When The Sun Rises | ✔

16 | Happy Juice

     Chapter 16 | Happy Juice

• • •

        Using my shirt sleeve, I dab the beads of sweat bulbing on my temple. The air flowing through Dolly's ain't got shit on the Georgia heat beaming through the windows.

        I look ar the mess before me, left by the family of five rowdily making their way to the exit. The baby girl – hair held away from her face by a red ribbon – is perched wailing and pink on her father's hip; he doles out his best efforts to console her, but slobber continues to dribble from her quivering mouth.

        Rubbing circles on her back, he chants affectionately, "No llores mi amor."

        Wet splotches decorate his shoulder.

        The two young boys – both sporting the same choppy haircut – are giggling, shoving each other, and swiping at each other's ankles. After nearly bulldozing a waitress, their mother yanks them to her by their elbows, and with lips shrunken into a tight O, she whisper-yells, "Ahora vas a ver cuando llegamos en casa." 

        Shoulders deflated and heads tucked into their chests, they cower away from her to hide behind their father; her eyes trail each timid movement as they head for the exit, taking their band of noise with them.

        There are mashed potatoes smeared across the tabletop, melting ice cubes littering the surrounding area of the booth, glasses filled with condiments and bits of food, and balled up napkins are all over the table.

        I would argue that people who don't have the courtesy not to leave a mess – or keep their damn kids from making them – shouldn't be allowed to dine in public places, but I know how out of control some kids can be.

        Huffing, I gather the dishes and scurry back to the bar to drop off the tray. I grab a Wet Floor sign, mop, and cleaning products.

        Getting the booth ready for the next set of customers, my mind wanders back to the phone call from two nights ago. Lost in thought, I sluggishly drag the mop across the floor.

        For the first time in years, the prospect of having Sheila back in my life is real as hell. Frighteningly real. So real that I'm seeing her tomorrow.

        My stomach curls and fists around the spoonful of food I forced myself to eat since our conversation. It's the not knowing that's unsettling me, turning me into this over-thinking, jittery version of myself.

        Like does she still wear the same perfume? Do I have to call her Ma? Did she move out of our old house? Will she try to talk about Daddy? Are there old pictures of us on the walls? Will she expect me to call her Ma? Does she remember all the things she put me through?

        These questions and thousands more just like them plague my mind whenever I have a moment of free time. Every lapse of activity is a breeding ground for pestering thoughts. Thoughts about things buried so deep I almost forgot they existed.

        Body shifting into autopilot, my mind dredges up a memory that only heightens my reservations about going to see her.

* * * * *

        August 2009

        I was laying in the middle of my floor surrounded by boxes of Disney Princess puzzles and etching in my coloring book when I heard Ma stumbling down the hallway. I stayed quiet and listened, hoping she wouldn't come to my room.