When I get back to the car, Mom is still fast asleep. She has moved into the back, so I climb into the driver’s seat and slam the door closed. I punch the buttons on the radio.
“Shut up,” Mom mumbles.
“Did I wake you?”
“I’ve been waiting for you.” She pulls herself up. A red crease runs down one cheek.
“There’s a washroom in the park,” I tell her. “But I think it’s locked.”
“There’s a park?” Her eyes light up. “Where have you been?”
“At the library.”
“A bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing. Did you know that?”
“I have to get an education somehow.” I pretend to resent the fact that it’s been years since I’ve really been in school. In truth, the thought of going to school scares the crap out of me.
Her gaze slides away from me, then back again. “So what did you learn today?” She’s switched to her This-is-the-kind-of-mother-I-wish-I-was voice. Bright and expectant. But she can’t keep it up. “No chance you found us somewhere to stay for the night, I suppose. Somewhere we can at least get a shower.”
“Actually, there’s a motel a few blocks away.” I read the scribble on my arm. “The Lion Inn. Sixty-seven dollars a night.”
“We could probably get a discount for a long stay. I’m behind on my shows.”
“How long are you thinking?” I ask. Jake may not be cute exactly. But he did invite me to his place. Not that we ever stay in one place long enough to get to know anyone.
Mom untangles herself from the comforter and slips her purse over her shoulder. She gets out and adjusts her jacket so it’s now really crooked. “As long as we need. Your Grand wouldn’t want us out in the cold.”
I sometimes wonder if she has any idea how much things cost. All she has to do is put a card in a hole in the wall, and money pops out. Grand makes sure there’s always enough in the account, tops up our welfare check when the account gets low.
I don’t know where I learned about remittance men. They were disgraced family members sent from England to the colonies, financed by the families who were glad to see the back of them. Is that how Grand thinks of her? Us?
“Come on,” says Mom. “I need more coffee. Then we’ll check out the motel.”
Of course, nothing is that straightforward. First she makes a scene at Timmy’s. She wants a Roll Up the Rim cup—that deal has been over for weeks. Then she can’t find the scrap from a winning cup that entitles her to a free coffee. She empties her pockets right there on the counter. When a tampon rolls across the floor, I pretend I’m not with her. Something I’ve gotten good at.
Mom pushes past three people in the line to chase the thing across the floor.
“Just two coffees. Mediums. Double double,” I tell the server. I grab the coffees and throw a handful of change at him.
“Aha!” Mom twirls the tampon between her fingers. The cotton bulges out of the plastic wrapping.
“Mom!” I grab it from her and shove it in my pocket. I hold out the cardboard tray with the coffee. “Here.”
She takes a cup and sniffs the lid. “I wanted hot chocolate.”
I stare at her.
“You know too much caffeine makes me hyper.”
Instead of walking, Mom insists we go back and get the car. Then drives at about ten kilometers an hour. Going slow saves gas, she says. She tells me to shut up when I try to tell her it’s also illegal and unsafe.
A misspelled Vacancys sign is propped up in the grimy motel-office window. Half of the asphalt in the parking lot has buckled. A broken metal chair sits next to a garbage bin. “This looks promising.”
Mom ignores my sarcasm. “Go see if they have a room.”
I leave her peering through the windshield at me as I head inside. The office is dark and musty-smelling. The rattle of tv laughter drifts in from a back room. “Hello!” I call.
A huge jade plant takes up most of the counter. Next to it sits a plaid ashtray overflowing with butts. I yell louder. “Hello!”
The man who pushes through the bead curtain is wearing a sleeveless T-shirt that may have been white once. His suspenders part over his big belly. “Looking for a room?”
I roll my eyes. No. I’m the photographer from Architectural Digest. “For two.”
He looks me up and down. “Better be an adult. I don’t rent to kids.”
I back away from his smell of cigarette smoke and what could be pork and beans. “It’s me and my mom. She will want to look at the room first.”
“Sure.” He grabs a bunch of keys from under the counter, lifts a flap and shuffles through. His plastic slips-ons remind me of Grand’s slippers.
Mom gets out of the car, and I get back in. It always makes me cringe to hear the stories she pulls out in these situations. Anything to save a buck or two. Or earn sympathy. Although she may really believe that we’re on the run from an abusive husband who canceled her bank account. Or that we lost everything we own in a house fire.
It could be that she just watches too many daytime tv shows.
“He says he could shave off a hundred bucks if we stay the week,” she tells me when she gets back. As if we’ve stayed that long in one place for years. Weeks go by when we sleep more nights in the car than in a bed.
She slides back behind the wheel. “He offered to give me a break if I help out by doing some cleaning.”
I laugh.
“I am quite capable, you know. Come on. Let’s go check it out.”
By the time I’ve cleaned out the wrappers and cans from the car floor and shoved my stuff in my bag, Mom is already sprawled on the bed, holding the tv remote. “Looks like they’ve got a decent cable package.” On the Shopping Channel, a woman with makeup as thick as icing is pitching a huge purse. “Wonder if it comes in other colors,” says Mom.
The furnishings include twin beds with mismatched covers, a white patio table between them, and a recliner with a worn-out seat. The tv’s on a long arm attached to the wall. Inside the closet I find a rail with three metal hangers and a grubby bar fridge. The icebox flap is broken off. In the door is a strawberry yogurt.
Mom shrieks when it hits the metal garbage can. “What are you doing?”
“Cleaning out the fridge.”
“Do it quietly.” Mom lines up a row of vitamin bottles on the table. I have given up telling her that if she takes too many, she will only pee the extra vitamins away. She’ll just show me where it says All Natural on the bottle. As if that explains everything.
“You need to take your meds,” I tell her.
“At bedtime. This is just a nap. See if there’s a glass or something in the bathroom.”
She could start her housekeeping gig in there. A layer of scum lines the sink. A sliver of soap is stuck to the counter. The shower curtain has lost half of its rings.
At least the water runs hot. But there’s no glass. “You’ll have to drink from the tap,” I call.
But she has already dozed off again. I grab my backpack and start to creep through the room. Then I stop and ease her purse from the foot of her bed.
Not quietly enough.
“What are you doing?” She squints at me.
“Checking to see if your other pills are here.” And looking for a lottery ticket I don’t believe exists, I don’t say out loud.
“Quit nagging. You’re not my mother.” Mom grabs her purse, shoves it under the pillow and pulls the bedspread higher over her legs.
“I’m going out,” I tell her.
“Don’t be late,” she mumbles.
Late for what?