I wish you were here. That’s ironic, isn’t it?
You’d know what to do.
You’d put your hand over mine, and you’d lower my arm until the gun was pointing at the floor. You’d take it out of my hand and even though I’d yell at you to leave me alone, like I yelled when you tried to take the vodka, like I yelled when you told me I’d had enough, I would let you. I would let you take this gun.
I don’t want it in my hand. I never wanted it.
He came around with it. Shifty. Collected that week’s rent, then put it on the table and said he thought I might want this. Two grand.
He knew money was tight. Knew that cleaning toilets—even at a posh girls’ school—didn’t earn that kind of cash, and that everything I’d brought with me I’d given to him in rent.
But he knew I was scared, too. He offered me a loan, with an interest rate that made my chest tighten, but what choice did I have? I needed protection.
I took the loan. Bought the gun.
I felt better knowing it was there, even though I never thought I’d use it. I used to imagine what would happen if I was found; imagined diving for the drawer where I kept the gun. Aiming. Firing.
My hand’s shaking.
She’s your daughter. That’s your granddaughter!
What am I doing?
I hear the faint strains of a siren and half hope it will get louder, but it drifts away. I need someone to stop me.
I wish you were here.
But I suppose if you were still here, I wouldn’t need you now.