Page 70 of Bountiful
I turned to find her watching me with sheepish eyes. “No kidding, Z. You’re really notthetype.”
Her face softened, and it made her appear more vulnerable than I remembered her ever looking. Clear brown eyes blinked back at me from that pretty face, with those defiant cheekbones. She was so pretty in a way that was so unforced. I’d bet she had no idea how far she turned mycrank.
“Just wanted you to know that,” she whispered. “Your sister told me that your dad used to hityouboth…”
“That’s different,” I said quickly. We were not going there. “And anyway, my mother was a face slapper,” I said. “But she wouldnever…”
Shit. I couldn’t talk about that parent, either. This was exactly why I wasn’t a family man. My family tree was a fuckinglandmine.
“Shewhat?”
“Never mind. I was going to saysomethingdumb.”
“Why? Where is your mother,anyway?”
Yikes. “She passed when I was small. Really, I barelyrememberher.”
“You remember her hitting you on the face,though.”
Point to Zara. “It wasn’t a big deal.” It didn’t even make the top-ten list for things that went wrong during mychildhood.
“How’dshedie?”
“Zara,” I warned.Christ almighty. She didn’t really want to hear about this shit. She only thoughtshedid.
“How?” she pressed, proving my point. “I thought we were asking each otheranything?”
I sighed. “Drug overdose. I was five, Bess was one and a half. I’m the one thatfoundher.”
“Wow.” Zara’s eyes popped wide. “I’msorry.”
“It was alongtimeago.”
“But you still remember it?” shepressed.
Leaning my head against the outbuilding behind me, I closed my eyes. “Yeah, I remember that nobody had shown up at school that day to pick me up from kindergarten. This was not much of a surprise, and so I walked home by myself. I didn’t think anything of it, even when I banged on our front door and she didn’topenit…”
I pictured my five-year-old self standing there, waiting. And then the hair rose up on my arms as I remembered something else—the sound of Bess inside the house, wailing. Just like in the dreams I’d beenhaving.
Shit.
And then I couldn’t stop the memory from unfolding. I’d gone next door and retrieved the extra key from Mrs. Parker, the retired school librarian who was always out on her porch, watching the kids come home fromschool.
When I finally got into the house, I’d seen her. My mother. Laid out on the floor, a baggie of powder near her outstretched fingers. She’d been very, verystill.
And I’dknown. I’d known, but I hadn’t known. My mother had been passed out in my presencebefore.
But this time I was afraid of her. I was afraid totouchher.
I knelt down on the rug while my sister screamed even louder. She’d probably heard the door open, and was making her presence known. I knew I had to get back there and show my face so she’d stop. But I was staring at my mother’s body. Her eyelids were blueish. Her lips were ashen. Her hand lay on the rug in an ordinary way. But way toostill.
Slowly, I stretched out my own hand, hovering an inch over hers, and finally lowering it to herfingers.
They were cold. And then so was I. So cold and so scared. Besswailedon.
I rose from the rug. With a pounding heart, I stepped over my mother’s outstretched legs and went into the bedroom I shared with Bess. My sister was standing in her crib, chubby little hands clenched around the wooden bars, her face bright red and tear-streaked. Her voice was hoarse from screaming. She didn’t stop when I enteredtheroom.
Getting her out of the crib wasn’t going to be easy because I was too short. So I climbed into the crib and hugged her until she calmed down. She stank ofurine…
