“This is what you get for giving me a queer son!” he shouts. And then he shoved her. Hard. She fell backward over the coffee table, landing on the couch.
I'd heard things before. Thuds behind locked doors. Shouting and crying. Toxic silence the next morning. I'd tried to help her before, but their bedroom door was always locked. Helpless does not begin to describe how that felt.
Rage coursed through me seeing mom curled up in a ball, defenseless. I lunged at him without thinking. He was too quick for me. Too strong. He shoved me hard enough that I slammed into the coffee table, then looked down at me and sneered.
“Fucking pathetic. Can't even defend yourself,” he seethed, then disappeared down the hall and into the garage—to kill a case of beer, I was sure. We could barely afford food, but his garage fridge was always filled with cheap piss water-quality cans.
I stared down the hall in a trance until mom's voice pulled me out of it. “Go to your room, lock the door, and stay there until I say otherwise.”
My eyes widened. Tears pooled and threatened to fall.
“You've done nothing wrong, Spencer,” she'd reassured me. “I will deal with this, but I need to know you're safe first.”
I nodded and went to my room, locking the door behind me.
Later that night, after he'd passed out in his recliner, empty cans scattered on the floor, mom knocked on my bedroom door. Her lip was split. One eye swollen. “Pack a bag,” she whispered.
I opened my mouth to ask what was going on, but the look in her eyes said there was nothing to discuss. I grabbed a duffle bag from under my bed, and she helped me throw clothes into it. She already had her own duffle—and whatever she could stuff into her purse—ready to go. We threw everything in the trunk of her car. And we left.
We went to a motel first. The kind that smells like old, dirty ashtrays no matter how much industrial air freshener they spray. We stayed a few nights—until mom's credit card declined. That was all we had. Mom doesn't work. He never let her. And we don't have savings.
The hotel clerk, taking notice of a woman with cuts and bruises on her face and a teenager in tow, had offered us a solution. The rough looking woman, who had to be nearing her seventies, leaned forward, messy bleached hair piled on her head. Her name tag said “Violet” and the sun-leathered skin on her arms was covered in tattoos and at least two dozen bracelets. Violet cleared her throat, then rasped, “I wish I could help you more, dear, but I need this job.”
Mom didn't say anything. Just nodded and squeezed my hand, silently telling me everything would be okay.
Violet tapped the counter with her bright pink nails and added, “But I know a place you can go. For people in your—” she hesitated a moment, “—for people in your predicament. It's not ideal, and I don't know your situation, but I'm sure the shelter will buy you a few nights, at least.”
My stomach filled with bile. I wanted to vomit. A shelter for people in “our situation”. It felt so wrong, but what choice did we really have? And that's how we ended up here. Behind curtains. On cots. Reduced to a number.
“I'm sorry we have to spend Christmas in here, honey.”
Mom's voice pulls me back to the present. She's sitting on her cot; hands folded in her lap, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail.
I shrug. “I think we have bigger things to worry about, Mom.” I stare at the floor. “Besides, it's my own fault.”
She shakes her head firmly. “Spencer, no—”
The curtain slides open with a metallic whisper before mom can finish her thought. A woman named Tammy steps inside.She's one of the primary organizers here. I think she's around my mom's age. Big blonde hair. Great style. Always that large pin over her heart—an interesting swirl of salmon pink and turquoise.
I like her. She's kind without pity. Never talks down to us.
“Merry Christmas,” she says gently. “I have some packages for you.”
We were asked to fill out a form last week listing essentials we need. It was humiliating, but I didn't tell my mom that. I could see she already hated it—for me, for herself. The donors don't get to meet us. I'm thankful for that, at least. I couldn't bear their pity. Instead, donors are handed a slip with “Family” and a number at the top. They shop, drop things off, then leave. “Family 22”. That's what our slip said.
That's all we are now.
I’ve always had an obsession with men’s fashion and accessories. Not the design part of fashion. No, I’m obsessed with owning and looking good in quality clothes. Coming from nothing, I’ve decided it will be how I show the world my worth.
And now I’m going to have to accept cheap clothes provided by the kindness of strangers. I’m grateful, but I hate it.
Tammy clears her throat. “I don't usually do this, but my nephew is volunteering with me today. Well, voluntold, actually.”
Mom lets out a soft laugh.
Tammy smiles. “He's pretty close to your age, Dean.”
Dean. The name I chose. Anonymity.
