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My guess is that “telling Auntie Lyra” is a threat taken seriously.
“I’m sorry,” I stammer. “For saying a bad word.”
“Okay.” Lowering his head, Sammy returns to his show.
Slack-jawed and standing with his little backpack dangling off his shoulder, he’s utterly hypnotized. Hale used to tease me when I got like that. Mumbling something about “kids these days,” he’d shut off the TV or video game and drag me outside. Together, we’d hike or play in the garden. Sometimes we’d talk. For hours.
In the end, we’d return home, and Mom would scold us for tracking in mud. When I got older, I realized he had been attempting to do the job she had been too sick to.
He always looked out for me.
“Um...how long does your Auntie Lyra usually let you watch stuff like that?” I ask.
Sammy looks at me in a sheepish way that doesn’t need much critical thinking to decipher—What do you think?
Not that I have a better way of entertaining him. I turn to the door, hoping that this is all a sick joke and Daze will return. For the first time, the rest of the apartment catches my eye in greater detail.
It’s a mess. The longer I look around with a somewhat clearer head, the more my skin crawls. There are more beer cans visible on the floor than there is carpet. An ashtray is in danger of overflowing onto Sammy’s little red rain boots. My nostrils wrinkle, catching another scent I instantly recognize.Weed.
Hale’s room reeked of it.
“Does your Daddy have a broom?” I ask when a full minute passes without the front door opening.
Sammy points toward the fridge, and beside it, I find a mop and a dustpan. Close enough.
Rolling up the sleeves of my borrowed shirt, I enter the kitchen, sidestepping crumpled cigarette butts. On a half-hearted whim, I wrench open the doors to the cabinets under the sink and find a box of trash bags, and some bottles of cleaning fluid. Armed with both, I tackle a heap of garbage, throwing away whatever I can get my hands on.
You’re like her when you do that,Hale used to snarl, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. He wasn’t my good, kind, sweet brother in those days. Just a stranger.What, Frey? You think scrubbing the floor until your hands bleed will wash away the cheating husband or the shitty, fucked up kids? Think again. You’ll learn the hard way, just like she did. We’re all just pawns in his game. No amount of cleaning will make him see you.
Stop. I blink harshly and suck air into my lungs. The stuffy interior of Daze’s apartment doesn’t help dispel the memory. It just compounds what Hale said in the worst way.
I was never clean. The ache between my legs cements that. Now, I’m just physically broken the way I’ve always been morally. A sinner through and through.
“Think you can open a window?” I say to Sammy, forcing a smile.
Very slowly, he lowers the phone and climbs on the couch in front of the only window. After a few soft grunts, he exclaims in triumph. “It’s open. Can I keep watching Spongebob?”
“Sure.” I leave him to it, focusing on the material clutched in my fingers with every descent into the muck.
Old magazines. Chip bags. Beer cans. Beer cans. Beer cans. Daze’s trash tells a more cohesive story than he has.
A rustle of plastic alerts me as another can falls into my trash bag from above, delivered by two small hands.
“Aunt Lyra says I’m not allowed to watch Spongebob,” Sammy admits. “Please don’t tell.”
I humor the earnest request with a sigh. “Okay, sure. But...help me clean up?”
Maybe once I can actually see the floor, I’ll be able to think. Or at least come up with a logical plan of action. Like call the police on Daze Keaton for child abandonment and go on my merry way. But that would mean forsaking any real answers…
And I’m not ready to face that reality.
Besides, I doubt Sammy would appreciate being shoved into a cop car while the precinct ran an investigation—not that any of this is my problem.
Daze Keaton is not my problem.
Frowning, I tell myself that repeatedly. By the time I’ve cleared the kitchen, a semblance of concern has eaten at my apathy. How is this man still alive? I’m convinced he lives on a diet of alcohol and nicotine, with the occasional nutrition provided by junk food.
It’s like that age-old adage—misery loves company. Daze Keaton must love surrounding himself with empty, broken bottles and crushed plastic. Though, who am I to judge? I’ve barely lived in my apartment long enough to leave a dent in the mattress, let alone a piece of trash.
