Photo by Elliott Blair on Unsplash
Jon pulls up to The Mercury, flashes the four-ways, then comes around to open my door. We haven’t spoken since Sheila’s call. I’m not ready, so I focus on his scuffed steel-toes and say, “I’ll look for you in a bit.” I picture Jon, a crisp twenty in hand, heading for machines. He always knows when it’s time to step away.
Sheila’s the only family I’ve got. Her voice echoes between my ears, Just jump out of the goddam car if you know what’s good for you. I replay myself gripping the door handle. Cracking the window. Counting breaths to calm the panicked bird that lives in my chest.
I turn away from Jon. As I step toward The Mercury, the car door slams shut behind me. The red pulse disappears.
Jon disappears.
~
I find Gordo at his usual spot by the pinball machine. Ask if he wants to bum a smoke, and his vacant eyes scan my face. He scratches the psoriasis above his ear, and dander falls onto the table like dead moths. It takes him a while, but then he smiles and scrapes his chair back against the worn floorboards
Out in the alley, I realize I’ve only got three smokes left, so I light one for us to share. Take a long drag and pass it over to him then start my story like I always do. I’m not sure if it’s on account of his memory or mine.
“The Wolfes, old couple adopted me when I was 10, die months apart. I’m 21 and all alone in this world, so I start searching for the sister Ma gave up in the hospital before she tells the authorities to come get me, too. Maybe she was doing us all a favour. A few weeks later, they find her OD’ed.”
Gordo passes me the dart. I take a few long drags. My heart never twinges for the Wolfes, but it sure stings on account of people who do me wrong. Like Ma and Sheila and more men than I care to count. Seems I reckon I don’t deserve to be loved.
“Sheila’s still a minor, so I’ve gotta twiddle my thumbs. Find myself searching for Ma’s eyes or nose in young girl’s faces even though I hardly remember her face and never had no photos of her. Nothing goes slower than waiting while you’re looking for something you ain’t never seen.
“Pawn off the Wolfe’s antiques and trinkets, sell their house and move back to Ma’s streets with gold in my pockets. Of course, that don’t last none too long because people take and take and take until you’ve got nothing left to give. Years I wait for Sheila to come looking. Drink myself from one man’s slumlord penthouse to next. I had to sort through a lot of fool’s gold before Jon held the door to The Mercury open and followed me inside.”
I pull up my sleeve. Gordo chuckles like he does each time he sees the initials graffitied across my inner forearm. Phlegm rattles in his chest. His eyes shine. I continue, “Then one night I dream a she-wolf curls up at my feet. Somehow, I know it’s Mother Wolfe telling me to do better. So I clean myself up. Get a job mopping floors at the community school. Tell the kids stories while I eat my bologna sandwiches on an upturned pickle pail. Say things like, I was raised by Wolfes… let them think what they want so I can help them keep their noses clean.”
Truth is those kids hold the parts of me together. I’d be lost without them or Jon or Gordo reminding me who I am and who I want to be. Maybe Mother Wolfe sent them to keep watch over me.
“Few years back I get a call. My sister’s 19 and looking for me. When we meet, she’s already got a couple kids, another in the oven. Wants me to be her maid of honour. First time I’m part of a family that feels real. Not long after, she tells me Bart expects they’ll have a baby or two before she goes back to the DQ where she worked at when they met. Bart’s dumb as a stone, she says, He never asked and I sure as hell ain’t telling him! Who the fuck wants to work drive-thru for the rest of their lives? Sheila pops out baby Angelica and swears off birth control. They’re expecting baby number seven now.”
The air conditioner behind us hums to life. Buzzes louder and louder. Like Sheila’s voice in the car, telling me things I know can’t be true. I light the last two cigarettes, hand one to Gordo. These days, I notice the bits of him piling on his shoulder about the same as the ashes falling from his cigarette. Used to amaze me how he just keeps scratching and scratching and bits of him flake off kinda like Sheila and her lies. She never knew our ma, but Sheila’s got her knack of making up stories. But this one landed too close to home.
Last Sunday I saw her squeezing past Jon into the narrow kitchen to get us both another beer. She pressed herself up against him, and I thought to myself that she’d probably already had one too many. She whispered in Jon’s ear and his cheeks reddened. But he glanced at me. I smiled, shrugged my shoulders and whispered, Sorry. She’s drunk. I bit my tongue on account of the kids. No need pulling family apart.
“Poor Bart still ain’t got a sniff what Sheila says and what’s true don’t always coincide. Like the time Sheila storms home after her doctor’s appointment, swearing Doc Hanley tried raping her. The dimwit Bart threatens to beat the doctor to a pulp. But Sheila stiffens her upper lip, sucks long and hard on her Player’s Light while she fixes a bottle of formula. Says, Don’t get your twat in a knot, and chomps into an onion sandwich. She points a finger and the other three’s pointing back at her!” In the car, she accused Jon of making advances, trying to lure her.
“Not long after, Sheila begs for a ladies’ night, just me and her, so I bring her here. She does a bunch of shots and admits that Doc Hanley suggested the baby might not like the taste of her breastmilk on account of her diet and her smoking. When he asked to see the baby’s latch, his fingers brushed her nipple and Sheila’s the one got all hot and bothered! Then she tells me she’s making up for lost time. Takes off her wedding ring and drops it into her purse, rearranges her tits and slinks over to the band. In no times, she’s ditched me and disappeared with the drummer and I had to tell Bart she was passed out on my futon.”
Gordo shakes his head. A blizzard of flakes falls to our shoes while we smoke. Listen to the air conditioner’s hum. I think of how it’s easy enough to brush away his dander. But Sheila’s lies are another story.
I finish my smoke. Crush it against the brick wall.
“Once Ma disappeared, I never really missed her. I don’t think I’d miss Sheila either. Maybe I’m finally done with love that hurts.”
~
I find Jon perched on a barstool near the stage, tonight’s winnings bulging in his breast pocket. He’s watching the band set up, letting me decide.
Wings beat against my windpipe, but I push a stool close enough to take his hand in mine. He squeezes my fingers, and I know this is what love is supposed to feel like. Just like the first time Jon opened the door to The Mercury for me and I hesitated, he’s holding the door until I’m ready.
Rachel Laverdiere writes, pots and teaches in her little house on the Canadian prairies. She is CNF editor at Atticus Review and the creator of Hone & Polish Your Writing. Find Rachel's latest prose in Burningword Literary Journal, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Bending Genres and Five South. In 2020, her CNF made The Wigleaf Top 50 and was nominated for Best of the Net. Rachel is a finalist for this year's Anne C. Barnhill Prize for Creative Nonfiction. For more, visit www.rachellaverdiere.com.