Page 1 of North
CHAPTER 1
My stomach tightened as I stared at the glossy red clock anchored high on the exposed brick wall. The minute hand inched around the circle painstakingly slow no matter how much I willed it to speed up. I blinked the sense of urgency from my brain.
“I’m sorry, sir, what would you like to drink?” A rehearsed smile pulled the corners of my mouth up. It was enough to mask the nagging heaviness in my gut. Customers didn’t care about the subtle nuances on my face anyway. Being a server was like wearing a mask. I could’ve been having a full-blown meltdown and customers would still place orders and hand me their closed menus.
“I’ll have a Coke,” he said, offering his own polite smile. I nodded then scribbled his order down on a small spiral-bound pad of paper. Wobbly knees and legs carried me to an old touch screen kiosk from the early two-thousands where I punched in the customer’s order.
Once the order was pushed to the cooks, I walked into the kitchen and plucked a breadstick from a basket under the warming lamp. My stomach thanked me by quieting the rowdy noises it had been making for the past hour.
“You haven’t been eating, have you, North? You’re so damn skinny.” Sierra’s brown eyes slid up and down my gaunt frame while her arched browns pulled together, furrowing. I couldn’t hide anything from her. She’d been able to sniff out my lies since fourth grade.
“I’m eating now,” I tipped my half-eaten breadstick at her and wink.
“You’re shoving food in your face because you’re hungry.” She took a hot breadstick from a pan of freshly baked ones and placed it in the basket I stole one from.
“The point is, I’m eating.” I shoved the rest of the soft, buttery bread in my mouth and relished the garlicky goodness as it hit my grateful stomach. I couldn’t remember the last time I had something to eat.
The fridge at home was empty and we were down to our last pack of chicken Ramen noodles. I had to scrape together at least five dollars to grab bread and lunch meat from the store on the way home and my tips were looking as malnourished as I felt. The steakhouse I worked at was an old hole in the wall with not many customers. The ones that did come through weren’t generous with tips. With a soft exhale, I tugged the ballpoint pin from behind my ear and clicked it a few dozen times.
Sierra put her hand on mine and I stopped to admire the contrast of her golden skin against my pale complexion. It was fitting since she always added warmth to my ice. “You’re worrying,” she pointed out. “You know I was just fucking with you about eating. You need me to put together a bag of food for you?”
A lopsided smile tipped my lips. I knew she’d do it too. She would talk to one of the main cooks and have them put something extra aside for me. She’s done it before but today I didn’t want handouts. I wouldn’t be able to handle one more act of charity. So I shook my head at Sierra’s well-intended question and waited for my order to finish.
When the roasted chicken and glazed carrots came out for my last customer of the night I tried not to ogle the plump thigh and drumstick like a girl with no manners. I smiled, set the food down, and handed the table off to Sierra. I was done for the night and if I had to smell one more piece of food I couldn’t eat, I’d scream. The cheap owners of the steakhouse wouldn’t even let the employees have a free meal even though it should’ve been the least they did for us.
I waved goodbye to my best friend and she smiled, giving me a look that told me she’d call me later. The second I was in the break room, I pulled off my apron and fell against the worn and lumpy couch. The springs squeaked when I bounced on them. I pulled out my cash tips and counted out six dollars. It would be enough to get a little food.
I walked into the frigid night air and a chill rippled through my body forcing my coat tighter around me. I shoved my white-knuckled fists into my pocket and gritted my teeth against the January weather as I moved down the street toward the grocery store.
I was grateful for the reprieve from Colorado’s frosty temperatures when I finally stepped inside the brightly lit store. I picked up bologna, mustard, bread, and cheese for sandwiches then made my way to the bakery. The smell of fresh bread made my stomach rumble under my coat.
My eyes darted from price tag to price tag scowling every time. Everything was too expensive. It was ridiculous.
The sinking feeling from earlier was back. I thought I’d successfully stuffed it down and out of the way. I hated the sticky way it intruded on my thoughts refusing to be wiped off on the bottom of my shoe.
I stepped away from the cakes and cupcakes at the bakery and turned my head. The bright yellow from a clearance sign caught my eye. I wandered over to it and plucked a pack of four vanilla cupcakes from the shelf. They were only two dollars. Excitement splashed water on the uneasy quiver in my gut.
Those cupcakes were mine.
I took my things to self-checkout and scanned every item before nibbling on my already chewed nails. My stomach flopped while I waited for the total.
Five dollars and ninety-three cents.
A microscopic bead of sweat rolled down my back as I counted out six crumpled bills to feed the money slot. Once the money was gone, I rubbed my palms on my thighs and grabbed my bags before snagging the loose change under the blinking arrow.
Outside, a blustery wind knocked me to the left but not enough to make me lose my footing. I made my way to Delta Peak Apartments keeping my head below the air’s whipping tentacles.
My lips were dry and my fingertips were numb as I fumbled trying to get my key in the lock. Inside, the temperature wasn’t much warmer. The heat wasn’t working in our building and it wouldn’t be fixed until tomorrow. I closed the heavy door with my slender hips and called out to my mother.
I scanned the living room and frowned at the soot streaked glass pipe on the glass coffee table. Beside it were small crumpled balls of aluminum foil and a slender hypodermic needle. I shut my eyes and pushed out a slow breath. I stepped over the trail of Mom’s discarded clothes and moved over to the kitchen to sit the grocery bags down.
My shoulders shook as they rose and fell. I knew she was on the couch. I didn’t have to search for her. This was my routine. This was my welcome home from work. I did this every day.
So why were my hands shaking?
I wet my dry lips with my tongue then took slow steady steps toward the living room. Even in the dark, I could make out Mom’s rail-thin frame on the couch. She was slumped over the arm wearing her bra and panties. Her ribs and hipbones protruded from beneath blue-ish pale skin speckled with scabs and scars. Some were fresh and crimson, still weeping with fluid while others were yellow and crusty.
Her bony arm hung over the side of the couch, limp and riddled with track marks. Her twisted veins bulged against the bend of her arm. My top lip curled as I stood over her peering down.
