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Chapter One
Laney
I REACH FOR THE FRONTdoor of the trailer where I’ve lived my whole life and pause.
Something is wrong.
My fingertips brush the bubblegum pink paint peeling from the wood. I’m taken back to the day my mother painted it that color—one of her good days when, despite her issues, she’d been smiling and filled with vibrant energy.
There haven’t been any of those days lately.
The door is already open a crack, and my stomach knots. I stare down at the dusty ground beneath my sneakers. The summer has been hot and dry—I can’t remember the last time we had rain. My heart is racing, and my mouth runs dry. I swallow, hard.
“Mom?”
I allow my hand to continue its momentum, pushing the door open, revealing the inside of the trailer. I’ve done my best to keep the place tidy, but it isn’t easy when the only other person who lives here doesn’t give a shit about chores.
Once more, I hesitate.
What is it that’s alerted me to the change?
Some kind of spiritual connection, perhaps, my soul screaming out to me that the person who gave me life is no longer walking this Earth?
Or is it more practical than that? Can I sense there’s no longer a heartbeat or another breath coming from inside? Ormaybe the smell is different, already thick and cloying in the Los Angeles sun.
I shudder at the possibility.
Maybe I shouldn’t go in there. My cellphone is in the back pocket of my cut-off jeans. I can take it out and call nine-one-one. I don’t know how long it’ll be before either paramedics or the cops get here, though, and I know I won’t be able to just sit out here waiting until they arrive. What if I’m wrong and she’s not dead yet? What if there’s something I could do to save her, and instead of going in and helping, I do nothing?
There are several neighbors in trailers around me, and I wish I could go to one of them for help. But my mother’s behavior over the years has ostracized us from everyone around us. I wouldn’t mind so much, but it’s not like they’ve been much fucking better.
“Mom?” I call again.
I’m not expecting a response, and I don’t get one either. I step inside and peer down the length of the trailer, to our living area. It’s made up of a narrow couch fitted to the wall, with a table in front of it that’s on a pole and screwed into the floor. It all folds down to a bed, and that’s where I sleep.
To my relief, she’s not there, so I continue through the trailer and into the bedroom at the back. The bed is also empty.
Could I be wrong? Maybe she’s just out with one of her boyfriends—though using the word ‘boy’ in reference to them is laughable when most are in their forties or fifties or even older. The slick sense of dread that’s coated my skin since pausing at the door of the trailer hasn’t left me.
I push open the narrow door to the bathroom, but it only swings a short distance before stopping. My diaphragm tightens and my heart seems to lurch up my throat. Tears fill my eyes, and I blink them back.
The toilet is positioned on the rear wall of the tiny space so when the door opens, it swings directly toward anyone who might be sitting on it, hitting their legs. There’s no shout of protest from my mom, though I’m sure she’s the one blocking the door.
“Oh, Mom.”
I close my eyes and suck in a shaky breath. I don’t want to touch her, but I know I have no choice.
Tentatively, I reach through the gap of the door and place my hand on what I can feel is her bare knee. It’s cold, the skin somehow waxy. The position she’s in means she’s still sitting on the toilet and somehow hasn’t fallen off. I don’t have to give her a shake to know she won’t respond.
Despair fills me but brings with it something else. Something I don’t want to analyze too deeply. Is it relief? Relief that it’s finally over. I’ll no longer have to fear coming home, wondering what sort of mess I’m going to walk into. I’ll no longer have to deal with whatever shitty excuse for a man she’s brought back to the trailer, fending off their advances when she’s already passed out cold on the couch.
I’ve been expecting to come home and find her dead for years. I remember turning ten, and being surprised it still hadn’t happened, then I’d had my thirteenth birthday and she was still alive, and then I’d turned sixteen. My freedom had seemed so close then, and I’d started to think I might actually escape from home with my mother still living. Now I’m only a week away from my eighteenth birthday, and the moment I’ve been dreading for so long has finally arrived.
I straighten then drag my hand through my hair. Long, chestnut brown strands come away in my fingers, and I shake them off. It hasn’t escaped my notice that I’ve been losing a lot of hair lately. It’s the result of too much stress and not enough to eat.
I need to get her out of the bathroom. She’d never forgive me if I allowed cops and paramedics to find her body sitting on the toilet. It occurs to me that the police might consider this a crime scene now, and they won’t be happy with me moving her, but I don’t owe them anything.
My mother, however, is important to me, despite everything, and I don’t want her seen like this.
