Chapter Three
By the time I made it to my front door I was gasping for breath, soaked to the bone, and probably in danger of catching hypothermia. I'd jogged halfway, slowing to walk when the stitch in my side burned relentlessly. The rain had eased up to a fine drizzle, not that it mattered at this point.
Flower beds lining the front of the house were flooded, the dead rose bushes swimming in muddy pools of water. The new look was almost a complement. Having once been white, the two bedroom cottage was currently a mottled grey with entire sections stripped down to bare wood courtesy of the harsh Chicago weather.
I fished my key out of my pants pocket with frozen fingers, only the door swung open before I could wriggle it into the stiff lock. Mycha yanked me over the threshold, slamming the door shut behind me.
"Where have you been?" he demanded, tugging me into our tiny living room and throwing a towel around my shoulders. Grabbing another, he started scrubbing at my head.
"And what the hell happened to you?" He pulled a stray twig from my tangled hair.
"Nothing happened to me." I worked fast to absorb as much excess water as possible. A small puddle was already forming at my feet. It was times like this I wished we had enough money for a heater.
"I just slipped on my way home."
The lie came smoothly, though it wasn't one of my best. Mycha eyed me dubiously, extracting part of an acorn from my tangle of hair. "What, did you fall into a ditch full of angry squirrels?"
I offered him a wan smile while he tugged at a tear in the arm of my ruined blouse. "If I say yes, will you drop it?"
"Depends. If I say I don't believe you, will you tell me the truth?"
"No."
"Consider it dropped then."
Something crunched beneath his foot, and it was only then I noticed the state of our house. The towel I was clutching slipped from my slack fingers.
Broken plates and mugs littered the living room floor, along with the contents of our cutlery draw. The navy sheets Kalen and I hung in one corner of the room to create a third bedroom had been torn down, ripped to shreds and strewn across the threadbare carpet, the mattress they usually concealed tossed halfway across the room. Two second-hand chairs and a sofa had been rearranged, like someone had gone on a rampage and bulldozed them out of the way.
Gaping, I stepped over a plate fragment and into the kitchen. The linoleum floor hadn't been spared the carnage, shards of glass and a tipped over trash can forcing me to watch where I tread. Above the sink, cupboards hung open to reveal empty shelves, two of the doors hanging precariously from snapped hinges.
I glanced at Mycha, eyebrows raised. Though I knew better, I had to ask. "What happened?"
"Mom." Disbelief colored his tone and expression. He gestured at the liquor bottles sitting unharmed on the counter between us; Jack Daniels, cheap vodka, and Teresa's personal favorite, Hendrick's Gin. All cracked open and partially consumed.
"When did she get those, and with what?" I asked sharply. I could have sworn I'd just used the last of our money on the cab ride home.
Shrugging, Mycha used the toe of his sneaker to sweep some of the mess into a pile.
"After she found her car keys you hid in the freezer she left. Returned half an hour later with the booze. The diner paid her salary in advance, right up until she's due back there in a couple of weeks."
My stomach churned in dread. The only reason we'd survived this long was because I budgeted very carefully, and my budget didn't include alcohol. I sniffed the air experimentally. Or cigarettes.
"Did she bring home anything else?" I opened the last cupboard on the left. Empty as well.
"Nope. I asked about dinner for the kids and she threw a fit." He indicated the battlefield of broken, mismatched dinner sets. "Then she retreated to her room with her carton of smokes and a fresh bottle."
"Please tell me you're kidding," I breathed. Teresa was no mother of the year, but not even she would be so cruel to her own flesh and blood, would she? Of course, the derisive snort I had to bite back immediately after that thought said it all, didn't it.
"Did she at least leave the change lying around somewhere so I can go and get some food?"
I grabbed his arm to check his watch. It was just after eight. Supermarkets would be open for at least another hour. We could all go. It would give the kids something to do, get their minds off what a horrible week it'd been.
Mycha gave a humorless chuckle. "What change?"
I blanched. "She spent it all on alcohol and smokes?"
"She's got two more bags in her room."
A noise escaped me before I could stop it, equal parts despair and incredulity. Teresa's selfishness meant everyone would be going hungry tonight, tomorrow, maybe even the day after. I would have gladly broken out the food stamps – oh wait, Teresa had bartered this month's away to a lady whose husband was a raging alcoholic, scoring herself a few bottles of peach schnapps as payment.
Clenching my teeth together, I tried to get my addled brain to come up with a solution. I had to fix this, which meant I had to find money before we all starved to death.
Mycha put a comforting arm around my shoulders but I shrugged him off, anger replacing helplessness. He opened his mouth to say something but I stormed off down the short hallway, heading towards the door at the end. Without bothering to knock I flung it open.
The door hit the wall and bounced back, and I stuck my foot out to stop it from smacking me in the face. Teresa Mercer was splayed out over the bed, still in her funeral clothes. Not even the resounding thump of my foot connecting with the cheap, hollow wood roused her from her drunken stupor.
The room was just big enough to house a double bed and small set of drawers. It was the bigger of the two bedrooms with a closet lining the left wall. Unfortunately the bed prevented it from opening, relegating the space to storage for the few items we never used.
"Teresa," I called from the doorway.
Nothing. Not even a grunt. She was out for the count, hugging an empty bottle. It was probably for the best; all I'd succeed in accomplishing by waking her was starting World War III. And without Kalen at my back, or leading the battle as was his preference, it just wasn't worth the hassle.
My fleeting anger fizzled and died, exhaustion taking its place. Spying the black plastic bags on top of the dresser, I decided if we couldn't have food, there was no way she was getting her booze and smokes. As soon as I stepped into the room I had to swallow my gag reflex against the stench of regurgitated whisky. I stopped so abruptly Mycha crashed into me from behind. His hand snapped out, fingers digging grooves into my biceps.
He was staring at Teresa wide-eyed and open mouthed, and why wouldn't he be? It was Kalen and I who tended her when she'd been on one of her drinking binges, who held her hair out of the way as she threw up that week's grocery money, who changed her sheets so she wasn't sleeping in a pool of her own vomit. The kids had never seen her like this. They got the incredibly-hungover-but-presentable version fit for company.
Guilt and regret gnawed at me over Mycha discovering this side of her, but he needed to learn sooner or later. I couldn't be everywhere at once. This way he'd be more prepared for her next episode, which was bound to happen the instant Teresa realized her alcohol was gone.
I tripped over an empty bottle on my way to the dresser, almost landing on top of her. Cursing, I snagged one of the bags and handed it back to Mycha. Teresa chose that moment to let loose a snore so loud he dropped it in fright. The sound of glass breaking was deafening, and Mycha wasn't the only one who held his breath waiting for the beast to rear its ugly head.
After a few silent heartbeats where all Teresa did was turn in her sleep, I exhaled in relief and motioned for him to pick up the bag. Liquid escaped from a small hole in the bottom, the stink of fresh alcohol overriding any other odors. I shooed him out of the room, then grabbed the second bag and the carton of smokes and followed him.
I wasn't afraid of Teresa like Mycha was. Being rejected didn't phase me, and neither did physical violence. My fear stemmed from the idea of Teresa kicking me out of the house, of her keeping me from my brothers and sisters. It was something Kalen had kept from happening more than once. Needless to say where he was her favorite, I was the relentless thorn in her side. With him gone, it was only a matter of time before Teresa made good on that threat.
Mycha dumped his leaking bag into the kitchen sink, where only one bottle had survived the fall. Mine had four in it, and between us, not one was untouched. Great. I'd been hoping to resell them or hunt down the receipt so I could get the money back. Obviously Mommy dearest was one step ahead of me.
Leaning against the sink, Mycha eyed the bottles I had in each hand. "You're not going to drink that, are you?"
I couldn't help but roll my eyes, sarcasm coating my words. "Yes, Mycha, that's exactly what I'm going to do. Because one neglectful alcoholic isn't enough; I thought it'd be interesting to add another to the mix."
"Sorry," he mumbled, swiping at his unruly hair.
Sighing, I tipped them upside down and we both watched as the remainder of our precious grocery money swirled down the drain.
"No, I'm sorry," I said, upending the last of the alcohol. "I should have been here to make sure something like this didn't happen."
In all honesty I was annoyed at myself for slipping, for leaving the kids vulnerable against Teresa. It was a stupid mistake, completely avoidable if I'd been paying more attention. Steeling myself against a wave of self-loathing, I gathered the empties and threw them into the recycling can just outside the back door.
"You should get out of your wet clothes," Mycha said when I came back in. He arched an eyebrow at the way I was shivering uncontrollably.
"Are the kids sleeping?" I asked, ignoring his concern. I began picking up some of the mess at my feet.
"No, but I told them to stay in the bedroom until I returned. I don't think they wanted to be anywhere else anyway."
I straightened and nodded, fiddling with the sharp edge of a piece of plate. "Is Tanner still not speaking?"
Mycha shook his head.
Upon finding out about Kalen, Tanner had stopped talking. I'd broken the news to her as gently as possible, telling her a bad man had taken him from us. She'd stared at me in confusion, forcing me to clarify she'd never see him again because he'd never be coming home.
I thought I'd been prepared for her reaction, but really, how can anyone be prepared to deal with such heartbreak? Tanner had completely lost it, screaming at the top of her lungs until her voice cracked and she eventually passed out. I hadn't heard a single word slip past her lips since, and the image of her heart shaped face contorted in agony would haunt me forever.
Unable to stand the cold anymore I dashed down the hallway and through the first door on the right. The bathroom housed a bathtub, toilet, and a small basin with a cabinet above it. There was enough floor space leftover to turn in tight circles. I had to trample a pile of dirty laundry and a few wet towels to reach the sink.
The mirror glued haphazardly to the cabinet provided me with an image I could do without seeing. My complexion was red and splotchy courtesy of the biting cold. My long black hair was a tangled mess, one that was harboring clumps of mud and more foliage than we had in our pathetic garden outside. A scrape marred my left cheek thanks to Justice giving me a nice close up of the old oak.
Impotent anger flared in my steel grey eyes as I recalled the encounter and I cursed him viciously. Shucking my wet clothes, I ducked under the spray of water before it heated, and fifteen minutes later entered the bedroom the kids shared. Scout was sitting upright and dozing on the single bed, light brown hair loose and flowing over her shoulders. On her right, Tanner was staring vacantly at the wall, and at the foot of the bed Ryan was wrapped like a burrito in a faded purple afghan, snoring like his life depended on it.
I eased inside and closed the door gently behind me, sitting down on the mattress on the floor that doubled as a second bed. It was the only other thing that would fit into the small space, forcing me to store clean piles of clothes and the rare few toys we owned under the bed frame. Mycha sat huddled in one corner with Lucky on his lap, reading from a tattered book. They looked up as I sat beside them and I leaned over to kiss the top of Lucky's head.
"What are you reading, baby?" I asked, my eyes drifting over to Tanner. She hadn't so much as blinked, and it was beginning to worry me.
"Peter Pan and Wendy," Lucky replied, a wide smile blooming across her face. "And Capan Hook and his rockadile."
"Rockadile, huh?" I leaned forward to feel one of Ryan's cheeks, then dug under the blanket covering Scout to touch her leg before squeezing one of Tanner's hands. Reassured everyone was nice and toasty, I settled back down and focused on my youngest sister.
"Uh-huh. The rockadile likes Capan Hook but he not like him back." Lucky frowned at me. "Een, you have a owwie on your face," she said, pointing to her own cheek.
"That's because Een fell into a tree on the way home," I said, fingering the tiny scratches.
Mycha raised his brow at an explanation I knew he didn't believe. I shook my head, causing him to sigh heavily and redirect his attention to Peter Pan and Lucky's interpretation of an angry rockadile. She sounded more like an asthmatic lion, but I wasn't going to say anything.
I knelt in front of Tanner, who seemed to have no idea I was in the same room as her.
"Tan?" I prodded her gently, startling her back to reality. She drew in a shuddering breath and blinked. Slowly, I saw recognition light her eyes.
"How're you doing, baby?"
A stupid question considering, but at this point I was willing to ask anything if it meant a verbal response. One word. I'd be happy with one word no matter what it was. After an extended pause in which she did nothing but stare at me, her eyes welled up with tears and her bottom lip trembled.
My heart aching for the umpteenth time, I pulled her into my arms and cradled her against my body as she sobbed. She wrapped her arms around my neck while I soothed and rocked her, but that only made her sob louder. Her cries woke Scout, who took one look at me and started crying as well, falling off the bed and into my outstretched arm.
I held both girls as they wept, as they mourned a future that no longer existed and begged for the return of a brother who was gone forever. I was acutely aware of the tears running silently down Mycha's cheeks, of the way he refused to let his sorrow interfere with Lucky's bedtime story despite the way she glanced around in confusion. The only one who remained unaffected was Ryan, his cherubic face relaxed in his state of blissful sleep.