BETH
I rub my hands together and blow into them for possibly the thirtieth time. Hiding in the alleyway behind the bar, I stare at Mom’s apartment. Trent entered right after I arrived and he’s been in there for three hours. I have no choice but to wait. He’ll kill me if he sees me again.
The door to the apartment opens and the bald asshole finally stumbles out. Fucking fabulous. He’s tweaking, which means he’ll be in a kicking babies mood. I’ll take a heavy heroin user over a tweaker any day.
Resting his weight against his car door, Trent fumbles his keys, drops them, and dips low to pick them back up. Yeah, asshole, you belong behind a wheel. I hope you drive into a wall and die.
His car doesn’t start immediately. The engine whines as he turns it over twice. Come on. The third time the engine groans to life. The car trembles when he backs it out and eases onto the main road.
I dash across the parking lot and bang on Mom’s door as I try the knob. It doesn’t give, but I hear Mom undoing the chains on the other side. She opens the door and wavers when she spots me. “Elisabeth.”
I push in. “Did you pack?”
“No,” she says. “I’m not sure we should do this.”
God, this guy is a slob. His clothes are everywhere and so are the little empty packets that hold his meth. I grab a garbage bag and head into the bathroom. “What do you need?”
She follows me and rubs her bare arm. I remember Dad doing that. It means she’s craving a hit. Withdrawal with her is going to be a bitch.
“Trent took care of me after I came home from the hospital. He says he’s sorry for how he treats me and he wants to start again.”
“Trent’s full of shit.” I pitch into the bag her toothbrush, hairbrush, then pause when I notice a small brown bag behind Mom’s tampons. “What’s this?”
“I don’t know.” Her hand moves up and down her arm again. “Shirley put it in there when she brought me home.”
I snatch the bag. “I thought you said Trent took care of you when you came home.”
“I meant to say he came by here this morning.”
Inside the brown bag are a roll of fifties and a prescription bottle of the drug needed to help Mom detox from heroin. Thank you, Shirley. I try not to think about what she sold or what she did for the money. It’s here and I need it and that’s good enough for the moment. I throw everything into the garbage bag and go into her bedroom. The pickings are slim in the clothing department and I toss the less stained and torn clothes into the bag.
“Elisabeth,” Mom says in a whine. “Maybe we should put it off—by a day or two.”
“We are not putting it off by a day or two, we’re leaving. Where are the keys to the car?”
“I…don’t…know.” Which means she does know.
I swing the bag full of stuff and knock her liquor bottles off the bedside table. Glass shatters against the wall. “That’s what Trent’s going to do to your head one of these days. We’re getting out of here!”
Frustrated, I stalk out of the room and quickly glance toward the spare bedroom. The door is open for once and I freeze. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
I rest my head against the door frame—too dizzy with disappointment to stay upright on my own. On an old coffee table I found near a Dumpster a couple of years ago are several bags of white powder. Smaller baggies and balloons lie on the floor. I can barely whisper the words. “You’re selling heroin.”
Mom shoves me out of the way and shuts the door. “No. Trent does. I used to let him keep it here overnight at times, but after the night you busted out his windows the police got nosy with him so he brought it here for good. It was the least I could do.”
My fingers open and close. “You busted out the windows of Trent’s car. I took the fall so they wouldn’t send you to prison.”
“Pretend you didn’t see it, Elisabeth. Trent will be mad you know. He thinks you ratted him out to the police.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I shout in her face. “Do you not remember the outcome of our last heroin experience?” Forming a gun with my fingers, I point it to my forehead. “He was going to kill me, Mom. I was eight years old! He pushed the gun against my head and cocked the damned trigger.”
Mom shakes her head too quickly and won’t stop. “No, he wouldn’t have. Your father said he was just trying to scare me and your dad. Your father said you were safe the whole time. He swore it.”
How can she lie to herself so easily? How can she continue to turn away from the truth again and again? Then Mom rubs her arm. I stumble back and hit the wall. God, I’m no different. All the signs of a heroin user were there, for weeks if not longer, and I ignored every single one.
But I’m not ignoring the truth, not anymore. I go into the living room and start throwing crap off the kitchen counter to find her keys. I’ll drag her out by her hair if I have to. The knob on the front door turns and my heart squeezes and drops. I’ve taken too long and Trent is going to kill me.