“Lizzie,” an unfamiliar voice said, and Lizzie’s heart stopped. “Your mom's here. She's feeling pretty weak.”
“Can I talk to her?”
“Sure.” The nurse coughed. She didn’t sound so hot herself. “Here she is.”
“Mama, I love you,” Lizzie blurted.
“Love you, too, honey. I’m doin’ oooo-kay...” Mama drawled out her words and then trailed off; she sounded totally baked. “Nurse is nice. She’s got the good stuff.”
“I'm glad, Mama.”
Silence on the other end. Then: “Sing to me, Lizzie. Sing the songs I used to sing to you.”
“Ok, Mama.” For once Lizzie didn’t refuse the request. The songs that Lizzie liked to sing now were not the ones Mama wanted to hear. She started with Mama’s favorite, “The Rose.” When she was done, she paused. “Mama, can you hear me?”
“Uh huh. Sounds. Lovely. More.”
Lizzie lay down on Mama's bed and sang through her tears.
When she ran out of Mama’s oldies she sang lullabies.
“Hush little… mama, don't say a word, baby's gonna buy you a mockingbird.” She made up lines the way she had heard her father had done, keeping the song going and going. Even when her voice cracked and faded to a hoarse whisper.
“Lizzie?” the nurse again.
Lizzie stopped, swallowing to dampen her dry throat.
“Your mom- she's gone.”
Lizzie knew—had known. “Can you put the phone by her ear? I want to sing to her some more.”
“That was a wonderful thing you did.” The nurse took a ragged breath. “I don't think I'm going to see my daughter again.”
Lizzie didn’t know what to say, so she sang some more. Muffled weeping told her the nurse must be listening. Some countless hours later she realized her phone was dead.
She felt sedated, like her first few days in the psych ward after she’d cut her wrists sophomore year. She stood and tried to shake the cobwebs off. She had to do something. Mama said burn things to kill the germs.
Lizzie grabbed a pile of Jerkwad’s crap, plenty of germs there. She kicked open the back door, and hauled it outside into the gloomy evening. She held her breath to keep from breathing in the foul odor of his alcohol-sweat-stained pillow. She dumped everything into the burn barrel. Jerkwad ignored the law, too cheap to pay for garbage more than once a month. Now she would happily burn his garbage in it.
Barking and howling echoed in the distance. Dogs keened, mourning in a cacophonous chorus. She shivered, tugged her shirt tight, and dumped lighter fluid over everything in the barrel, adding a pile of junk mail and advertising for good measure. Rolling up a Target store flyer, she lit one end with her lighter and then held it over the barrel. She held it until the heat hurt her hand, before dropping it and ducking so she wouldn’t singe her eyebrows.
The fire burst upward as the lighter fluid caught, flames consuming what was left of Jerkwad’s worldly possessions. All except the whiskey she would keep to burn her throat and help her forget. She tossed a few sticks of wood in and thought of getting some marshmallows and toasting them. The thought brought a memory of a blazing beach bonfire, Mama smiling, Jayce making S’mores. It was a bad idea; the marshmallows would taste like Jerkwad’s shit.