Empty. Part 8

She yelps. "d.a.m.nit, Adele!"

I guess I should've knocked first or something, but that probably would've scared her too. This isn't my specialty. "Sorry."

My mother sniffles loudly. "Why aren't you at softball? Did you get Megs?" she shouts through the closed door.

I suspect now is not the best time to tell her that I got cut because I'm too fat. I answer her second question instead. "No, not yet."

"Don't," she says.

I squeeze my eyebrows together. Why is my mother telling me not to get her? Picking up Meggie from day care is my favorite part of my day.

"Did you hear me?" she asks, obviously annoyed.

"May I come in?" I ask. I'm tired of talking to a freaking door.

"Hold on." Then I hear all sorts of rustling and nose blowing. "Come in."

I hesitate, because honestly, I'm not sure what I'm going to find on the other side. She's sitting on the edge of her bed with her head down, hands on her knees. Her nightstand is littered with prescription bottles and half-empty gla.s.ses of water.

"What's the matter?" I ask.

Without raising her head, she says, "The drugstore let me go. I got fired, that's what's the matter."

I want to say more, but the only word that leaves my mouth is "Oh."

Now she raises her head. "Oh? That's all you have to say to me? Oh?"

I backtrack. "I'm sorry?"

"Well I'm sorry too, Adele. Without that paycheck we're screwed."

"I'm sorry. I'll get a job to help. We'll make it work." Where is this optimistic confidence coming from?

Mom comes at me, and I swear I think she's going to hit me, so my hands fly up to cover my face. She grabs my forearms. My face contorts. She smacks me in the side of the head. "We're gonna drown! Nothing's gonna work. Your father owes me thirty-four thousand dollars!" she screams. Her eyes are bloodshot from crying, or whatever drug c.o.c.ktail she's probably swallowed.

I take a step back because I don't want to be in range of a second hit. "Calm down."

Again, I say the wrong thing, because her eyes bulge and she is on me, nose-to-nose. "Don't tell me to calm down," she growls. "You don't know s.h.i.+t, Adele."

I am mute.

I know everything there is to know about s.h.i.+t because I'm covered in it, a regular ol' pig in the sty. I know s.h.i.+t.

Mom retreats to her bed. With trembling hands she rummages through her prescriptions, finds the one she was looking for, pops the cap, and swallows two.

"Maybe you're taking too many pills," I whisper. I ball my hands into fists, antic.i.p.ating a second attack. But she stays put.

She glares at me, her eyes steely yet empty. "Maybe you should stop stuffing your face when I'm not looking."

I wish I could punch something right now. I wish I could call my mother a b.i.t.c.h. I hate everything about everything.

It seems we are at an impa.s.sea"locked eyes and loaded words. Who will make the first move?

Me.

"All that c.r.a.p you take"a"I point to her nightstanda""makes you mean." My mother wasn't like this until my father left. She used to cut the crusts off my PB&Js and sing me to sleep and bake cookies and help me with my homework and smile. It's as if someone erased her and drew me a new mom who hides in her bedroom, gobbles pills, falls asleep at the dinner table, and cries a lot.

She just stares at me defiantly. Then she buries her face in her hands. Her body shakes as she gulps for air. It's hard to watch, but I'm not coming to her rescue with hugs and words of rea.s.surance. Not after what she just said to me.

To avoid looking at her, I glance around her bedroom. Why have I never noticed how depressing it is? Labeled boxes of our old life line two walls, stacked floor to ceiling. GOOD CHINA, FAMILY RM KNICKKNACKS, CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS, SOFTBALL PICS & MOVIES. I feel a new whoosh of sadness. We have no use for the good china anymore; there's no one to entertain. Holidays are depressing. We have no family room. And my softball career is over.

The room is gaunt like my mother. There's a bed, a nightstand, a dresser, and that's it. No artwork. No photographs. No decorations. My mother's bedroom is filled with misery.

"Aren't you going to ask me why I got fired?"

Even though I have a suspicion, I still bite. "Why did you get fired?"

"Because I screwed up. Happy?" She breaks eye contact. "I didn't think they'd notice. I only took a couple. I . . . " Her voice trails off.

I knew it. She stole pills. "Are they pressing charges?"

She shakes her head. "Not if I go to rehab." She collapses again into sobs.

Rehab? How the h.e.l.l is she going to go to rehab and still take care of us? I refuse to live with my father and his dumba.s.s bride. I'd take Meggie and go live in a homeless shelter before I'd shack up with those two a.s.sholes.

She gets ahold of herself. "Meggie?"

I nod that I'll go pick her up.

As I walk the two blocks to Mrs. McNash's I replay the scene. My mother is a prescription-drug addict who stole pills from the pharmacy and got fired for it. That's messed up. By the number of pill bottles on her nightstand, she's taking more than I know about. I wonder what she'd do if I dumped her pill collection into the toilet and flushed it.

I exhale loudly. She'd get more, that's what she'd do. The woman needs rehab. But I'm back to my original concern: Who would take care of us? I mean, technically I take care of Meggie a lot already, so I could do it, but would I be allowed?

I ring the bell at Mrs. McNash's. There's a help wanted sign taped next to the door.

"Oh, h.e.l.lo, Dell. Come on in," Mrs. McNash says. The woman is always smiling, and her happiness is real. I can tell. She greets me the same way every daya"with kindness.

"Hi." I watch Mrs. McNash's helper chase one of the toddlers, laughing. Could I work here? I'm probably not qualified, but if I got the job, I could give the money to my mother.

"You okay?" she asks me, her head tilted with concern. I was probably making some dumb face.

"Yeah. Sorry. What's the job for?" I mumble.

"Come again?"

I repeat my question.

"It's a part-time job. . . . "

I try not to blink as she talks. Mrs. McNash sees me. Her eyes don't leave mine, and her smile is about as genuine as my sister's. I wonder if she's always seen me and I was just too preoccupied to notice.

I study her as she goes on and on about the position. I should probably be paying attention, but I can't. She's so soothing. Not like a gray-haired, shawl-wearing granny. She's too young for that. More like a slightly plump, cheerful, middle-aged, gentle-voiced angel. She reaches over and puts her hand on my shoulder. I let the deep warmth penetrate my skin, and I wish I could ask her for a hug. But that would be weird.

"Oh, honey, I didn't even think of you, because I know you have softball. And besides, you wouldn't want to be chasing these little rugrats around in these small rooms. It's pretty tight quarters."

My mouth droops. I get it. She doesn't want to hire me because I'm enormous. I'd probably trip and crush one of these kids. Then it'd be all over the news that I was a rapist baby-killer.

By the time Meggie is in my arms, I am officially not hired.

This Moment Is Officially Smeared.

BACK AT THE APARTMENT, I POP A PEANUT b.u.t.tER cookie in my mouth and chew as quietly as I can. I don't want my mother to emerge from her bedroom in a cloud of "What the h.e.l.l are you eating now, Adele?" rage. I absentmindedly reach for another one and come up empty-handed. I've eaten the entire box. Every d.a.m.n cookie is gone.

Day one of my diet is ruined.

I stare at the cookie crumbs. Cookies make me feel . . . I don't know how cookies make me feel. I press down on the crumbs, making them stick to my finger. Cookies make me feel un-hungry. I sc.r.a.pe the crumbs from my fingertip with my bottom teeth and thinka"I guess I'll have to fess up about softball soon. My mother probably won't give a d.a.m.n about that. She'll hyperfocus on the money wasted on my special-order uniform.

I haven't told my mother about the talent show, either. Apparently I'm not telling my mother anything anymore. I don't think she's capable of producing any normal motherly reactions: concern, empathy, pride. And I can't handle her dead stare.

If my sister were older, I would talk to her. Meggie was so cute when I picked her up from day care. She said, "I miss you, Dehwy, when you go." Then she kissed me right on the lips. She tasted like strawberries. I held her the whole walk home and breathed her in. By the time we got back, I swear I felt better. I don't know what it is about her smell, but I'm pretty sure it's what heaven smells like.

I grab the cookie packaging, roll it up tight, fish the empty bag of chips from the bottom of the trash can, and tuck it inside. My mother will go ballistic if she finds out that I've polished off the chips and the cookies. She just bought them.

Mom hasn't emerged from her bedroom since we got home ten minutes ago.

I change Meggie's diaper and have a brainstorm. I know how I can get my mother some money. It comes to me all at once, like a lightning strike to the brain. I do a quick online search, pack five plastic grocery bags full of clothes, tell my mom I'm taking Meggie for a walk, and head out. I'm struggling to push my sister and control the overflowing basket underneath her stroller. One bag keeps falling out every time we hit a b.u.mp.

The basket is stuffed with my clothes. I'm going to sell the tagged clothes from my closet that are too small for me to the resale shop in town. The money will take some pressure off my mother. In my estimation, I have about eight hundred to a thousand bucks worth of new clothes. I'm figuring I can walk out with around two hundred dollarsa"maybe even more if the stars align.

As I walk, I stare down at my sister. Meggie loves me. The way her little face lights up when I pick her up at day care makes me happier than anything on this planet. She's the only person in my life who hasn't let me down yet.

A bell tinkles as I enter the consignment store. I immediately see that pus.h.i.+ng this stroller around just won't work. The place is so full of clothing racks and shelves of shoes that I don't even see the little old woman who works there until she is right in front of me.

"Well, h.e.l.lo there, pretty girl," she singsongs. She's leaning over, talking directly to Meggie. Meggie's little hand reaches out and rubs the woman's wrinkly cheek. "Oh, aren't you just the sweetest little thing."

The woman stands up straight, and can't be any more than four feet tall. "How may I help you, young lady?" She has a beautiful smile, and I get lost in ita"the way her eyes kind of disappear into the happiness and how her cheeks plump up. She's glowing.

"Dear? What can I do for you today?"

"I want to sell this stuff." I bend down, grab two of the bags, and the woman gets right to work. The whole thing takes about an hour, and Meggie is amazing; she reads and sings and plays with her shoelaces and is basically the best little kid ever born. The womana"Eleanora"explains that she's giving me twenty percent of what they'll sell the stuff for. I walk out of the consignment shop with $279 in cold hard cash. That will definitely help my mom with this month's rent.

I make a mental note to thank my grandmother the next time I see her. She lives in Colorado, so that probably won't be for a long time.

I'm actually kind of glad they never fit, because now I can hand my mother this nice hunk of cash.

Who knew my grandmother would show up out of the blue with bags of new clothes for me? Or that it would end up being profitable?

I remember that day so clearly. My mom and I didn't even know my grandmother was in town. I felt embarra.s.sed because she bought everything in a size twelve. According to my grandmother, size twelve is a plus size, and the only other person who wears a size twelve is her friend Liz, who eats nonstop and can never get her pants b.u.t.toned even though they are a size twelve.

Needless to say, I'm no size twelve. I was a ten before my dad swallowed his Super-d.i.c.k serum, and that was two years ago. I think my grandmother meant well. I'm convinced her grand gesture was to try to make up for my father, her son, ruining our family. But I guess she figured anyone over a size twelve doesn't deserve clothes that fit.

Meggie says, "Yay, Dehwy. Birdies. Yook!"

I stop pus.h.i.+ng her stroller and glance toward where she's pointing. There, up in the tree, are a cardinal and a blue jay sitting side-by-side on one of the lower branches. Chirping away to each other like two old friends catching up. I've never seen that before.

"I see, Megs, I see. Wow, girl!"

We watch the two birds. Their necks are turned, and they stare at each other more intensely than the human beings I know. These two birds see each other. Unbelievable.

I pick up my pace because the late-afternoon sky, with its shades of violet and orange, reminds me that Meggie needs dinner, and I haven't even started my homework. As I wait for the streetlight to change, I inhale the warm spring air, and the most bizarre fantasy unravels in my head: Brandon secretly likes me because I know how to make him laugh. My size doesn't matter to him, and he's broken up about what he did to me at the party, so he dumps b.i.t.c.hy Taryn because she bores him and only cares about herself. Then he asks me out.

I am completely aware that it is stupid and impossible. I guess it boils down to thisa"I liked Brandon a lot, and I wanted him to kiss me and touch me. Deep down I wanted to have s.e.x with him. And I keep trying to alter what actually happened that night so it resembles one of my fantasies.

But nothing I do blocks out Brandon's demand that I stay still. That I said no. That he left me naked and alone. I swear every stupid flower in Melissa's parents' bedroom shook its head at me as I pulled my underwear back on. None of my excuses can forgive how he treated me in the hallway. That look he had on his facea"that scowl. He called me "dude."

I grip the stroller handles. I didn't fight harder and push him off of me for three reasons: 1. Because he's hot.

2. Because he complimented my seventh-grade grand slam.

3. Because I don't think anyone else will want to have s.e.x with me, and I didn't want to die a virgin.

And maybe because I was scared.

a a a.

Meggie is down for the night, and I'm finis.h.i.+ng up my homework at the kitchen table. My mother emerges from her bedroom like a shadow, mumbles something about meeting a friend for dinner, and leaves. I'll have to wait to present her with the money.

I head into the living room and turn on the TV. After two commercials for fast food make me hungry again, I turn it off and sit in silence for a while. I even try watching some magic videos on my phone, but quickly abandon that because I can't stand the people and their confused smiles.

I allow my head to fall back and stare at the ceiling. Everything is pretty messed up right now. After a few minutes, the quiet gets to me. I grab the remote to turn on some background noise. My head won't shut off, worrying about what school will be like tomorrow and how many people saw that cow drawing. The next thing I know, I'm walking into my mother's bedroom. The storage box labeled softball pics & movies is in my grasp in no time. I close her door behind me and head back to the living room.

The box is heavya"full of me. I'm glad I only have two paces until I can put it down on the coffee table. I sit on the sofa and wring my hands. This box represents my life back when my father loved me. Skinny me. Happy me. The me with two parents who kissed me good night and kissed each other over scrambled eggs in the morning. Complete me. The me I liked.

I reach up and tuck my hair behind my ears. softball pics & movies. How could my father have left all of this? He didn't take a single photo or movie with him. Not one physical memory of our years together accompanied him to his new life. It's all been sealed away in this box, like a mummy encased in cardboard and clear packing tape. I peel off the tape and remove the lid. A waft of musty paper hits my nose. It reminds me of when we used to decorate our house at Christmas and I'd rummage through the boxes, deciding what decorations my mother and I would hang up next. Stale odor or not, it still smells of living and happy.

I pull out a stack of photos. The first image is of eight-year-old me in my red-and-white softball uniform, both of my arms wrapped around my father's waist. I'm looking up at him, and he's looking down at me. We're both smiling. I'm missing a few teeth. I hold the photo closer to my face. He looks like he loves me. I turn it over. Printed neatly in my father's handwriting, it says: Softball Champsa"Adele hit winning run.

Maybe my father loved my athletic ability, not me. How could a man love his child and then abandon her? That's not love. That's bulls.h.i.+t.

Seeing this photograph fuels my desire to understand my relations.h.i.+p with my father. I search through the box. I read the meticulously labeled DVD cases and grab the one I want: adelea"freshman yeara"average performance. This was the last game that my father came to. Two weeks later, my family collapsed into chaos. Even though I've never seen this video, I'm confident it is going to prove my theory right.

I push the DVD in and press play. The first thing I hear are the birds. My father must not have known that the camera was on, because all I see is gra.s.s and, occasionally, the side of his sneaker. My mother's voice asks me if I have my water bottle. Still gra.s.s on the screen.