Rodent (3 page)

Rupa’s at the counter. Her husband, Arif, is nowhere to be seen. Rupa’s all right, but Arif constantly scrutinizes me, peeking around chip displays. Like he expects to catch me shoplifting any second. Their son, Hasan, works there too sometimes. He’s eighteen and way too good-looking to be trusted. He smiles at me and volunteers for “training,” which usually prompts me to rearrange the cooler or reclean the bathroom. Something about his white teeth and dimples makes me start dropping things and tripping over my own feet.

In a lull between customers, Rupa asks me about my first day of school. I smile, shrug and tell her it was good—everything oh-so-normal. I’d rather die than look this woman in the eye—her warm, open face—and tell her I’m one step away from foster care, homelessness or prison. Those kinds of conversations don’t exactly build employer-employee relationships. There’s something else about her too. Like, I could picture bringing her a test where I got an A and waving it around, like Maisie does with me and her drawings.

Rupa has me stock the cooler and then asks me to find Arif to see what he wants done. I’m not surprised at all when he hands me a toilet brush and a pair of gloves and sends me to clean the bathroom. They must save this for me. I hang the Closed sign on the doorknob and get to work.

I grit my teeth and scrub at the urinal. It looks like half the city passed through today and took turns missing.
I consider putting a Cheerio in the bottom for aim, like I do for Evan. The toilet is even worse. By the time I finish it and haul out the garbage, which has a nasty diaper or two, I’m sweaty and in no mood for Hasan’s winning smiles. I barely say hello to him and ask Rupa if I can work the till for a while. She stands next to me, in case I get stuck. At the end of my shift, I buy a box of cereal to take home and a few five-cent sour candies for Maisie and Evan.

I know as soon as I open the apartment door and see that Evan and Maisie have pulled out a box of crackers for supper, leaving a trail of crumbs between the kitchen and living room. The television is blaring.

I don’t even know why I ask, “Where’s Mom?”

“She’s sleeping,” Evan says slowly, knowing that for some reason this answer always makes me mad. Maisie just looks at me and waits.

I storm into the kitchen and toss the bag with the cereal on the counter, tipping over a coffee mug, which smashes on the floor. I pick up one of the large pieces and hurl it into the sink, where it shatters into tiny shards. Evan begins to cry. Maisie stands still, watching me.

Charging down the hall, I throw open the door and flick on the light. There she is, half dressed for work, on her belly, snoring. One empty bottle is tipped over on the dresser, and there’s another one on the floor by the bed.

“Get up!” I shriek. “Your shift starts in less than an hour!”

She doesn’t even stir. And in her stillness, I want to pick up an empty bottle and beat her senseless with it. Shake her,
slap her, scream. I want to sink my nails into her limp arm to the point of drawing blood and make her respond to me.

Instead I turn off the light, shut the door and find Evan. Holding him in my lap, I stroke his hair and tell him it will be okay. I smile at Maisie and tell her I’ll make supper soon. When my voice is steady enough, I find my mom’s new work number on the fridge and call, telling them she’s deathly ill with food poisoning and won’t make it in tonight. They’re still too new to know that this will happen again. And again. And again. Until someone catches on and, in a humiliating scene, fires her. Then we’ll pack what little we have and move to some other dump or shelter or friend’s basement to start it all over again.

I know one thing tonight, with Evan’s hair against my cheek and Maisie waiting for me to feed her: I’ve had enough of the wooden chairs, concrete floors, suitcases and bedbugs. The lying, laundry, excuses, hunger, dirt and piss. My fingers tremble as I touch Evan’s hair. I’ve had enough, and I’m getting out.

FOUR

Every time I start to drift off on their bedroom floor, Maisie scratches at her legs, like she always does in her sleep. Evan hasn’t even stirred. I let them stay up late to watch a rerun of
The Wizard of Oz
on
TV
. Cable is a recent luxury, and we only have it now because it’s a rental incentive for the apartment. Our television’s not pretty, but it works. And it’s tough. Uncle Richie, Jacquie’s dad, once chucked an empty vodka bottle at the screen, offended by the weather forecast. It didn’t even chip.

I could get up and move to my own bed or sleep on the sofa. I’m supposed to share a room with Mom. I have a camping cot set up next to her bed. Most nights, though, especially lately, I can’t even stand to hear her breathing next to me. On those nights, I pull the cushions off the sofa instead and drop them on Maisie and Evan’s floor. Something about watching them sleep makes me feel less like beating Mom with a tire iron.

On nights like this, I pull out my notebook. It isn’t a journal, exactly—more for writing stories, poems, things I don’t want to say out loud. I’d rather douse this entire building with gasoline and light a match than have this discovered and read by another living soul. I’ve found a pretty good hiding spot for it too—inside my suitcase. I slip it in where the lining is ripped and maneuver it to a place near the base, where it’s not visible. Not that anyone’s looking.

I drag my suitcase off the shelf in their closet and start to root around for it. It has slipped past the spot I usually leave it. There’s a moment of panic while I grope around, imagining that Evan has found the notebook and covered it in crayon. Or worse, that Mom has. My poetry would trigger a binge for sure. There, I’ve found its hard corner. I work it out through the frayed lining, the pen tucked tight in the coil binding. Then I tiptoe into Mom’s room—she’s still out cold—and grab my flashlight from under my cot. She doesn’t even twitch.

With a pen in one hand and the flashlight in the other, I wait for the words to come. After a minute I flip to a story near the back and pick up where I left off. Abby, my protagonist, is making a suicide pact with her twin sister. If their mother goes ahead and marries her abusive boyfriend, they’ll drink poisoned Kool-Aid. Her mother has just announced the wedding date. I’m not sure if I’ll off Abby or not, but I’m pretty sure the sister will at least become a heroin addict. I only scribble another paragraph, though, before the heaviness of the day creeps back. I try to push it away, but it nags at me and blocks my words. I lay my cheek on the pillow, pushing the notebook aside.

It’s been a bad week. Mom hasn’t come out and said it, but I know this is the one-year anniversary of when Claude—Maisie’s and Evan’s dad—left. I did a happy dance myself, but I hear her crying at night sometimes. And the way he did it: empty apartment, kids’ piggy banks cleaned out, not even a note. What a douche.

I drift off this way and have restless dreams about the tinkling of bottles like tiny bells. Being closed up in muffled darkness, one brick at a time. Small voices whimpering somewhere I can’t reach.

I wake to Maisie crouching over me, her hair dangling down and tickling my eyebrow. “What’s that?” she asks. My eyes snap open. My notebook has fallen to the floor beside me, its pages splayed.

I snatch it up and tell her, “Homework.” I tuck it on their high shelf, behind a box of winter clothes.

Evan is already mucking around in the kitchen, having pulled a chair over to the counter to reach the loaf of bread. I take the bread from his hand after he’s had a bite or two. “Do you want me to toast this for you?” He nods. I must have really been out of it to miss all of this. It’s 9:23
AM
. Bus left. Bell rung. Class started. There’s no way I can pull it off this morning. I call Maisie’s school and tell an ancient-sounding admin assistant that Maisie is sick and won’t be in today.

Evan, standing at my elbow, says, “We’re not going to school today?”

“There is no school today, Evan. School’s closed.” He seems to accept this, since often things he’s interested in are closed—the toy store, the swimming pool, sometimes the park. “You’ll be home with me today, okay?” I say.

“And Mom?”

I pause. “Maybe. We’ll see. I guess so.” I mean, technically she’ll be in the apartment, right?

She stumbles out around noon, just as I’m getting out of the shower. The kids are watching
TV
. Her hair is puffed up on one side; she must have passed out while it was still damp. “Why didn’t you wake me up last night?” she says, reaching for the water jug in the fridge.

I give her the look.

“I was just having a bit of a nap before you got home.” She rubs her temple. “You should’ve woken me.”

“I had to call in for you again.” I can’t even look her in the eye.

“Why, Isabelle? You should’ve woken me,” she says, pouring a tall glass. I’ve started down the hall to grab my notebook and take off when the phone rings.

I know exactly who it is. I dash for it as she takes a few lazy steps, clamping my hand over the receiver the second before she reaches it.

“Isabelle, what on earth?”

“Sit down, Mom.” Then I tell her about punching the blond, making it out like she was a bloodthirsty maniac who tried to kill me. All while the phone rings endlessly behind us.
It finally stops as I get around to mentioning my totally unjust suspension.

She still manages to look shocked every time I get in trouble at school.

“Isabelle.” She opens her pale mouth, struggling with the words, “I didn’t raise you…”

“No, you didn’t raise me!” I holler, banging both fists against the table. Knocking over a salt shaker.

My words seem to suck the air out of her. That’s how I leave her as I break for the door and head down the hall, small voices trailing behind me. I lose them at the elevator, ignoring the pull in my stomach as the doors slide closed before they reach me.

I’ve forgotten my jacket. Low clouds dampen a gray skyline, making goose bumps prickle my arms. I walk for an hour, the wind scratching my cheeks red.

When I get back, Mom is sitting at the table with the phone in front of her. She gives me a pointed stare. I gather Mr. Talmage has given her the your-daughter-beats-up-innocent-children-and-fluffy-kittens talk.

I stare straight back.
Just bring it up, Mom. Just try
.

She chooses each word carefully. “Your principal called.” Takes a breath. “He said you can go back on Monday, but he wants to see you in his office before your first class.”

“Okay.” I can tell she wants to say more.

“Isabelle.” She clears her croaky throat. I know what’s coming. I don’t want to hear any apologies today about her being a bad mother or not giving us what we deserve.
As she continues to be a bad mother and not give us what we deserve. Not today.

“Don’t,
Mother
,” I say, marching past her.

She lays her head on the table.

The moment I slam the bedroom door, that guilt bubbles up. I have the impulse to rush back and hug her, like I did when I was Maisie’s age. Can’t remember the last time I was hugged by anyone other than Maisie and Evan. Or that drunk guy at Jacquie’s birthday party, who I had to knee in the balls to get away from.

No. She made this bed. This bed of vomit and piss and dirty sheets. Let her lie in it.

A minute later I hear the shower run.

* * *

Over the weekend, I stay glued to Mom.

“Stop it, Isabelle,” she says during dinner on Saturday, watching my eyes follow the beer bottle to her mouth. “I’m allowed to have a drink.”

Later, when she’s taking too long in the bathroom, I burst in without knocking. She’s on the toilet, reading a mystery novel, and scrambles to cover herself. Like I haven’t seen it all a million times.

“Cut it out!” She shoves me from the bathroom, pants still around her ankles. The lock clicks behind her.

Still, she makes it to work both nights.

* * *

On Monday morning, my stomach flutters as I wind through the hallway on my way to Mr. Talmage’s office. Because of the weekend after my two-day suspension, it feels like I’ve been away a while.

I keep my eyes peeled for the squinty blond and her friends but don’t see anyone I recognize. Might as well get the bowing and scraping over with so I can get on with this year and get the hell out.

Mr. Talmage’s door is shut, muffled voices inside. Who’s with him? I knock. His hulking frame fills the doorway. He looks down at me like I’m a used Band-Aid on his breakfast plate.

“Miss Bennett,” he says. “Come in.”

As he pushes the door open wider, I see her in one of the wooden chairs. The blond. And she has an impressive bruise. I don’t know whether to be proud or ashamed. She looks up at me. I look away.

Mr. Talmage gestures to an empty chair beside her. We both stare straight ahead, although I’m close enough to smell her fruity shampoo.

“Miss Bennett and I have discussed the inappropriateness of her actions,” Mr. Talmage says, leaning toward the blond, “but I think she should know more about her victim.”

Victim?
He makes me sound like a serial killer.

He looks me in the eye and gestures toward her. “Ainsley is an honors student and an active member of our
students’ union. She has participated in fundraising for the food bank, after-school programs and jerseys for our sports teams.” The man has actually made a list. He inhales slowly to give me time to admire the wonder that is Ainsley.

“She plays on the volleyball team and is president of the Art Club.” Is this winding up anytime soon? “She is an asset to our school.” And another word I can think of beginning with
a
. “Is there something you would like to say to Ainsley?” he says. I bite my tongue. In the silence, he prompts, “I think you owe Ainsley an apology, Isabelle.”

Ainsley, who’s been sitting with her hands folded in her lap like a sainted nun up to this point, turns her pale face toward me, eyes open wide, and blinks.

I wonder how long we’ll sit here if I say nothing at all. I mean, really, I have all day. That dark cloud of
what if
moves in my mind, always ending up at those two small faces. As much as this place is a dump, it’s right across from Maisie’s school. Being at another school wouldn’t work as well.