit. I really should get back before I do anything stupid.
I’m already drenched. Too late I pull up the hood of my jacket. A shiver wracks me as I make it to my feet and head back to my Chevy.
Fucking cold wet.
The weather suits my mood damn fine. I throw the dead flowers in the back seat and pull out onto the street. The headlights cut yellow cylinders in the dark and falling rain. The wipers swish back and forth as I re-enter the highway and step on the gas.