183
by Donald Carreira Ching
It was 1 am and Stacy was the last one in the parking lot of the Kāneʻohe Taco Bell. Her shift had ended at 12:30, her co-workers tired and gone, but she liked to sit and smoke with the strays that lived in the bushes behind the drive thru. She liked how they moved with desperation and grace. They would look at her, their eyes a glimmer against their shadowed bodies, but they never begged. They came as close as they needed to get to the scraps she threw, pieces of torn tortilla or sometimes leftover ground beef or kalua pork, and then they’d retreat to do what they did best, survive. Her boss hated that she did it, but he was always the first to leave, so what could he do? Usually, she sat there, fed the cats, and smoked as many cigarettes as it took to get the stink of onions and grease off her fingertips. Even with gloves, the smell clung to her skin. But tonight, she stared at her phone, coming up with excuses for why her sister didn’t text her back.
Earlier, she had sent her a picture of the blue chip she had earned the day before. Six months sober. She had been in recovery before and for longer, so she knew it wouldn’t mean much to Natalie, but it wasn’t about her. It was about Angel, Stacy’s daughter, so she wanted to show her sister that she was worth a second chance from them. It was the same reason she shoveled grease and checked rat traps forty hours a week. Every day she wanted to quit, but she had lost enough time already.
She looked at the text message stream and the picture she had sent. The chip had the shimmer of a Pepsi can. She imagined a factory pressing recycled aluminum into chips, the conveyor belt dropping them into boxes, the boxes finding their way to meeting halls before going into the hands and pockets of addicts in recovery. Where they went from there, she didn’t know. You couldn’t pawn an NA chip. Maybe you could sell it. A couple of dollars to buy some humanity back from friends and family. She wished she had thought of that before. It was a shitty thing to do, but it was better than leaving them in a drawer for her sister to throw out or pack into storage. Now, she kept them where she knew she’d need them, near the door of her studio. Stacy put her cigarette out. No wonder Natalie didn’t respond.
Earlier, she had sent her a picture of the blue chip she had earned the day before. Six months sober. She had been in recovery before and for longer, so she knew it wouldn’t mean much to Natalie, but it wasn’t about her. It was about Angel, Stacy’s daughter, so she wanted to show her sister that she was worth a second chance from them. It was the same reason she shoveled grease and checked rat traps forty hours a week. Every day she wanted to quit, but she had lost enough time already.
She looked at the text message stream and the picture she had sent. The chip had the shimmer of a Pepsi can. She imagined a factory pressing recycled aluminum into chips, the conveyor belt dropping them into boxes, the boxes finding their way to meeting halls before going into the hands and pockets of addicts in recovery. Where they went from there, she didn’t know. You couldn’t pawn an NA chip. Maybe you could sell it. A couple of dollars to buy some humanity back from friends and family. She wished she had thought of that before. It was a shitty thing to do, but it was better than leaving them in a drawer for her sister to throw out or pack into storage. Now, she kept them where she knew she’d need them, near the door of her studio. Stacy put her cigarette out. No wonder Natalie didn’t respond.
*
Stacy didn’t like the closing shift. It messed with her sleep cycle, so much so that she would sometimes lose track of days. Being in recovery didn’t help. Ice had turned her memory into a supercut of past and present. When she came down, all she had was the edit with no sense of the in-between. Then came the depression and anxiety. The worthlessness. The noise that never left after her daughter was born. Stacy told her counselor once that meth was her meditation. In the moment after she loaded the bubble, when she was just heating the rock, rolling the pipe back and forth with her fingers, counting down, she was at peace. In those seconds before she pulled, everything was gone. Then when it hit, her world was bright, and she didn’t have to think about anything else. Now, lying in bed, her mind was scattered and wandering. When she closed her eyes, she was faced with thoughts she couldn’t ignore.
“But you’re working through it,” her counselor would always remind her. But I’m working through it, she would repeat in her notebook every day. It felt ridiculous at first, but slowly the words took on purpose even as the thought of using pulled at her pen.
Of course, she didn’t work the closing shift by choice. It was by necessity. Random drug testing was part of HOPE. An essential element that the judge was clear about in Stacy’s warning hearing. Your first day in the probation program, you stand in front of the judge, and he tells you exactly what it is and how things are going to be. “We’re here because we want you to succeed, but you have to put in the work, take ownership over your recovery, of your mistakes.” He asks you the last time you used. Every part of you wants to lie, but you have to say it because that’s part of it too, just like when you go to the meetings or talk with your P.O. It’s the first step. Actually, using is the first step, but you don’t say that. You tell him the truth. You’re honest. You do the piss test. You’d have to do it regardless. It’s dirty, but that’s okay. “Humans make mistakes, part of this is about accepting that too,” the judge tells you like he knows, then says it will be different next time. He talks about sanctions. Mandatory jail time. It will take two years, but you were looking at four.
So, when Stacy wakes up at 6:45 am like she does every day, it doesn’t matter that she’s only gotten three hours of sleep. She calls the hotline and listens to the recording. Sure enough, she hears her number and color. She texts her sister to let her know. in town all morning. She wants to type piss test, but she knows she doesn’t need to. Dont work til later might go mall.
Angel’s birthday is in two weeks. Natalie hasn’t told her if she’s invited yet, but she’s been saving up regardless.
Sorry I didnt text last night. Another message from Natalie. Proud of you. She either didn’t get the hint about Angel or she ignored it. Still, Stacy was glad that she acknowledged the milestone.
Thanx, she texts back and gets ready to go.
“But you’re working through it,” her counselor would always remind her. But I’m working through it, she would repeat in her notebook every day. It felt ridiculous at first, but slowly the words took on purpose even as the thought of using pulled at her pen.
Of course, she didn’t work the closing shift by choice. It was by necessity. Random drug testing was part of HOPE. An essential element that the judge was clear about in Stacy’s warning hearing. Your first day in the probation program, you stand in front of the judge, and he tells you exactly what it is and how things are going to be. “We’re here because we want you to succeed, but you have to put in the work, take ownership over your recovery, of your mistakes.” He asks you the last time you used. Every part of you wants to lie, but you have to say it because that’s part of it too, just like when you go to the meetings or talk with your P.O. It’s the first step. Actually, using is the first step, but you don’t say that. You tell him the truth. You’re honest. You do the piss test. You’d have to do it regardless. It’s dirty, but that’s okay. “Humans make mistakes, part of this is about accepting that too,” the judge tells you like he knows, then says it will be different next time. He talks about sanctions. Mandatory jail time. It will take two years, but you were looking at four.
So, when Stacy wakes up at 6:45 am like she does every day, it doesn’t matter that she’s only gotten three hours of sleep. She calls the hotline and listens to the recording. Sure enough, she hears her number and color. She texts her sister to let her know. in town all morning. She wants to type piss test, but she knows she doesn’t need to. Dont work til later might go mall.
Angel’s birthday is in two weeks. Natalie hasn’t told her if she’s invited yet, but she’s been saving up regardless.
Sorry I didnt text last night. Another message from Natalie. Proud of you. She either didn’t get the hint about Angel or she ignored it. Still, Stacy was glad that she acknowledged the milestone.
Thanx, she texts back and gets ready to go.
*
Her studio is situated above a corner store, a barber shop, and several empty storefronts. No parking for residents, but she doesn’t have a car anyway. She passes through the two metal security doors and makes the short walk to the bus stop, where she sits and reads a book on recovery by Russell Brand. Her counselor recommended other books on the shelves at Barnes and Noble, but Stacy liked that this one made her laugh. “Plus, I hear the rest of it all the time,” Stacy had told her. “I don’t need more therapy.” Of course, she hates the tangents on spirituality. It’s one of the things she can’t stand about NA. There are things she can’t control and things she can, but none of it has do with invisible men or higher powers.
The 65 takes her less than a block from the courthouse. It’s a straight shot over the Pali, but with morning traffic the twelve miles takes the bus an hour and a half to get downtown. This is longer than it takes for her to pass her piss test and then walk over and meet with her probation officer, and she can’t help feeling exhausted when she’s finally done. The metal detectors at the entrance, the cameras stalking the corners, the officers walking the halls. When she gets to the office and the door clicks closed behind her, she knows she’s a step away from prison, and if she had pissed dirty, that’s exactly where she would be. She was told that the only time you miss your test is when you’re dead. Fail it and you’ll wish you were.
Her P.O. doesn’t help. With the questions about the meetings, work, and the fines that she owes, every meeting feels like an interrogation. Usually, he asks about her family. It’s not on his list, but he sometimes asks because “these are the connections that are going to ensure your continued success in the program. And that’s what I care about.” For her, it sounds like a script more than empathy. He likes to act like they’re more than they are, asking that she use his first name, making small talk and smaller jokes, but when she sits down, he still reads out her case number before her name.
Of course, what bothers her is not so much that he asks personal questions but how, especially when he brings up Angel. “And what about your daughter?” Like it’s an afterthought or a question he already knows the answer to.
“Can I leave now?” was how she had answered last time. Today, she sat there, holding her shaking leg, readying what she had learned from her sister. She just started soccer. She’s doing well. But he didn’t ask. He looked at the time, closed her file with a click of his mouse, and opened the door for her.
“See you next time,” his tone flat and unexpectant.
Next time used to feel like a month even if it was only a few days. Now, it was just part of her weekly routine, and soon, she knew even that would change. She knew she’d be grateful for that small freedom and the possibilities even if she wasn’t sure what they might be. Her therapist always talks to her about making goals for the future. “Talk to me tomorrow,” she usually says, knowing her daughter is the only thing she cares about right now.
The 65 takes her less than a block from the courthouse. It’s a straight shot over the Pali, but with morning traffic the twelve miles takes the bus an hour and a half to get downtown. This is longer than it takes for her to pass her piss test and then walk over and meet with her probation officer, and she can’t help feeling exhausted when she’s finally done. The metal detectors at the entrance, the cameras stalking the corners, the officers walking the halls. When she gets to the office and the door clicks closed behind her, she knows she’s a step away from prison, and if she had pissed dirty, that’s exactly where she would be. She was told that the only time you miss your test is when you’re dead. Fail it and you’ll wish you were.
Her P.O. doesn’t help. With the questions about the meetings, work, and the fines that she owes, every meeting feels like an interrogation. Usually, he asks about her family. It’s not on his list, but he sometimes asks because “these are the connections that are going to ensure your continued success in the program. And that’s what I care about.” For her, it sounds like a script more than empathy. He likes to act like they’re more than they are, asking that she use his first name, making small talk and smaller jokes, but when she sits down, he still reads out her case number before her name.
Of course, what bothers her is not so much that he asks personal questions but how, especially when he brings up Angel. “And what about your daughter?” Like it’s an afterthought or a question he already knows the answer to.
“Can I leave now?” was how she had answered last time. Today, she sat there, holding her shaking leg, readying what she had learned from her sister. She just started soccer. She’s doing well. But he didn’t ask. He looked at the time, closed her file with a click of his mouse, and opened the door for her.
“See you next time,” his tone flat and unexpectant.
Next time used to feel like a month even if it was only a few days. Now, it was just part of her weekly routine, and soon, she knew even that would change. She knew she’d be grateful for that small freedom and the possibilities even if she wasn’t sure what they might be. Her therapist always talks to her about making goals for the future. “Talk to me tomorrow,” she usually says, knowing her daughter is the only thing she cares about right now.
*
Her bus wouldn’t come for at least an hour. She sat at the bus stop and turned on her phone. A message from her sister. Angel has practice today if you want to come. Kaneohe Community Park.
Stacy fumbled to text her reply. Time?
3.
She had a few hours to make it and to make it count. She walked toward Chinatown. She mapped her path, taking note of the streets she needed to avoid. Downtown had never been her pick up spot, but need is its own compass and it sometimes led her to Fort Street Mall or the park on Smith Street. She decided to keep to the main road and move in only when necessary.
When they were kids and she couldn’t find a family member or a friend, their mother would take Stacy and Natalie with her to work at the tax office. They would stay in one of the empty office rooms and make forts out of tax maps and draw on printer paper. Stacy liked to tear off the dotted edges and stuff them down the back of her sister’s shirt until Natalie screamed. It didn’t matter who started it, both would always get the blame for any noise or nonsense that their mother could hear in the main office. If they behaved, she would take them into Chinatown for crack seed or shave ice.
When Stacy got to the small shop on Hotel Street, she stared at the glass jars and felt the magic that was still preserved there. Their favorite was pickled mango. When she was pregnant, Stacy couldn’t get enough of the bright and bitter flesh, the sharp edge of the vinegar giving way to a snap of sweetness that made her shiver. At the time, she had just gotten out of a courtordered treatment program and met an old friend from high school at the mall. Made an old mistake at his house down the road. She took the plus on the pregnancy test for a sign to do better and be better. And she did. She moved in with her sister and looked forward to a new idea of what her life might be.
She was sober for just over a year when the “baby blues” hit. They made her think about the neat row of liquor bottles their mother kept on her bureau. The time Stacy found their mother passed out in the bathtub. The time their mother woke up to find Stacy and Natalie playing with a stray kitten they had found in the playground behind their apartment, and how their mother broke its neck because that was the compassionate thing to do, or so she said. They had always blamed the alcohol, but Stacy knew it could be something else. She could sometimes feel it too. Like a pendulum swinging back without warning, throwing her into panic. On the day she left, she was finally getting around to unpacking what was left of her things. In the pocket of a pair of faded jeans, she found an old pipe and wondered if her daughter would be better off. All at once, she was spiraling again.
She picked up two packages of pickled mango, one for her daughter and one for Natalie. Had she done the right thing? Even though the answer didn’t matter, it was a question she always asked.
Stacy fumbled to text her reply. Time?
3.
She had a few hours to make it and to make it count. She walked toward Chinatown. She mapped her path, taking note of the streets she needed to avoid. Downtown had never been her pick up spot, but need is its own compass and it sometimes led her to Fort Street Mall or the park on Smith Street. She decided to keep to the main road and move in only when necessary.
When they were kids and she couldn’t find a family member or a friend, their mother would take Stacy and Natalie with her to work at the tax office. They would stay in one of the empty office rooms and make forts out of tax maps and draw on printer paper. Stacy liked to tear off the dotted edges and stuff them down the back of her sister’s shirt until Natalie screamed. It didn’t matter who started it, both would always get the blame for any noise or nonsense that their mother could hear in the main office. If they behaved, she would take them into Chinatown for crack seed or shave ice.
When Stacy got to the small shop on Hotel Street, she stared at the glass jars and felt the magic that was still preserved there. Their favorite was pickled mango. When she was pregnant, Stacy couldn’t get enough of the bright and bitter flesh, the sharp edge of the vinegar giving way to a snap of sweetness that made her shiver. At the time, she had just gotten out of a courtordered treatment program and met an old friend from high school at the mall. Made an old mistake at his house down the road. She took the plus on the pregnancy test for a sign to do better and be better. And she did. She moved in with her sister and looked forward to a new idea of what her life might be.
She was sober for just over a year when the “baby blues” hit. They made her think about the neat row of liquor bottles their mother kept on her bureau. The time Stacy found their mother passed out in the bathtub. The time their mother woke up to find Stacy and Natalie playing with a stray kitten they had found in the playground behind their apartment, and how their mother broke its neck because that was the compassionate thing to do, or so she said. They had always blamed the alcohol, but Stacy knew it could be something else. She could sometimes feel it too. Like a pendulum swinging back without warning, throwing her into panic. On the day she left, she was finally getting around to unpacking what was left of her things. In the pocket of a pair of faded jeans, she found an old pipe and wondered if her daughter would be better off. All at once, she was spiraling again.
She picked up two packages of pickled mango, one for her daughter and one for Natalie. Had she done the right thing? Even though the answer didn’t matter, it was a question she always asked.
*
It was 3:30 by the time she got to the park. The bus had been late and there was an accident on the Pali. She ran from the bus stop to the park, finding her sister sitting on a bench with the other families. Stacy wanted to join her but didn’t want to deal with the whispers from the moms and dads. Instead, she stood near the field and watched the toddlers play. From where she stood, she could make out her daughter chasing another girl, trying to steal the ball while her frizzy ponytail bounced behind her. She was only four, but she was heads taller than the other kids on the field. A trait she must have inherited from her father, who was tall and spindly. It was only the second time she had watched Angel play, but she could see the determination in her daughter’s pursuit. Whom she got that from she didn’t know. Angel’s father was a coward and Stacy couldn’t run to save her life. Sure enough, she stole the ball and circled back to the other goal, shooting it in just as the other girl caught up. Stacy whistled from her post. Her daughter looked in her direction, but Stacy doubted Angel noticed her. She had only seen her a few times in-person since she had gotten clean, and they were never alone. Stacy waved anyway.
“She’s good, yeah?” Natalie walked up to her. “I mean, most of these kids can barely move five feet without tripping, but she’s pretty on it.”
“I got mango,” she passed Natalie the plastic bag.
She looked in and took a piece. “Oh man, Sun Chong’s?”
“I was surprised too. I just thought she might like it, you know. I used to eat it all the time before.”
“I’m sure she will.”
“Did she say anything? Ask about me?”
“What d’you mean?”
“I just mean, I know I was late, but I hope she was okay.”
“I didn’t really tell her you were coming. I mean, I asked her if she wanted you to come. I told her I would tell you.”
“And I’m here.”
Natalie crossed her arms. “I know how it can go down there.”
“I’m clean, you know that.”
“I figured, if you showed up, that’s good. If you didn’t or if something happened.”
Stacy bit her lip but couldn’t swallow her words. “You’re a bitch, you know that.”
“This is all new to her and I don’t—”
“Well, maybe you should have texted me sooner, let me know.”
“I didn’t think about it.”
“Sure.”
“So, this is my fault?”
“I’m just saying, don’t set me up to fail and then judge me for it.”
Natalie laughed. “Okay, mom.”
Stacy felt her breath catch in her throat. “Fuck you, you know I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
“And that’s what I’m talking about,” Stacy shook her head.
“It’s only been six months, Stac.”
“Yeah,” Stacy nodded. “I know.”
They stood there in silence. Stacy didn’t look in the direction of the other parents, but she was sure they were staring at Natalie and her. She started to shake. She tucked her hands into her armpits and hugged herself. She focused on the pressure. Natalie was saying something, but she couldn’t hear her. She looked out at Angel. She wanted to call out to her but couldn’t stand to see her daughter search the crowd again. “You know, I think I’m going to go.”
“Practice’s almost over.”
Stacy ignored her and walked away from the field.
“She’s good, yeah?” Natalie walked up to her. “I mean, most of these kids can barely move five feet without tripping, but she’s pretty on it.”
“I got mango,” she passed Natalie the plastic bag.
She looked in and took a piece. “Oh man, Sun Chong’s?”
“I was surprised too. I just thought she might like it, you know. I used to eat it all the time before.”
“I’m sure she will.”
“Did she say anything? Ask about me?”
“What d’you mean?”
“I just mean, I know I was late, but I hope she was okay.”
“I didn’t really tell her you were coming. I mean, I asked her if she wanted you to come. I told her I would tell you.”
“And I’m here.”
Natalie crossed her arms. “I know how it can go down there.”
“I’m clean, you know that.”
“I figured, if you showed up, that’s good. If you didn’t or if something happened.”
Stacy bit her lip but couldn’t swallow her words. “You’re a bitch, you know that.”
“This is all new to her and I don’t—”
“Well, maybe you should have texted me sooner, let me know.”
“I didn’t think about it.”
“Sure.”
“So, this is my fault?”
“I’m just saying, don’t set me up to fail and then judge me for it.”
Natalie laughed. “Okay, mom.”
Stacy felt her breath catch in her throat. “Fuck you, you know I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
“And that’s what I’m talking about,” Stacy shook her head.
“It’s only been six months, Stac.”
“Yeah,” Stacy nodded. “I know.”
They stood there in silence. Stacy didn’t look in the direction of the other parents, but she was sure they were staring at Natalie and her. She started to shake. She tucked her hands into her armpits and hugged herself. She focused on the pressure. Natalie was saying something, but she couldn’t hear her. She looked out at Angel. She wanted to call out to her but couldn’t stand to see her daughter search the crowd again. “You know, I think I’m going to go.”
“Practice’s almost over.”
Stacy ignored her and walked away from the field.
*
When she got back to her studio, she filled a glass with water and got her anxiety medication out of her purse. Her phone was ringing next to the bottle. Her sister. She put it on silent. She couldn’t talk to her right now. She was pissed, disappointed, ashamed. She dropped one of the pills on her tongue and downed the water. She tried her best not to take the medication. It made her feel nauseous and drowsy, but it was the only one that her doctor and the judge would approve. She fell back on her bed, closed her eyes, and waited for the medication to kick in.
She could hear her phone vibrating in her bag.
It was dark out and streetlight was coming in through the curtains. She felt for her phone and squinted to read the number and the time. She popped up and raced to the dresser where she pulled out one of her work shirts and a pair of jeans. She got dressed in the dark and rushed out the door.
The Taco Bell was only a fifteen-minute walk from her studio. She made it in less than ten. Her manager Scott was waiting for her. He was ten years younger than her. She guessed twenty-one. A head like a light bulb but without the light. He grew a mustache to make himself look older, but the five hairs coupled with his acne made it seem like puberty was still raging in him.
“It was an accident,” she tried to explain, rambling about her morning, the argument with her sister. She told it to his tie, suddenly feeling like he was her senior.
“Jana’s already got your shift.”
“Please,” she couldn’t afford the write-up and the call from her P.O. She looked him in the eyes and prayed.
“You’re not fired,” his voice softened. He wiped the hairs above his lip. “But you know how this goes, I don’t have a choice.”
“It was one time.”
“Isn’t that what they always say?” he joked. She stood there, limp, letting it hit her. “Be here early tomorrow. You’re going to need to sign the write-up.” She nodded and started to walk away. “And Stacy.” She turned around. He pointed over her shoulder. “Stop feeding the damn cats, alright?”
“Okay,” she agreed, knowing she didn’t have a choice.
She could hear her phone vibrating in her bag.
It was dark out and streetlight was coming in through the curtains. She felt for her phone and squinted to read the number and the time. She popped up and raced to the dresser where she pulled out one of her work shirts and a pair of jeans. She got dressed in the dark and rushed out the door.
The Taco Bell was only a fifteen-minute walk from her studio. She made it in less than ten. Her manager Scott was waiting for her. He was ten years younger than her. She guessed twenty-one. A head like a light bulb but without the light. He grew a mustache to make himself look older, but the five hairs coupled with his acne made it seem like puberty was still raging in him.
“It was an accident,” she tried to explain, rambling about her morning, the argument with her sister. She told it to his tie, suddenly feeling like he was her senior.
“Jana’s already got your shift.”
“Please,” she couldn’t afford the write-up and the call from her P.O. She looked him in the eyes and prayed.
“You’re not fired,” his voice softened. He wiped the hairs above his lip. “But you know how this goes, I don’t have a choice.”
“It was one time.”
“Isn’t that what they always say?” he joked. She stood there, limp, letting it hit her. “Be here early tomorrow. You’re going to need to sign the write-up.” She nodded and started to walk away. “And Stacy.” She turned around. He pointed over her shoulder. “Stop feeding the damn cats, alright?”
“Okay,” she agreed, knowing she didn’t have a choice.
*
She didn’t want to go home. She didn’t want to feel the pressure of those four walls. She should have crossed the street like she normally did, but she wasn’t thinking. It was the noise of the bar next door that got her attention. The music and muted laughter that spilled out past the open door. The neon light of the bar’s sign flickered. It was the brightest thing on the street. Stacy thought about when she got her driver’s license at sixteen and how she spent the night she got it dipping in and out of bars looking for her mother only to find her passed out in the parking lot of the drug store down the road.
“Sorry, bebe,” her mother said. “Do you forgive me?”
“No,” she told her. It was the first time she said it. It was the last time her mother asked.
After that, Stacy and her sister moved in with their grandfather. Their mother called and promised Natalie it wouldn’t be like that again. She wouldn’t let it, she repeated. She would come around after school, but Stacy made it a point to stay in her room or leave the house. It wasn’t long before her mother moved to California. Natalie said she used to call their grandfather when he was alive, that she was sober and getting help, that she asked about her all the time. Stacy wondered if it was true.
Stacy walked past the bar and into the laundromat next door. She bought a Sprite from the machine and drank it. She reached in her purse for a cigarette but couldn’t find her lighter. She must’ve left it on her nightstand at home. Outside the bar, two men were talking. One of them, a young Japanese kid with bleached blonde hair, kept nodding his head every time the other guy spoke. Stacy didn’t have to see what happened next to understand the exchange. The kid with the blonde hair took the money and waved the other guy off. The man walked past her and to a truck that was parked at the other end of the parking lot. The kid took a cigarette from behind his right ear and looked at her. “Like one light?”
Stacy knew what he was asking. From where she stood, she could see a bus that was waiting at the intersection. The red light was burning, and at any moment, it would turn green, and she’d be left with a collection of cheap NA chips and another future without Angel.
“Aunty?” he asked again. With the cherry near his waist, he was more a shadow than a person now.
She dropped her cigarette and ran across the road.
“Sorry, bebe,” her mother said. “Do you forgive me?”
“No,” she told her. It was the first time she said it. It was the last time her mother asked.
After that, Stacy and her sister moved in with their grandfather. Their mother called and promised Natalie it wouldn’t be like that again. She wouldn’t let it, she repeated. She would come around after school, but Stacy made it a point to stay in her room or leave the house. It wasn’t long before her mother moved to California. Natalie said she used to call their grandfather when he was alive, that she was sober and getting help, that she asked about her all the time. Stacy wondered if it was true.
Stacy walked past the bar and into the laundromat next door. She bought a Sprite from the machine and drank it. She reached in her purse for a cigarette but couldn’t find her lighter. She must’ve left it on her nightstand at home. Outside the bar, two men were talking. One of them, a young Japanese kid with bleached blonde hair, kept nodding his head every time the other guy spoke. Stacy didn’t have to see what happened next to understand the exchange. The kid with the blonde hair took the money and waved the other guy off. The man walked past her and to a truck that was parked at the other end of the parking lot. The kid took a cigarette from behind his right ear and looked at her. “Like one light?”
Stacy knew what he was asking. From where she stood, she could see a bus that was waiting at the intersection. The red light was burning, and at any moment, it would turn green, and she’d be left with a collection of cheap NA chips and another future without Angel.
“Aunty?” he asked again. With the cherry near his waist, he was more a shadow than a person now.
She dropped her cigarette and ran across the road.
*
The last time she had been to her sister’s was when she had left her daughter there. Three and a half years. She had told her sister that she had an emergency. She knew what was coming. She grabbed what she could and walked out the door. She spent the next few nights on a friend’s couch, ignoring the calls from her sister and the familiar desperation to use. It wasn’t long before she made her way to her old spots and to a dealer she knew. She spent her daughter’s first birthday blacked out on his couch. She spent the next two years sharing apartments and pipes, working as she could, surviving when she couldn’t. When she finally got picked up for sleeping on a bench with a pipe in her pocket, she was past bottom. Now, she stood there on the porch, looking at her daughter’s tiny slippers next to Natalie’s. She used to blame her mother, but she knew better now.
“Accepting personal responsibility gives us the freedom to change.” It was either her therapist’s or the judge’s words, maybe both. “When you take responsibility, you take back control.”
She opened her cell phone. Can we talk? She waited, knowing that she might not hear from her at all. Im outside. It was a risk. She could hear her sister say something. Then the door unlocked, and Natalie stepped outside. They walked into the garage. “What’s going on?”
Stacy couldn’t look at her yet. “I’m sorry for today,” she started. Natalie was going to respond, but Stacy needed to get it out. “I know I’ve said it before, but I’m sorry for all of it.”
“I thought you worked tonight?”
Stacy just shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Aren’t you going to get in trouble?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I don’t get it.”
Stacy looked up from her feet. “It’s fine, I just, I dunno, today, I was just thinking about Mom, you know? How messed up she always was. How messed up I am. I’m always thinking about that, you know? How we always said it wouldn’t be like that for us. I promised you.”
“Stac, Mom was sick.” Natalie began. “Is sick,” she corrected.
“I let you down. I let Angel down.”
“Mom’s getting help now. You’re getting help now.”
“I know.”
“You don’t need to do this, Stac.”
“I’m sorry, that’s all I wanted to say.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” Stacy made something like a smile.
“Do you want to come in?”
Stacy wanted to run to the door, but she knew she wasn’t ready yet. “Maybe next time.”
“She asked about you,” Natalie replied. “Where you went.”
“Yeah?”
She nodded and reached into her back pocket. She handed Stacy the invitation. “I was just going to text you, but I figured you could hold on to it. Put it on the fridge.” Stacy wanted to open it there but didn’t want her sister to see her cry.
“Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?” Stacy asked.
“She loves you,” Natalie said. “I love you.”
Stacy dropped down and covered her face. Natalie crouched down next to her and rubbed her back.
“Accepting personal responsibility gives us the freedom to change.” It was either her therapist’s or the judge’s words, maybe both. “When you take responsibility, you take back control.”
She opened her cell phone. Can we talk? She waited, knowing that she might not hear from her at all. Im outside. It was a risk. She could hear her sister say something. Then the door unlocked, and Natalie stepped outside. They walked into the garage. “What’s going on?”
Stacy couldn’t look at her yet. “I’m sorry for today,” she started. Natalie was going to respond, but Stacy needed to get it out. “I know I’ve said it before, but I’m sorry for all of it.”
“I thought you worked tonight?”
Stacy just shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Aren’t you going to get in trouble?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I don’t get it.”
Stacy looked up from her feet. “It’s fine, I just, I dunno, today, I was just thinking about Mom, you know? How messed up she always was. How messed up I am. I’m always thinking about that, you know? How we always said it wouldn’t be like that for us. I promised you.”
“Stac, Mom was sick.” Natalie began. “Is sick,” she corrected.
“I let you down. I let Angel down.”
“Mom’s getting help now. You’re getting help now.”
“I know.”
“You don’t need to do this, Stac.”
“I’m sorry, that’s all I wanted to say.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” Stacy made something like a smile.
“Do you want to come in?”
Stacy wanted to run to the door, but she knew she wasn’t ready yet. “Maybe next time.”
“She asked about you,” Natalie replied. “Where you went.”
“Yeah?”
She nodded and reached into her back pocket. She handed Stacy the invitation. “I was just going to text you, but I figured you could hold on to it. Put it on the fridge.” Stacy wanted to open it there but didn’t want her sister to see her cry.
“Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?” Stacy asked.
“She loves you,” Natalie said. “I love you.”
Stacy dropped down and covered her face. Natalie crouched down next to her and rubbed her back.
*
Natalie took Stacy home where she spent the rest of the night thinking about what she wanted to buy for her daughter. In her notebook, under Day 183, she made a list of the things Natalie had said Angel liked. Anything unicorns seemed to be at the top of the list. “She’s also into Legos. One of the neighbors helped her make a bird feeder, so she’s really into building things all of a sudden.” There was also talk of a dog, but Natalie wasn’t sure if Angel was really ready for a pet.
The next day, she received a write-up from work and a warning from her P.O. She knew it could have been worse, but she was honest. “Which counts for something,” her probation officer told her.
Over the next week, she spent her days off shopping and texting her sister pictures of the gifts she bought: a backpack, some clothes, and a Lego farm set complete with horses. It was the closest to a unicorn that she could find. Maybe she can attach a horn? It wasn’t perfect, but she was happy.
Her daughter’s birthday was on a Saturday. A shift she normally worked. Thankfully, she was able to get one of her coworkers to cover. Unfortunately, it meant she had to pull a double the Friday before. When she got off work that night, she was tired and shaking, but she didn’t care. She sat on the curb and downed one of the leftover chalupas. She would have brought something for the cats, but they were gone. Scott had called the Humane Society or put poison out, no one was really sure. Just in case, she threw a few bites toward the bushes and lit a cigarette. By the time she reached the middle of her cigarette, she had given up hope. Then she saw it, a small set of eyes coming out from the dark.
The next day, she received a write-up from work and a warning from her P.O. She knew it could have been worse, but she was honest. “Which counts for something,” her probation officer told her.
Over the next week, she spent her days off shopping and texting her sister pictures of the gifts she bought: a backpack, some clothes, and a Lego farm set complete with horses. It was the closest to a unicorn that she could find. Maybe she can attach a horn? It wasn’t perfect, but she was happy.
Her daughter’s birthday was on a Saturday. A shift she normally worked. Thankfully, she was able to get one of her coworkers to cover. Unfortunately, it meant she had to pull a double the Friday before. When she got off work that night, she was tired and shaking, but she didn’t care. She sat on the curb and downed one of the leftover chalupas. She would have brought something for the cats, but they were gone. Scott had called the Humane Society or put poison out, no one was really sure. Just in case, she threw a few bites toward the bushes and lit a cigarette. By the time she reached the middle of her cigarette, she had given up hope. Then she saw it, a small set of eyes coming out from the dark.