Sophie & Carter (2 page)

My mom’s a prostitute. She calls herself a call girl or an escort, but really she’s a hooker.

I resent her.

Not because of her profession. In fact, her ‘job’ has kept food on our table and clothes on our backs for years. She’s beautiful and sexy. I’m sure she’s good at what she does.

No, I resent her because sometime over the last few years, she’s become a drug addict.

I have three younger siblings. I think we all have different fathers, although my mom swears we are all the offspring of some ‘really cool guy’ named Amos.

Amos is a stupid name. I hope she’s lying.

Either way, this Amos guy hasn’t been around for, oh, ever, so it’s just me and the ‘Littles’ (as I like to call them).

My mom, in her selfish, drug-induced haze, rarely comes home. Sometimes I doubt she remembers where home is. The Littles don’t even ask where she is anymore because they’re used to her disappearing for months at a time. It’s been this way for years.

We’ll go as long as possible without money, but then the landlord starts calling and I have to track down my mom.

I call Pete, my mom’s manager (aka: pimp), when I need to find her. Pete’s a slimeball—no surprise there—but he always puts me in contact with my mom.

She’ll get on the phone and laugh and cry and sing and tell me how much she loves all us kids and how she’s so sorry she’s been away for a few days (try a few months) and that she’ll be home soon (maybe Christmas?).

I bite my tongue throughout the call because I know it’s the drugs. I know deep down my sober mom does love us and hates that she’s being so selfish.

I listen and say all the right things: I love you too, we miss you too, yes, the Littles are doing good in school and remember who you are. Finally, before we hang up, I’ll ask my mother for money.

She’ll get all emotional and fill up with guilt and promise me the moon and the stars.

I don’t want the solar system. I want to buy bread and keep from being evicted.

It’ll take a few days, but eventually money will wind up in my checking account. I’ll pay all the bills, cry myself to sleep, and hope that we can make it through the next few months without needing more money from her.

The Littles don’t know any of this. They think our mom travels a lot on business. They’re used to me being the parent and making dinner, tucking them in, setting house rules, and taking care of them when they’re sick.

I’m used to it too.

It makes me feel dry inside.

Because without a mom, there’s no one left to take care of me.

Except Carter.

He’s why I can handle things like potty-training a three-year-old, grounding a nine-year-old, and tutoring an eleven-year-old.

The Littles are bigger now. Chloe’s six, Abram’s twelve, and Michael is fourteen.

I’m eighteen. I feel like I’m forty.

Now that we’re all in school during the day, I don’t have to worry about paying for childcare, which is a big relief.

And now that I’m legally an adult, I can pick the Littles up from school if they get sick or—in Michael’s case—get in a fight. (Thankfully, Michael’s freshman year of high school has been incident-free.)

It didn’t used to be this easy.

I walk inside my house and make sure my mom’s not there. A few times over the years, she’s come home to ‘surprise’ us all, and it’s usually a train wreck. I try to prevent any disasters from crashing into the Littles.

Like track marks up and down Mom’s arms, or boyfriends named Bubba who smell like blood and urine.

It’s lousy.

I get home twenty minutes before the bus comes with the Littles. It’s the easiest part of my day. It’s twenty minutes of being a teenager in my house.

Once the Littles get home, I’m mom. I’m dad. I’m the law. I’m the nurse. I’m the teacher. I’m the housekeeper. I’m the cook. I’m the freaking Atlas of the family.

I’m waiting for my back to break.

Carter knows. He keeps the world turning and helps me carry it on my shoulders.

I take out my homework, turn on the TV, and try to finish what little I can get done in twenty minutes. Time flies and soon enough Chloe comes bouncing into the house, followed by Abram.

Chloe’s happy, and hopeful, and ignorant.

I love her guts.

Abram’s rowdy, and dirty, and reckless.

I love his guts too.

“Hey Sophie! Can I have a snack?” Chloe smiles at me with her cute face.

I hug her and take her little backpack. “Of course, munchkin.” I open her backpack and pull out her spelling words. “Try to spell these out loud while I get some yummies, okay?”

She begins spelling out her first grade words as I cut up a banana that’s more brown than yellow.

Michael comes in. We go to the same school, but he has a late class because his grades weren’t exactly stellar last year and now he’s making up for it.

“Hey.” I say.

He mumbles “hey” back at me. He is way too cool to like his big sister.

I love his guts anyway.

“Have a seat, pull out your homework.” I figured out a year ago the only way to get everyone to do their homework is to make them sit down right after school while they eat something.

The bitter protests the boys give me are expected. I kiss the top of Abram’s head and squeeze Michael’s shoulder. They pretend to hate it when I do that.

But really, they don’t. They need it.

I grab a couple of apples on the verge of going bad and start cutting them up as well. I don’t need a snack. I eat as much as possible at school.

The Littles bicker playfully at the kitchen table as I distribute the meager apple slices. The table wobbles, reminding me to wedge something beneath the uneven legs when I get a chance.

I go to the sink to rinse off the apple knife and glance out my kitchen window into Carter’s kitchen. His mom is staggering by the sink and Carter is trying to steady her with his gentle hands.

My heart breaks.

I look at the clock. It’s 4:00pm.

I’ve got five hours until everyone’s in bed (or at least in their rooms for the night). Five hours until I have a minute to think. Five hours until I can connect with the only person who really knows me.

Carter.

My mom’s not really alive anymore. She’s more like a walking, talking, stumbling, slurring ghost.

I’m not mad at her, though.

She’s sober sometimes; she’s crazy all the time.

The pills don’t help.

The doctors say she’s mentally ill, suffering from extreme hallucinations and paranoia, and the social workers say she should be admitted to a mental care facility. I’m told it’s only a matter of time before the state insists on taking her away.

But she’s the only parent I have left so I’m not ready to let her go. Instead I keep her here and make sure she takes her pills.

But the pills don’t help.

It’s not her fault, though; the craziness…the alcohol. The man who is my father beat the crap out of her for twenty years. His repeated blows to her head damaged her brain. And now she self-medicates.

With liquor.

The alcohol numbs the past. And the present. I get it. I hate it, but I get it.

The man who is my father beat the crap out of me for years too. But I don’t think about those years.

“Can’t you see them, Carter? They’re tiny glass bugs digging into my skin with their claws! Get them off! Help! They’re eating me!”

My mom’s crazy enough without the alcohol. With the booze, though, she’s like gasoline and fire. I look at the empty bottle of Jack by the sink and wonder where she got it. She probably bought it on one of her ‘good’ days and hid it in the house.

I sigh and try to reassure her. “Mom, there are no bugs. You’re fine.” I say this with sensitivity. I don’t talk down to her or belittle her—ever. The man who is my father did enough of that.

“But Carter! I see them! Can you not see them? They’re black with green eyes!” She’s desperately scratching at her skin now.

I sigh and try to take her drunken body into my arms. If I can get her to the couch and turn on some trashy talk show, she’ll calm down.

“Don’t touch me! They’ll get you!” she screams.

I stand very still and play the game. “All right. I promise I won’t touch you. What can I do to help? Some bug spray, maybe?”

I want to scream.

Her eyes light up and my chest hurts. “Yes! Oh, Carter, you’re amazing! Yes! Bug spray!”

“Okay, stay right here, I’ll go get some.” I walk down the hall to the closet where we used to keep cleaning agents, chemicals, bleach and, well, bug spray.

A few years ago I got smart and replaced the contents of each bottle with plain water.

I did this after my mom almost died of chemical poisoning because she drank a bottle of kitchen cleaner ‘to help with the digestion of the gnomes’.

I was so afraid she was going to die. After we got home from the hospital, I threw up in the back yard and went into the house to switch out all the cleaners. The real stuff is in my room, locked in a file cabinet.

I grab the fake bug spray and return to the kitchen. My mom’s got a knife to her hand, trying to scrape the invisible bugs from her arms.

“Mom! Don’t!” I freak out, of course.

She looks at me and I try to compose myself. “The, uh, bugs like the steel, mom. You gotta use bug spray.” I raise the spray bottle filled with water and pray she believes me.

She nods, “Oh, you’re so right! Thank you!” She puts down the knife and I exhale.

“Okay, mom. Stand still.”

She freezes and I spray her down with misty water, disposing of the nonexistent bugs. She closes her eyes and covers her mouth and nose.

I’m winning her game, but I feel defeated.

She’s now damp all over and smiling at me like a little kid at Disneyland. “Thanks sweetie! You’re the best son a mama could ever hope for!”

I feel like crap.

I smile and lead her into the living room. A talk show is already playing on the TV so I sit her on the sofa and promise to bring her some food. The sofa is orange and brown, torn at almost every seam, and smells like baby powder.

When I was four I dumped an entire bottle of baby powder on the couch because it looked like snow and clouds. My poor mom tried to scrub the powder out for days without success.

So the couch smells like me…when I was four. And for whatever reason that makes me sad.

I look at my mother, with her messy dark hair and cloudy eyes, and try to see the woman she used to be. I watch her closely, as if at any moment she’ll magically awake from this nightmare of a disease and be back to the normal mom-figure she was when I was young.

Nothing changes, though. She’s engrossed in her talk show and oblivious to my presence.

I sigh and head back to the kitchen where I brace myself against the stained and cracked countertop. For a moment I close my eyes, listening to the booing audience from the talk show in the other room. My mother starts to boo along with them in excitement. I open my eyes and stare at the kitchen floor.

Once upon a time, she read me books and tied my shoes and played Monopoly with me. Once upon a time, she was a beautiful woman with a healthy mind and a loving touch.

That woman is now gone.

Living in her body is a tortured soul who’s been broken. I hate the monster who broke her.

I look down at the nasty scar that stretches from the back of my neck to my elbow.

The monster broke me too, but I healed. For the most part.

I look out the kitchen window and see Sophie sitting at her table with the kids. The table wobbles as she points to something in front of Abram and nods. There’s a plate with some brown fruit on the table.

My chest hurts again.

Chloe spills her cup and water goes everywhere. Sophie shoots up and starts grabbing homework and papers off the table while the boys are laughing. Sophie throws the papers on the counter and grabs a towel.

Chloe is crying while Sophie sops up the flood that is now on both the table and the floor while Abram and Michael are running though the puddle and sliding across the tile like it’s a slip-n-slide.

Sophie takes Chloe into her arms and soothes her with words. The little girl stops crying and smiles up at her big sister. Eventually, Chloe bounces off her lap and scurries away.

Sophie points at the boys and scolds them, swinging her finger toward the other room. The boys follow her orders and leave with their heads down, but they’re still smirking.

Alone in the kitchen, Sophie bends to her knees and starts wiping the kitchen floor.

I watch her silently in admiration.

I sigh and look at the clock. Just a few more hours.

“Carter, baby! Come in here! I think there’s an alligator behind the TV!” My mom’s voice is filled with genuine panic.

I stretch my neck and start walking to the living room.

Just a few more hours until I can relax.

“Abram, if you’re gonna pee like an animal, then pee in the backyard,” I yell down the hallway.

There’s pee all over the toilet seat. I clean it up so Chloe can use it. “Go potty and then brush your teeth for me, ok?”

“Okey-dokey,” Chloe says.

I close the bathroom door behind me as I leave and hear her start to sing. She always sings when she pees. I love her guts.

I poke my head in Abram’s room, “Lights out.” He grumbles and shuts off his lamp. Aside from the peeing-on-the-toilet thing, Abram’s a pretty easy twelve-year-old boy. For this, I’m grateful.

Michael walks past me and doesn’t make eye contact. He thinks he’s the man of the house. And, really, he is. But he’s also fourteen.

“You too,” I say, but not as bossy.

He swings his head to look at me. “Bedtime for a teenager is lame.”

I nod because I get it. “Then do whatever you want, but just stay in your room so the kids have some sense of bedtime.”

He’s mad. “Whatever.”

I don’t back down or give in. I can’t. He still needs me.

After I tuck Chloe in bed, I walk down the hall to the kitchen and start cleaning up the mess from dinner.

We had spaghetti, but we didn’t have sauce.

I need to go to the store sometime soon. I need to buy groceries. I need to get the Littles some clothes that fit.

I need to call my mom.

I sit in front of the TV, tuck my hair behind my ear, and work on my homework.

Teachers say you shouldn’t watch TV while you do homework, but there’s just something about a cheap reality TV show that makes me feel smart.

When I’m trying to solve a difficult math problem or string together an essay for English I can always take a break, watch some reality TV, and think to myself ‘well, at least I’m not that drunk girl getting a platypus tattooed on her neck’. Reality TV never fails to boost my ego enough for me to finish my homework on time and vow never to drink myself into a questionable tattoo choice.

Weird, how that works out.

I’m a good student, though. I can’t afford to mess up at school. I’m hoping I can get a decent job right out of high school so I can move the Littles someplace else.

Somewhere we can be independent.

Somewhere prostitution and drugs and weird boyfriends can’t get us.

An hour goes by and I make my way out to the front porch. We have a porch swing. It’s like something out of a movie. We look perfect. And I guess that’s the point.

Everyone pretends.

The swing squeaks as I sit down and the sound calms me.

The chains are rusted and the wooden planks of the seat and back are splintering in some places, but it’s the most beautiful piece of furniture we have.

I rock for a minute, listening to the rhythmic creaking of the swing. The night is quiet except for the crickets. Across the street is a yard filled with cinder blocks, auto parts, and weeds crawling across the ground like the claws of a thorny monster.

But if I close my eyes…and focus only on the singing swing and the chirping crickets…I live in paradise.

I breathe in, I breathe out, and I open my eyes.

My heart feels lighter because I know Carter will be here soon. He’ll come walking over, sit down next to me, and make my day feel good.

My time on the porch swing with Carter every night is the only way I get any sleep.

I see him leave his house sneakily. His mom doesn’t care if he’s out too late, or gone altogether. But she’s probably passed out on the couch and Carter’s careful not to wake her.

He’s a good guy.

He’s got a plastic bag with him full of stuff. “Hey, Sophie.”

I love how he says my name. It’s real.

“Hey, yourself.” I smile because I can’t help myself. He’s big and wonderful and he sits down next to me like I’m important.

He hands the bag to me and looks away, “So…how was your day?”

I look in the bag and want to cry.

It’s filled with fresh fruit and raw vegetables and crackers and bread and, well, everything we need. And he knows we need. And I love him for it.

I’m terribly moved by the bag of groceries, but I don’t cry. He doesn’t want me to. He probably doesn’t even want me to acknowledge his gift.

I answer him, “It was typical. You?”

We don’t look at each other, we stare into the night. It’s different now, than it was at school. There’s no flirting. No teasing. No laughing high school seniors.

This is reality and with it comes a heaviness.

The night is unusually dark, the streetlights scaring away the stars and the trees hiding the moon.

But the darkness is peaceful.

He answers me. “Ah, you know. Gnomes and fake bugs. The usual.” He sounds fine. He’s not.

I nod because there’s nothing to say. We sit in silence, the only noise the slow creaking of the porch swing and the crickets.

He’s breathing, I’m breathing.

This is my favorite time of day.

It’s easy and calm. There are no crying kids, or strung-out moms, or invisible bugs.

I look down at Carter’s arm and eye his long scar.

Or violent dads.

He sees me looking at his scar and shifts in his seat. He’s not hiding from me, there’s no use. But he doesn’t like to talk about his dad and the scar reminds him.

I was ten the first time I saw his dad hurt him. I was in my room staring out my window, wishing we were still in the big city, when I heard a faint howl.

I peeked out my window and saw Carter huddled down in his bedroom. My light was off, but his was on. He was hiding, but his dad found him.

He always found him.

Carter’s father used only his hands that night. Blow after blow I watched in horror as Carter’s small body became more and more limp. I cried at my window, watching long after his dad had left Carter unconscious on his bedroom floor.

I was ten, I didn’t know what to do. I watched and watched until Carter came to and slowly rolled over. His face, his hands, his head, all were bloody. He started crying, which made me cry harder.

I was so scared for him. I trembled in my princess nightgown, safely hidden behind my window in the darkness of my room.

The fights got worse as we grew older. Carter’s dad started using baseball bats and golf clubs instead of his fists. I got used to seeing bruises on Carter’s body and cuts on his hands.

I told my mom once, about the boy next door whose dad hurt him. My mom said we needed to mind our own business or we would get hurt too.

I was a kid. I believed her.

“We graduate soon.” Carter’s still looking out at the street. His face is beautiful, even with the scars and the shadows of the night.

I nod, “Yeah. They say that’s when life starts. You know, after high school.” I’m stressed out all of a sudden.

Carter doesn’t move. “Life. Whatever that is.” He’s down. I hate it when he gets discouraged. He doesn’t think he can have a real life because he needs to take care of his mom. It’s a problem without a solution.

“Life is what we make it.” I say, but my words sound empty.

He scoffs, but he’s not trying to be mean. “Sometimes I just wanna get away from it all, ya know?”

I nod, “Yeah. Just pick up and…leave. Start over.” I sigh, “I think about that all the time.”

He nods, “Me too.”

We sit in silence for a minute. Thinking about the freedom we don’t have and the future we can’t control.

I pause, trying to figure out how to say what I’m feeling. “It’s not all bad, you know.” I clear my throat, “At least for me.” I shift in the swing. “It’s not all stressful and unfair. I have you. You make my life…I don’t know…better.” My words don’t sound empty this time.

He turns to me and cocks his head to the side. He studies me and I don’t look away.

I wait.

“Sophie,” he says my name again and I’m flying. “You make my life way better than…better.”

I know this. I feel it. And I’m grateful for it.

The streetlights turn off and, usually, that’s our cue to end our time on the swing. But neither of us moves to leave.

We don’t usually touch. We’re just friends, or whatever. But tonight I decide to do something unusual. I know, even before I move, that I might scare him back into his house. But I don’t care.

I reach over and put my hand on his.

Not seductively.

Without expectations.

He turns his hand over to grasp mine.

And we sit, silent and connected at the hand, for long minutes, staring at the dark street.

I’m happy.