Page 237 of Swallow Your Sorries

The roadster’s too curvy and the wrong shade of green. And the owner, a grey-templed man in a double-breasted blazer, doesn’t remotely resemble the driver that got away with hurting me. That got away with taking Madame off the planet. Still, I watch as he slips into the crowd headed for the theatre.

Once again, it hits me that I’m the only person who saw the driver’s face. No, the murderer’s face. Not even the Auclairs can track him down, but I can. I can give Gant what he wants. I can help him to leave his loop, his prison.

Then what, Captain Save a Hoe?

There must be a way to silence your inner, intrusive voice.

I blink and cross the lot, easily finding Mum’s old beat-up wagon. It’s like playing ‘one of these things is not like the other’ and winning in record time. The craziest part is that Mum’s wagon is undoubtedly the newest vehicle in the car park.

I don’t miss the stiff head turns of the family members exiting their glossy vehicles as I jog up to the wagon. Rich people are always so stiffly polite and egregiously rude at the same time. If it weren’t for Botox, those‘I’ve just sucked on a lemon’lines would be permanently etched above their lips.

I ignore them, but a tiny pit blisters in my stomach when Rin’s words zoom back to the forefront of my mind.‘Grand Pa Pa won’t even let you onto the estate.’

Who cares?

Maybe you do.

I didn’t. Until Rin brought it up and I hate her for that alone. I hate the intrusive thoughts that constantly whisper in my ear about how much I don’t belong in this world.

Gant’s rigging of my application only exaggerates the feeling.

I shake my head and pull open the driver’s door, ready to confront Mum. Ready to see if my anxiety over our living rearrangements was all in vain. I have enough anxiety on my plate as it is with the play. I may not belong, and I may just be in the chorus, but I’d been given a chance on stage and I’m not about to waste the opportunity and further prove everyone right. I’m going to perform and be the best member of that damn chorus that I can be. So good, maybe a scout will spare me a glance.

Maybe…

When I pull the car door open, I stretch my arms out for one brief second before letting them fall flaccid at my sides. They feel just as awkward as I do. I don’t know if I should reach out and hug her as if nothing is wrong. Or if I should wait to see if something is wrong. Would it matter either way? Would I not hug her even if it turns out we have nowhere to go?

I hadn’t seen her in months and she’s my mother after all.

‘What is a mother then?’Gant’s earlier words cross my mind.

Regardless, I expect Mum to open her arms wide for me. I expect her to lock me into a bear hug and call me Elle Belle. But she doesn’t.

She doesn’t move at all. She’s slumped over the wheel, her hair strewn across her face, her left arm limp in her lap, her right hand on the gearshift that’s wet.

Plop!

Plop!

I flick my eyes to the dash in front of the passenger seat and watch a golden brown liquid drip steadily from a near-empty beer can.

BANG!

The slamming car door rings in my ears as I sprint over to the passenger door and slide in. A second ring as I shut myself inside rattles my ear drums and holds me stationary until the final vibration becomes inaudible.

Plop!

Plop!

It reeks. Everything reeks of a smell I thought I’d finally escaped. A smell synonymous with Jarett because he wore it in lieu of cheap cologne.

I eye his favourite brand of beer on the dash. There are at least six more cans in the back seat. On the floor. And dozens of little cards. Scratchers. All showing that she’s won nothing at all besides the papers they’re printed on.

It’s comically absurd. But I’m not laughing.

It’s freezing but I don’t reach for the heating knob. It’s been broken since I was eight.

Plop!

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