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He shifted in his recliner. “You’re asking this now?”
“I’m asking.”
His eyes went back on the TV, not answering.
The label came off. I crumpled it up in my hand. My voice was low. Stony. “I did ten years in foster care, Nelson.”
“So?”
“So?”
“That’s what I said. We all got tough luck stories. You think you’re special?”
“No, but—”
“Good, ’cause you aren’t. Remember that.”
The old anger boiled up in me and spilled over. I chucked the balled-up label on the floor where it joined the rest of the trash. “I remember. I remember being a scared little kid, shuffled around from house to house. No family. No nothing,” I said, my voice rising. “Just where the fuck were you?”
Nelson’s head jerked back and swiveled to me, his eyes wide. “Beg your pardon? You talk to me like that when I’m trying to do something nice for you? Well, shit, I learned my lesson, didn’t I? Never again. You get nothing else from me if that’s how you’re going to act. Spoiled brat…”
I barely heard him, the bloody memories washing over me. “I was eight years old when he killed her.”
“Here we go again…”
“You knew. You fucking knew what happened and you stayed away. I was in the system for ten fucking years.”
Ten years of foster life. A soul-crushing weight I carried every day on top of losing my mother. Abusive guardians or negligent ones that used me for a paycheck. Beatings, locked closets, hunger and cold, harsh words and violence. It all pressed down on me until I couldn’t breathe, until I wanted to hit something until my bones broke. To feel anything that wasn’t that.
“You knew I was out there…and you let me fucking rot until I could be useful to you. Free labor. Not family.”
“Boo-fucking-hoo,” Nelson snapped back. “You look all right. You survived.”
I put the naked beer bottle down before it shattered in my grip.
“Look,” he said into my silence. “I wasn’t ever going to be any kind of a parent. Can you see me with a kid? Doing what…cooking you breakfast? Sack lunches? Making sure you did your homework?”
You could’ve tried, I wanted to say, but I was done asking for anything from anyone. Even if that ask was ten years too late.
“Besides,” Nelson said, turning back to the TV. “We’re here now, aren’t we?”
The anger gusted out of me. That was as good as it was going to get. My hand went to Shiloh’s compass pendant.
For when you feel adrift.
I closed my eyes for a moment, held it tight, inhaled. Then I let go, exhaling. Calmer now.
“Yeah,” I said dully. “I’m still fucking here.”
Nelson let me borrow his ancient pick-up truck to take the furniture back to my complex. Maryann poked her head out of her unit when I pulled into the parking lot, as if she’d been watching for me.
“Hey,” she said, walking to meet me, her hands twisting. “How’d it go?”
I unlocked the truck bed. “Fine. Nelson said you’re good. He’ll waive the late fee.”
“Really?” Her brow wrinkled. “That doesn’t sound like him.”
I shrugged. “I must’ve caught him in a good mood.”
