Read Part I of The Day
When I arrived at our new cottage house with the barren raised flower beds, I saw the Mustang and truck sitting in the steep driveway. I walked around and opened the basement door. When I stepped inside I dropped my bags with an undignified thud and rubbed my arms to warm them up. Steve and his brother, Terry, were both still wearing their brown tool belts, but they were sitting on a couple of coolers, having some beers and passing a joint between them. They inhaled expertly from decades of practice. Giggling, smiling, and listening to The Eagles. Always the Eagles.
Steve looked up, quizzical but pleased, “Hey Sosh! I wasn’t expecting to see you here. Come to hang out with the old man?”
He scooted over on the cooler and patted it with his right hand, his bad hand. I looked away. That hand was so creepy, it was missing a thumb and the four remaining fingers were fused together and didn’t move independently. “We got some Coca-Colas in here! Or do you want a beer? I know you drink ‘em!”
Terry smiled and threw up his hand to say hello, took a hit from the joint, let the smoke fill his lungs and offered the burning roach to me with a grin. I waved it off and he passed what was left of the spliff back to Steve. He hit it, held it in effortlessly and smiled at me.
I was scared to reveal any emotions because I was afraid that if I let even one tear slip that all the rest of them would follow their leader out of my eyes and form a puddle so deep that they would drown me. So, I just stared at my scuffed Nikes and answered him in a dry monotone, my customary tone for him, “Uhh, no. No, I don’t want anything. I’m going to Conley’s, but I thought that I should probably tell you that they got Mom.”
Steve raised one eyebrow and spoke in a tight, sucked-in voice so that none of his THC-laced smoke would escape, “What? Who got your Mom? When?”
I shrugged, “I don’t know. Cops, I guess. They were there when I got home from school, but they put her in a regular looking car. She had Zack with her. Messed Gran’s apartment all up.”
“Sh*t! Knew it. Knew that deal was f**ked up. Told her ass that it was up but she is so stubborn. Damn! Go on to Conley’s. I’ll take care of this. Your mom’s gonna be alright.”
Steve was an expert bullsh**ter, an old school hustler, but he wasn’t fooling me. I knew it from the intonation of his voice, his normal lazy mushed-mouth patterns replaced with a vibrant, clear enunciation.
I turned, picked up my bags and opened the basement door. Terry snuffed out the joint as he and Steve stood in biological unison and followed me out. I turned to the left so that I could take a shortcut through our neighbor’s yard. Steve and Terry went in the opposite direction, up the driveway, to the hulking, freshly-waxed Mustang. I was half expecting them to go through the windows Dukes of Hazzard style.
The car roared to life. As an afterthought, Steve stuck his head out of the driver side window and hollered over the Mustang’s revving engine, “Hey, you gotta lot of shd*t. You want me to ride you down there?”
“No, I’m fine.” I adjusted the weight of the trash bag and tried to shake the mental image of him shifting gears with his mangled right hand.
I was freezing and wanted to ask him if he had a sweatshirt I could borrow but I didn’t.
The sky was fading into darkness but I still kept to back streets in hopes to avoid anyone seeing me walking around like a hobo. I was so drained by the time I arrived Conley’s sweltering, small duplex that was filled to the brim with truck-stop tchotchkies that all I wanted to curl up on the oddly cheery blue AstroTurf covered outdoor steps and sleep.
I jogged up the front steps and started fishing around in my jeans pockets for my key.
I dropped the trash bag and my Jansport by the front door.
“Conley? It’s me, Sosha. I’m gonna spend the night, ok?”
Her aged thin voice answered back, “Of course, honey. Wanda called me and let me know about Starr. It’s gonna be alright.”
I wanted to scream that nothing was ever going to be alright again.
Instead I just replied, “I know. It’ll get all worked out.”
I walked down the long skinny hall and entered Conley’s bedroom – still dragging my trash bag behind me. She placed her bible and the other book she was reading, Follow the River, on the nightstand and patted the spot beside her. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t have to. I hopped in, stayed on top of the covers and fell asleep to the sounds of Jeopardy!.
I slept fitfully for a few hours and woke to a dark, quiet house. Conley was snoring gently. I crept out of bed and headed to the kitchen for a glass of water.
My stomach growled. I made a bologna and cheese sandwich, grabbed a bag of cheese doodles and poured a glass of cherry Kool-Aid, made even sweeter by Conley’s extra cup of sugar. I tip-toed down to the crowded, mismatched, knick-knack filled living room. It was a little before 11:00pm, time for the news. I sat down on the plum colored shag carpet and turned the TV on.
By the blue flickering light of the TV, I woofed down my sandwich and gulped down the sticky Kool-Aid. I prayed that mom’s face wouldn’t be plastered on the TV. My stomach rumbled and I held my breath until the newscast turned to sports and weather.
The plastic-haired weather man said that he hoped that we enjoyed the day’s sunshine because it definitely was not there to stay.
When the theme of The Tonight Show started and I had not seen my mom’s mug shot on the local news, I took a picture of my mom and me off the book shelf and fetched an itchy, knitted afghan out of a trunk.
In a snot gurgled voice, I talked aloud to the picture of my mom.
“Why did you do this to us? Why am I not enough? Why do you love pills more than me? I’ve tried so hard to be good. I’m sorry I’m a smart ass. I’m sorry I don’t hug you back. I’m sorry I was worried about anyone seeing you. I won’t ever go on the mountain or Northside. I just want it to go back to like it was when I was little, when we’d go swimming at Linkous and you’d take me for cherry Cokes. I want you to tickle my back at night and call me So-So all the time. I don’t care ‘bout nothing else. I just want you to come home. Please come home. Please just be alright. I love you, mom.”
I wiped my tears on my forearm and laid the picture face down. I curled into a ball and listened as the wood swing creaked against the wind and the rain started tinging on the porch’s tin roof.
This article was written by a guest blogger. The opinions expressed here are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of Bob Lacey, Sheri Lynch or the Bob & Sheri show.
Soshally Awkward
Sosha Lewis is a writer whose work has been featured in The Washington Post, Huffington Post, MUTHA Magazine and The Charlotte Observer. She writes about her sometimes wild, sometimes hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking past filled with free-lunches, a grimy sports bar, a six foot tall Albino woman who tried to save her teenage soul, felonious, drug addicted parents, an imaginary friend named Blueberry and growing up nestled in the coal-dusted mountains of West Virginia.
