I want to say something, but I also don’t want to see her shrink back and go distant if I bring it all up.
If I had the money, I’d hire someone to help her, but I don’t.
Maybe I really should think about some of the street fights River’s been doing. If I brought in more income, I could get someone in here—assuming her pride would even allow it.
I fight not to sigh.
“Come sit down,” Mom begins, only to bite her lip when she looks at the couch, where a pile of laundry has built up over the last few months I’ve been gone. “I’ll move these,” she says in a small voice.
“It’s fine. I can help you foldit,” I tell her.
Is this how Blaze feels when he looks at my messy room? The desire to help is so strong, but I also know that it’s futile. No matter how much help I offer, it’s just going to go back to how it was after I leave again.
It might take a few weeks, but by the time I visit again, it’ll be right back to how it is now.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I’ll do it.”
I want to argue, but she’ll get stubborn and put her foot down, so I glance at “her” chair, which is the only clear place in the whole room. I survey the room more, seeing the mail stacked up on the coffee table along with a few dishes that haven’t made their way to the kitchen yet.
Without giving her a chance to argue, I pick those up and take them there, grimacing when I see the dishes neatly stacked in the sink.
Every counter is full, the items that have made it past the front door and into the kitchen left out instead of being tucked away in the cabinets.
It’s not that she’sgross; everything has been rinsed off and neatly stacked. But the sheer number of items is daunting, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to handle helping her get it in order over the next two weeks.
She’s not the only one who gets overwhelmed.
I open up the dishwasher, which is full but thankfully clean, and start to put dishes away so I can reload it.
I hear footsteps, and I turn to face her.
“Asch,” she says, her voice quiet and defeated, “I’m so sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” I ask her. “I know that it’s not your fault.”
I wish she would change anyway. I wish shecould.
“I shouldn’t make excuses,” she replies. “It’s just that with work?—”
It’s never been about work, and we both know it.
Just like it’s not about schoolwork or studying for me.
I have time, but I don’t have the energy or inclination.
“I know, Mom,” I tell her. Because I do. I really, really do, in ways I wish I couldn’t relate to.
“Tell me how school’s going?” she prompts, staring out at the crowded kitchen counters in what I can only describe as a look like a deer in headlights. She reaches out, though, with one trembling hand and picks up a box of unopened spaghetti noodles. She puts it in the mostly empty pantry.
“It’s fine. I think I did really well on my finals,” I tell her. I’m used to having to work hard, and even if the scholarship isn’t real, I still take pride in my grades. “There’s one class I’m having to bust my ass in, but the rest are fine.”
“Good,” she says, starting to sort through more of the items on the counters while I load the dishwasher.
“I may be coming back to New Valence,” I tell her, swallowing around the lump in my throat. “I don’t think Mr. Bouchard is going to be paying for my tuition anymore.”
Her eyes narrow. “He’s supposed to keep paying as long as you’re in school,” she says, her voice sharp.
I grimace. I can’t explain the sex trafficking to her. Ican’t. To say that she’d freak out is an understatement, and she’d insist that I go to the cops, or straight to the FBI.
