with your pathetic ass.”
“Don’t say
that...” she moans, “Don’t say that, baby...”
“I’m not your
baby,” I tell her, “I’m practically a grown ass man, and no thanks to you. So
next time you feel like you want to tell me how much I owe you, curb it, you
bitch. I don’t want to hear it.”
“I’m sorry,” she
wails, thick tears streaming down her dirty cheeks, “I’m so sorry, Trace. I
know I’m not worth shit. I know I never deserved a sweet little son like you. I
just wish you could forgive me. I can’t sleep at night, knowing you’re stuck in
some stranger’s house without me. It kills me, baby, it really does.”
“Good,” I tell
her, drawing myself up. Seeing her like this fucking kills me, but I don’t want
her to know it. She can’t know how much I still care about her and Dad, even if
they are miserable fucking junkies.
I dig the money
for our dinner out of my pocket and stuff it into her claw-like hand. She
blinks up at me in the dim street light, satisfied. I know that this is what
she really came for. She’s been doing it for years. When I was little, I handed
her my milk money. Now, she’ll take whatever I’ve got.
Why I still fork
anything over to her, I can’t say. Especially when I know that all her bullshit
about caring for me is just that—shit. I wish I was strong enough to tell her
to go fuck herself and leave it at that. But even after all these years, I
still want to be a good son.
“Stay the fuck
away this time,” I tell her, “I mean it.”
“Whatever you
say, baby,” she coos, clutching the money to her chest. “I love you so much,
Trace. I’ll do whatever you say.”
“Until you need
more smack money,” I reply. “You’ll never change, will you? Not until you OD or
wander out into traffic or fucking kill yourself some other way.”
“Probably not,”
she says, blankly. It’s the first honest thing that’s come out of her mouth all
night.
I turn away from
my mom to find Nadia standing there, silently. Her eyes are full of compassion,
and understanding, and something that looks a lot like love. I can’t even look
at her full in the face. I know that if I do, I’ll crack in a heartbeat. I grab
onto her hand and bring her back to the car, climbing silently into the
driver’s seat and peeling away from the pizza shop.
As we make our
way home once again, I feel Nadia’s hand on my arm. Without speaking, I loose
one hand from the wheel and let her take it in hers. We drive on without
words—the simple act of holding hands says more than enough for the both of us.
Six
Nadia
A New Home
The first month
passes slowly.
I’ve heard it
said that settling into a new home is a process, but I wouldn’t know for sure.
Truth is, I’ve never felt truly settled in any of the homes I’ve been shipped
off to. The last place in the world where I felt secure and cared for was my
parents’ home. Since my mom and dad passed away, I’ve all but given up trying
to wrestle my heart into caring about any of the people or places around me.
That is...until now.
Lord knows, the
life that Paul and Nancy have to offer is no spring picnic. But even in this
dingy row house, in this half-mad city, the insane thought keeps occurring to me
that I could get comfortable here.
It all really
comes down to one thing: I actually have friends here—not at school, but at
home. Garrick, Conway, and especially Trace, are the closest thing to family
I’ve had since my parents died. And it’s taken a little getting used to.
Having at least
a handful of people around who actually care about me has been strange. The
weirdest thing about it is that my old habits from my “previous life” are
resurfacing again. Before my parents died, I was an incredibly early riser. I’d
wake up before the sun and spend hours daydreaming and doodling and writing in
my journal. Never, in any of my homes since, have I wanted to greet the day
before absolutely necessary...but
“Don’t say
that...” she moans, “Don’t say that, baby...”
“I’m not your
baby,” I tell her, “I’m practically a grown ass man, and no thanks to you. So
next time you feel like you want to tell me how much I owe you, curb it, you
bitch. I don’t want to hear it.”
“I’m sorry,” she
wails, thick tears streaming down her dirty cheeks, “I’m so sorry, Trace. I
know I’m not worth shit. I know I never deserved a sweet little son like you. I
just wish you could forgive me. I can’t sleep at night, knowing you’re stuck in
some stranger’s house without me. It kills me, baby, it really does.”
“Good,” I tell
her, drawing myself up. Seeing her like this fucking kills me, but I don’t want
her to know it. She can’t know how much I still care about her and Dad, even if
they are miserable fucking junkies.
I dig the money
for our dinner out of my pocket and stuff it into her claw-like hand. She
blinks up at me in the dim street light, satisfied. I know that this is what
she really came for. She’s been doing it for years. When I was little, I handed
her my milk money. Now, she’ll take whatever I’ve got.
Why I still fork
anything over to her, I can’t say. Especially when I know that all her bullshit
about caring for me is just that—shit. I wish I was strong enough to tell her
to go fuck herself and leave it at that. But even after all these years, I
still want to be a good son.
“Stay the fuck
away this time,” I tell her, “I mean it.”
“Whatever you
say, baby,” she coos, clutching the money to her chest. “I love you so much,
Trace. I’ll do whatever you say.”
“Until you need
more smack money,” I reply. “You’ll never change, will you? Not until you OD or
wander out into traffic or fucking kill yourself some other way.”
“Probably not,”
she says, blankly. It’s the first honest thing that’s come out of her mouth all
night.
I turn away from
my mom to find Nadia standing there, silently. Her eyes are full of compassion,
and understanding, and something that looks a lot like love. I can’t even look
at her full in the face. I know that if I do, I’ll crack in a heartbeat. I grab
onto her hand and bring her back to the car, climbing silently into the
driver’s seat and peeling away from the pizza shop.
As we make our
way home once again, I feel Nadia’s hand on my arm. Without speaking, I loose
one hand from the wheel and let her take it in hers. We drive on without
words—the simple act of holding hands says more than enough for the both of us.
Six
Nadia
A New Home
The first month
passes slowly.
I’ve heard it
said that settling into a new home is a process, but I wouldn’t know for sure.
Truth is, I’ve never felt truly settled in any of the homes I’ve been shipped
off to. The last place in the world where I felt secure and cared for was my
parents’ home. Since my mom and dad passed away, I’ve all but given up trying
to wrestle my heart into caring about any of the people or places around me.
That is...until now.
Lord knows, the
life that Paul and Nancy have to offer is no spring picnic. But even in this
dingy row house, in this half-mad city, the insane thought keeps occurring to me
that I could get comfortable here.
It all really
comes down to one thing: I actually have friends here—not at school, but at
home. Garrick, Conway, and especially Trace, are the closest thing to family
I’ve had since my parents died. And it’s taken a little getting used to.
Having at least
a handful of people around who actually care about me has been strange. The
weirdest thing about it is that my old habits from my “previous life” are
resurfacing again. Before my parents died, I was an incredibly early riser. I’d
wake up before the sun and spend hours daydreaming and doodling and writing in
my journal. Never, in any of my homes since, have I wanted to greet the day
before absolutely necessary...but
Similar Books
