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My daddy is going to be a daddy, I think as I rub my belly and turn toward my mother, drinking her in with my eyes again.
I feel like luckiest girl in the world.
The End. Thank you for reading!
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HEAT
Copyright © 2016 by Jess Bentley
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No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Chapter 44
Janie
I take a deep breath, and unclench my fists. Looking down at the stinging in my palm, when it opens I see the deep crescent indentations of my fingernails. Since I was a little girl, that sight was more or less the definition of home.
Inside the little brick single-level cottage, behind the yellow, ratty yard, I can already hear my stepfather screaming. I’m still on the sidewalk, so chances are everyone else within a three-house radius can hear him as well. Why he was there when my mother called me, I can’t imagine.
Mom called me about a panic attack.
George is pretty much the opposite of helpful for that.
No one knows I’m here yet. I look back at the car—I could still leave. No one would know. I could just say I got busy, or that someone quit at the restaurant and I have to cover. That’s what the owner does; what I always do. They’d believe me.
But no amount of fantasizing actually will make that dream a reality. Pushing the chain-link fence gate open with a sigh, my heels tap up the cracked walkway through the dead yard and up to the screen door where I don’t bother to knock. It’s not locked.
Besides, Gloria’ll just tell George that I’m lying if I try to make something up. And George would ask. George is an asshole.
“Jesus Christ, Gina,” George is barking when I open the door to the scene. “You said you were dying! You get a little nervous on your own. Can’t you just piss in a corner like a dog instead of—what the fuck are you doing here?” He turns on me the moment I close the door.
I give George a long, flat look. It‘s better not to engage. So instead I turn my eyes more softly on Gina. “Sorry it took me so long, Mama,” I say. “You know you didn’t have to call anyone else.” I shoot George another brief, flat glare.
Gina takes my hand when I’m within arm’s reach, her pale lips widening into a wobbly smile. Her eyes are still wide, her pupils small, and it doesn’t look like she’s showered today. After almost fifteen years, George still can’t tell the difference between “nervous” and a full-blown panic attack by looking at it. The sleeve of Gina’s sweater is frayed from constant picking, which she’d have been doing for hours before the worst of it finally peaked.
“Oh, Janie,” my mother breathes, her bony hand squeezing mine as she says my name like a prayer. Probably a prayer for deliverance. Her eyes are red and puffy from crying, but by now her cheeks are dry. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called you. George… he came over, so… I just never see you and I think this time I… I just missed you and you know how I get. I just—”
“Shh, it’s okay, Mama.” I let her draw me close, until she kneels by the old recliner she’d been sitting in and smiles up at me.
It’s not true; I drop everything to come and help her manage panic attacks sometimes as often as twice a week. During really bad weeks, it can be three or four visits. But she rarely retains much in the way of clear memories of the worst attacks.
This time looks to be one of the easier ones, George’s outburst notwithstanding. I’ve come through for my mother on everything from flies wriggling through the window and porch screens, to checking every closet in the house to assure her there’s no one lurking in the dark corners of the house. Once, I had to check the gas lines in the basement and prove that the house wasn’t in imminent danger of burning down.
Every time I do it, I know I’m enabling her, letting her get through another attack without having to self-manage the symptoms the way her many therapists have taught her to do. But I’m a problem-solver; a chronic micromanager. It’s true at the restaurant, it’s true at Mom’s house. Hell, it’s true of ordering takeout and getting my clothes dry-cleaned.
“Come on, Mama,” I urge as she stands, tugging her up to her feet. “You’ve got to be exhausted. Let’s get you to bed.”
“Yeah, right,” George grumbles. “I come all the way home from work, and you tuck her in for a nap. I ain’t on salary, you know.”
I roll my eyes and ignore him.
“You come in here when there’s a problem, sure,” he goes on. “Now you’re a big shot, you can’t be bothered to come spend time with your mother. That’s why she gets these fucking attacks in the first place. On account of you think you’re better than us. How do you think that makes her feel, you coming in here in your fancy dress and high heels like you’re—”
