Page 75 of Love What's Left
He starts the movie on his iPad, then passes me a mug of chamomile tea. I hesitate for two seconds, then take a sip. He made it for me, along with the popcorn. It’s safe.
Rufus gets comfortable at our feet. I dig into the bowl of popcorn, and McRae drops his arm around my shoulders. I lean on him, contentment wrapping me in a warm embrace on a night when I’d have said it was impossible to feel anything but pain and fear.
He has no responsibility to disrupt his own sleep to hang out inside a closet with me. I could have popped some earbuds in and read a book all night on my own.
Closet camping is silly. It’s immature.It’s the kindest thing I can remember anyone ever doing for me.And he already held the record.
We finish the movie and popcorn, then turn on another movie. Halfway throughKiki’s Delivery Service, McRae’s arm relaxes. I look over to find him sleeping half reclined with his neck bent in an uncomfortable-looking position.
I move the tablet out of the way and ease him down. He rolls toward me, tugging me close, his face pressed into my shoulder.
The sound of the movie continues, though I can’t see it while I’m lying on my side. That’s more than okay with me.
The night is the kind of sticky hot that makes breathing about as comfortable as sucking air through a wet blanket.
Wake up.Wake up. Wake up.But I never can once it starts.
Rain pounds on the car windows like Big Mitch looking for rent money. Not to get confused with Little Mitch, who ain’t little at all.
Little Mitch and Dad are inside the Sportsmen’s Club celebrating me coming home. But Dad forgot MaryBeth works on Tuesdays, and she don’t allow no kids inside after dark.
It turned dark a long time ago.
On the nights Becky works, I’m allowed to sleep on the cracked sticky red cushion in a corner booth. She gives me a Sprite with a cherry in it and my own red-and-white-striped paper tray of popcorn. Sometimes, somebody screws up an order or Dad’s got extra money, and they send me over fried pickles or chicken tenders with honey to dip ’em in and french fries for supper.
I wish Becky was here. My guts are all hollowed out tonight with that pinchy feeling. I had lunch at school, but I sure would like some popcorn or french fries.
I sit up on my knees in the backseat and unzip my Strawberry Shortcake backpack the church people gave me.
I fish out the packet of squished Club Crackers I saved from school lunch. When I rip it open, crumbs go flying, so I shove what I can into my mouth fast as I can. Then I lick my thumb and use it to dab up the crumbs that got on my shirt and legs.
The only drink is water for Dad, but he won’t care if I open the bottle and take sips.
When the social worker makes him stop drinking beer, he’s miserable and mean as a rattlesnake. But if he has beer, he’s nice and funny. Everybody cracks up over his stories, like the one about the time he lost me when I was two.
My mom, who I don’t remember because of the vein blowing up in her head when I was little, came racing home from her job at the hospital to look for me and was screeching, “Call the police. How do you lose a baby? You had one job, Allen!” And Dad was shouting, “My girl! My poor, sweet girl!” Then, I crawled out from under my crib where I was sleeping with my blanket on my head and told them I was hungry, and that was that.
Everybody laughs hard at that story ’cause Dad tells it high-larious.
We lived in West Virginia then, but Dad and I moved here ’cause of Dad’s college friend giving him a “career toonity.” That was a while back and a bunch of jobs ago.
Becky told me she was gonna be my bonus mom, and there’s no such thing as “wicked stepmothers.” Then Dad messed it up by letting some lady with her boobs hanging out sit on his lap right in front of everybody.
Dad was real sorry after, but Becky said, “Take a shit in one hand and say sorry in the other and see which one fills up faster” ’cause she has “self-respect.”
I told her it was an accidental lap-sitting, and he don’t mean nothing by it. She hugged me and cried, and told me never, ever think a man’s gonna change. He is who he is and staying means signing up for more of it the rest of your life.
I twist the cap on the plastic water bottle and take two sips. Then I put the lid on and slide it back in my bag.
Dad shoulda left me the keys. The windows don’t work without them, and I can’t hardly breathe in here.
I crack the door and stick my face outside with my tongue out. The car light comes on, and rain whips inside, so I breathe the outside the same way I drank Dad’s water. In a couple fast, careful sips.
I close the door, wipe off my face with my shirt and lay down in the backseat. Then, I’m choking on gross, wet air again, my arms and legs all stretched out away from each other ’cause it’s so hot I don’t want nothing touching nothing.
Dad says duck down and hide if I see somebody come close in the parking lot. There’s a blanket I can throw over me that smells like our old dog, Howard. He ran away to look for me when the helmet-haired lady took me to foster care, but Dad said Howard might come home now I’m back.
Duane at school said when Dad was in jail, the You Main people took my dog and gave him to somebody better.
