Nova 05 Ruin Me (4 page)

“Really?” Avery raises her brows. “Why? She hates Mom. And she’s never really been a fan of us since we’re our mother’s offspring and share the same DNA.”

I lift my shoulder and give a half shrug. “It’s the only thing I could think of to do.”

“What’d she say?” She removes a pan from the burner and the grease stops sizzling.

I grab the trash bin from under the sink and wipe the eggshells into it. “She didn’t answer, so I left a voice message.”

Avery opens her mouth to say something, but seals her lips shut when my phone rings.

Grabbing it off the counter, I check the screen. “It’s Aunt Julie,” I say then press talk. “Hello.”

“Hey, Jax. You called?” Julie asks, sounding about as annoyed as Avery did when I told her the news of our mother.

There’s an uncomfortable pause as I rack my brain for what to say to her.

“You don’t have to explain,” my Aunt Julie says before I can speak. “I already know about your mother.”

“How?”

“Because she called me a couple of mornings ago and told me she was going to call you after I refused to help her get out of the mess she’s in.”

My head slumps forward. “Who is it this time?”

“I’m not sure… She didn’t say.” She blows out a loud breath. “But Jax, I’m not going to lie to you. It sounded bad.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “How bad exactly?”

“Bad enough that I wouldn’t be surprised if her body turned up in a ditch somewhere,” she says bluntly.

That’s the one thing I remember about my aunt. Back when I was younger, and she still tolerated my mother’s lifestyle enough to visit us, she would always say things how they were.
“Your house looks like shit. You look strung out. You need to take care of your kids better.”

“Maybe I should come home…” I trail off as Avery shoots me a dirty look. “Just for a week to see if I can figure out what’s going on.” I hope by saying this, she’ll offer to do it herself.

“Well, I wouldn’t if I were you. I’m sure as hell not going to waste my time looking for her,” she replies bitterly. “She’s not worth the hassle.”

“Yeah, I guess not.” I frown. Guess I’m back to square one.

The rest of the conversation centers on lighter subjects—how I’m doing, how Avery and Mason are doing. She ends the phone call quickly, telling me to stay in touch, but I can tell she doesn’t really mean it.

“You’re not going home by yourself,” Avery tells me sternly as I shove my phone into my pocket.

“You could always come with me,” I suggest as I grab the broom from the pantry.

“I can’t do that.” She sets the fork she’s holding down on the counter. “I’m not ready to see her or that house again.”

“Neither am I,” I mutter as I sweep up the eggshells on the floor. “But I think I have to.”

“Why?” she gripes. “You don’t owe her anything, and I don’t know why you feel like you do.”

“I don’t feel like I do… it’s just…” I don’t know how to explain how I feel.

When I left my mother two years ago, it was for good reasons. But in the back of my mind, I knew she wouldn’t be able to take care of herself. It’s not like she could while I was living there, but I’d been old enough when I bailed out that I could stop her boyfriends and pimps from beating her. Help keep track of the bills. Help her keep her head above the water. Part of me knew, when I’d walked away, there was a possibility that she would wind up dead in a ditch somewhere.

“Look.” I prop the broom against the wall, round the kitchen island, and place my hands on Avery’s shoulders. “I know it might seem crazy, but I just need to go back and check on things. See for myself.”

Avery shakes her head, aggravated. “What about school and work?”

“My last class was Thursday and I’m sure I can take off work for a week. I haven’t used any of my sick days or vacation time yet.”

Her gaze flicks to the fork, like she’s contemplating jabbing me in the eye with it so I can’t make the thousand some odd miles drive back home. “Only a week? Then you’ll come back home?”

I nod. “One week is all I need to spend searching for her.”

She sticks out her pinkie. “Swear on it. Swear you’ll come home after a week even if you can’t find her.”  I reach out to hook my pinkie with hers, but she pulls back. “And you won’t go alone.”

“I don’t want to make you come with me.”

“I’m not going to. I already told you I’m not ready to go back there.” She glances at the hallway. “Take Tristan with you. He’s from there.”

“As much as I like Tristan, I don’t know him well enough to do that.” I restlessly thrum my fingers on the sides of my legs.

Who could I take with me? Who knows about my mother enough that it wouldn’t be awkward?
A thought strikes me straight in the skull. One I like, but have no clue how to make happen.

“I have an idea,” I say then hitch my pinkie with Avery’s.

Her brows furrow. “Who?”

“Clara.” I smile for the first time since I got the call. Going home is going to suck balls, but if Clara goes with me, it might not be so bad.

“The nurse?” Avery asks, confused.

“Technically she’s a CNA, but she’s going to school to become a nurse.”

With our pinkies still locked, she considers my solution. “You think she’d go with you? Are you guys that close?”

I waver at her question. Although I’ve told Clara a lot of stuff about me, there’s still things I don’t know about her. “Sort of. I mean, she knows about Mom and everything.”

I have zero confidence that Clara will easily agree to make a road trip across the country with me, but perhaps with a bit of persuading, I can convince her. I just need to make her an offer she can’t refuse.

Besides, even though I’m still not positive my mother is actually dead, it’ll be nice to have someone I care about with me in case that’s where this journey ends. Even if that person won’t admit she cares about me, too.

Clara

I’m having that dream again, the one about the car accident.

My father is lying in the street, surrounded by bent pieces of metal and shards of glass. My mother is still stuck in the car, and the passenger side door so crunched in, I can’t get it open. The vehicle that side swiped us is several feet away, smashed into a streetlight post. People are gathering around, crying, calling nine-one-one, while I stand in the middle of the madness, unscathed except for a cut on my head and a stabbing pain in my arm.

“Daddy,” I whisper as I inch toward him. The glass crunches under my shoes and the air smells like burnt rubber. “Dad…” I trail off at the sight of him.

His eyes are open and his breathing is wheezy. There’s so much blood on the ground and around him. At first, I just stand there, staring helplessly at the scene. But then my father whispers my name and I snap out of my trance.

Kneeling beside him, I slip off my jacket to use to put pressure on the hole in his stomach, which seems to be the main cause of the bleeding. I take his hand and try not to cry. Try to be strong.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” I lie. Deep down, I know the truth—this is bad and more than likely will end in tragedy.

“Where’s… your… mother…?” My father gasps, and his eyes are unfocused as if he’s drifting off to a place only he can see.

Hot tears bubble from my eyes and spill down my cheeks. “She’s fine,” I lie, knowing it might be the last thing I ever say to him.

“Good.” He almost smiles. “Take care of her, okay?” His head slumps to the side and silence surrounds us.

“Dad,” I sob as tears pour from my eyes. “Daddy, please don’t leave me.”

Silence.

“Dad... please.”

My blood roars in my eardrums.

A rooster crows from somewhere.

Roosters crowing…?

Huh?

My eyelids spring open and a feather lands on my forehead.

“What the hell?” I bolt upright in bed and pluck the purple and teal feather from my head. I spin the feather around between my fingertips. “Where on earth did this thing come from?”

As if responding to my question, a rooster crows from somewhere nearby… from somewhere inside the apartment. Throwing the covers back, I plant my feet on the carpet and pad over to my partially opened bedroom door.

My skin is damp from the dream I was having. Well, not really a dream. More of a memory of that day three years ago when I lost my father. It’s been so long since I dreamt about that day that I forgot how exhausting remembering could be.

Sighing, I step out into the hallway to find out why I heard crowing. I instantly stumble back as a rooster flaps its wings, and feathers spew through the air.

“Mom!” I cry then flinch as the rooster pecks at dust particles and its talons claw at the carpet. “Could you come here for a minute?”

The rooster crows again then barrels toward me, looking as evil as the devil himself. I skitter around the bird and it ends up diving into my room. I slam the door, locking the crazy bird inside, then scramble down the hallway to the living room.

My mom is camped in the recliner in front of the television, laughing at what appears to be a soap opera. Even though I cleaned yesterday morning, the place is a mess—wrappers on the floor along with empty soda cans, clothes piled on the couch. There’s also a trail of feathers leading from the front door to the hallway.

“Mom, why’s there a rooster in the house?” I should sound more shocked, but sadly, these sorts of things happen all the time in the McKiney home.

She shovels a handful of popcorn from a bowl on her lap. “It looked sad, so I thought I’d bring it home.”

I sigh, less surprised than I was to begin with.

Not only did the car accident claim my father’s life, it left my mother with several injuries along with a few bolts loose in her head. It’s not like she’s insane; she just gets confused easily and does strange things like haul evil roosters home because they look sad.

“Mom, we can’t have a rooster in the apartment.” I start picking up the wrappers and throwing them into the trash bin.

“But it doesn’t have a home. I feel bad for it.” Her eyes remain glued to the TV screen as she stuffs her mouth with popcorn. She spends a lot of her days this way—watching reruns and soaps, and rarely leaving the apartment.

“Where did you even find a rooster?”

It’s not like we live in farmland. We reside in a small town in North Carolina, close enough to the beach that you can usually smell salt in the air. The weather consists of humidity, humidity, and more humidity, sun, and the occasional rainstorm.

“Mr. Garlifed had it.” She aims the remote at the television and flips through the channels. “He kicked it out, though. Said the thing was watching him while he slept.”

The apartment we’ve lived in for the last three years isn’t located in the best neighborhood. The affordable area tends to draw in unique characters, like Mr. Garlifed who likes to constantly monitor the people coming and going from this place and who apparently owned a rooster. But with my mother unable to work because of her disabilities and me being the sole provider, it’s the only place I can afford. Hopefully, after I graduate with my nursing degree, I’ll be able to change that. But, since I have to manage my time between school, my job, and taking care of my mother, graduating is still a long ways away.

The rooster crows again as I’m scooping up a pile of clothes to take to the laundry room. “It can’t stay here, Mom. I’m going to have to give it back to Mr. Garlifed and have him take care of it.”

“But what if he kicks it out again?”

“Then he kicks it out.”

“I want to keep it,” she whines. “I need the company.”

“You have Nelli and me as company.”

Nelli is my mother’s sister and my aunt who damn near saved my life. She came around a lot after the accident, helped out whenever she could. When she retired, she offered to start sitting for my mother while I went to school and work. She doesn’t charge me anything, says she’s happy to do it.

“But I want someone who’s here all the time,” my mother gripes. “I want a pet.”

“We’ll find you something better than a rooster,” I tell her then hurry down the hallway toward the laundry room.

After dumping the clothes on top of the washing machine, I grab a broom and prepare to open the door and chase the rooster out of the house. It’s times like these when I wish my older sister, Lizzy, didn’t live clear across the country. I think about it every day. How much I wish she were here to help take care of our mother. How much less stressful my life would be. But my sister has her own life in Seattle with her husband and two children.

“I just can’t do it, Clara,” she said the day after our father’s funeral. “There’s just not any room in our place, and I have Jenna and Kessington to take care of. My plate is already too full. You don’t have anything except your job and school.”

“But we don’t have a place to live,” I told her, terrified of facing the future alone. “I can’t afford the house Mom and Dad were living in.”

“Maybe you can buy your own place with the money I’m sure they left us in Dad’s will.” She took my hand and gave me that look, the one she always gave when she had made up her mind about something. “And if all else fails, you could always put her in a home.” Then she kissed my cheek and left for her hotel.

The next morning, she flew back home to her family. She has called me about ten times total over the last three years, because calling me is, “too painful of a reminder of everything she lost.”

And the money is my father’s will? Nonexistent. Turns out, my parents hadn’t owned anything. My father’s store had been run off loans. Most everything went back to the bank and I was left to start over. The problem was, at the time I was only eighteen-years-old, and I had no clue what I wanted to do with my life. I didn’t have a job, at least not one that wasn’t seasonal work. I had enrolled in college and was planning on just having a general major until I could figure out what I wanted to do. The plan was to take a year or two, try out some classes, see what piqued my interest.

That entire plan vanished in the blink of an eye, and I had to make big decisions quickly. I found us a place to live and dropped my enrollment to part time, so I could find a better job. I was hired as a temporary secretary at the hospital and enjoyed the environment so much that I decided I wanted to work there permanently. I trained to become a CNA, which is my current job. Three months after changing careers, I switched my major to nursing.

Even though I’ve managed to take care of us, I still have those moments. The ones where I want to break down and consider putting my mother into a home. Those thoughts make me feel guilty. The last thing my father asked me to do was take care of her. What kind of daughter would I be if I just bailed out? Besides, my mother can’t help how she is.

She used to be a brilliant professor at the local college I now attend part time. She taught Sociology and Psychology. She used to play this game where we’d sit in a public place, and she’d give a mental analysis of people passing by. I sometimes wonder if inside her own head, she’s assessing her own brain, if she knows she’s broken and is trying to figure out why.

I jerk from my thoughts and wrap my fingers around the doorknob, preparing to enter the rooster zone. With a deep breath, I pull open the door.

As the rooster comes racing out with its beady little eyes locked on me, I wave the broom at it, careful not to hit it, and shoo the bird toward the front door. I knock a lamp over in the process, and the rooster punctures a hole in the leather sofa that I found in a second hand store for dirt cheap.

After a minute or two of doing circles around the room, I manage to get the damn evil bastard out the door.

“Holy shit. Roosters are nuts.” Panting, I turn to my oblivious mother who hasn’t even looked up from the television through all the commotion. It makes me want to cry. Everything does these days.

“That was so funny.” My mother chuckles, munching on popcorn.

I count backwards to ten before moving away from the door. Then I give my mother a quick kiss near the scar that runs from her temple to the back of her head, remnants of the accident. “I’m going to go get ready for class. Nelli should be here soon. Can you please, please let her in when she gets here?”

 “Sure honey.” She finally looks up at me for the first time this morning. Sometimes I find it painful to look at her, because she looks the same as she used to, except for her eyes. They carry a void, as if she can’t quite figure out who I am or where she is. “Don’t forget to scatter your father’s ashes like he wanted. At the Tetons.”

She says this to me every day, even though I don’t have the time or money to drive across the country to do so. My father made the request in his will:
I want my remains scattered from one of my favorite places—the Teton Mountains in Wyoming. 
I feel terrible that I can’t, and tried to talk my sister into doing it a few times. But she always refuses, saying she doesn’t have time.

After I leave the living room, I pick out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and then duck into the bathroom to take a shower. Afterward, I get dressed, run a comb through my lengthy dark brown hair, apply a dab of liner and lip-gloss, and tug on my favorite pair of boots.

I exit the bathroom with a trail of steam following me. I collect my bag and books from my bed then head for the front door to go to my last class of the semester. 

My mother and Nelli are huddled together in the living room, laughing about something. They’re only a few years apart, with graying hair, and similar facial features. The biggest difference between their looks is the scar on my mother’s head and the fact that my mom wears a lot of bright colored clothes, one of the few traits that stuck with her after the accident. As always, my mother looks happy. She always does when Nelli’s around.

“Hey Clarabell Tellamell,” Nelli says when she notices me lingering in the doorway.

She already has tea and cookies set out on the coffee table, along with a book. Nelli spends a lot of time reading my mother’s favorite novels to her.