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The next step, it turns out, is for me to quietly return to the trailer. I come through the back door and go straight to my room. It is cluttered. Clothes are strewn across the floor and books lie on every surface. Dylan doesn’t live like this. I gather my dirty clothes and pile them on the bed. I gather cups and bowls and return them to the kitchen. I make my way down to my mother’s room and find her sleeping. She is alone. I wash the dishes in the sink and sit them in the strainer to dry, careful not to let the dishes clink. I am not ready to see my mother awake. Back in my room, I toss the pile of clothes onto the floor, and I draw the sheets and blankets up into place. I empty my school pack and reload it with my clothes and pull up the vent to reach the wad of money I’ve stashed there. For a moment the vent is empty, and I panic, then my fingers touch the edge of the envelope, and I draw it out, clasping it to my chest until the flutter of my heart subsides. Money makes everything possible. Jake is well now because he makes money. Mom is always worse because she doesn’t. Money may not buy happiness, but it certainly is a good down payment.
There are two laundromats in town. I won’t wash at the trailer because the water has rust in it and turns all my clothes a dingy yellow. I ride to the nearest one, next to the grocery store instead of the better one by the Dairy Queen. My fingers are frozen, and my face feels like silly putty that has been stretched too far. The grocery is more practical. I load my clothes to wash, using the individual packets out of the vending machine for soap, and when they are safely churning, I stroll down the sidewalk to the grocery. Nobody would bother stealing my bike, so I leave it leaning against the wall. It’s a hodgepodge mash of parts, and if somebody needs to steal it, they must need it more than I do, which is almost unimaginable. I buy two apples and an egg-salad sandwich from the deli, which at least looks like it was made today. Back at the laundry I eat, pacing from one end of the room to the other. I’m just polishing off the last apple when my mother’s car swings into the parking lot, landing at an angle in front of my bike. My feet shift me to the back of the laundry, moving toward the bathroom with its door and its lock, not sure which version of my mother is going to walk through the door. Through the window she looks frantic, her hair tumbled on top of her head in a messy bun.
The door flies open on the car, and she barely manages to swing it closed before she is running toward the front of the laundry. She shoves into the laundry, and the two other people here turn to the jerked open door to see the wild woman standing there. Her eyes catch me, and for a second I am not sure what I am seeing. Then her lips part, and she says my name in a deep, shuddering gasp. She rushes to me, and I stand as tall as I can, waiting for the concoction of booze, drugs, and maybe vomit to hit me, which it does, but in a day-old sort of fashion. “I thought you were dead,” she says, thankfully moderating her voice so as not to let the others know all my shit.
“No. Not dead.” I try to hold her eyes but can’t, and my own flit toward the window.
“Where did you go?” She asks, and her hand is touching my shoulder, brushing my hair off my cheek.
“I just went.” She is not drunk. She is not high. She is not cranked. She is just a mom, worried about her kid. Tears well up in my eyes, and I blink them back, trying to remove myself. “I don’t want to live like this, Mom.”
“I know.” She is contrite, accepting of blame. I’ve seen it many times since I was small. Next comes words about how she will do better. She will be better. This time will be different, just wait and see. Then she says something I wasn’t expecting. “I’ve told him to leave. I told him to get out.” She’s never gotten rid of someone for me. It gives me a glimpse of hope.