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“Are you… withdrawing?” I ask.
We’ve always hated explicitly talking about her use. Until recently, we only ever referred to it in vague terms. Do you need more medicine, Mom? Or she’d say she was feeling stressed that day, which meant she’d leave the house later and return glassy-eyed—the never-ending cycle.
She nods shortly, walking to the couch, wincing with each step. “Hmm.” She drops down and looks up at me. “But that’s not the problem.”
“What is, then?” I ask, sitting on the worn armchair.
“I borrowed money from people I shouldn’t have,” she whispers. “It’s due tomorrow. I don’t have it. I don’t have anything close to it. I d-don’t know what to do.”
When she breaks down again, burying her face in her hands, I almost scream at her. It’s not fair for me to be the one taking care of her. Then the emotions wash over me. Even if I know I’m right, it doesn’t matter. She still needs my help. I love her.
Joining her on the couch, I wrap my arm around her. “How much?”
She shivers. “Five thousand.”
“Jesus. Christ. Mom.”
“I know.”
“We don’t have that kind of money.”
“I know.”
“Not even close.”
She pushes away from me and stares up with red eyes. “I know.”
“Why did you need five thousand?” I ask. “Your…” Medicine, I almost say, but I’m not a kid anymore. “Drugs aren’t that expensive, are they?”
“I owed some other people money.”
“Ah, right.”
“But it was a mistake. These people.” Mom shakes her head, her eyes getting a bleak look. “They’re far more dangerous. They have connections to the Russian mob. The Bratva, they call it. They’re going to break my limbs one by one, then kill me. Oh, I’m sorry, but that’s what they said.”
My blood turns cold, my mind whirring. I was never the best at school. I did okay in English. Science always fascinated me, but I wasn’t one of the top students. I can usually puzzle things out, but I can’t see an escape from this.
“Will they take less? A down payment?”
“I don’t think so,” she croaks. “I’ve missed three payments already. The man said… Oh, Katy.”
“Just tell me.”
“He said he’s going to make an example out of me if I don’t pay. He will show the city what happens when they don’t get their due. It’s everything or…”
“I get it,” I say. The last thing I need, when all my attention should be focused on how to save her, is that vicious image in my mind again. “We have to run, then.”
“No!”
I look sourly at her. “It’s our only choice. We can’t pay them. We can’t reason our way out of it.”
“They said if I run, they’ll hurt you.”
“So you’ve been waiting in your room… waiting for it to be over? So they wouldn’t hurt me?”
Be over is one way to phrase what these people will do.
“Yes,” she whispers.
“How long do you have?”
“I’m supposed to pay them tomorrow.”
I sigh, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. Several cracks are going from one side to the other, the outline of what must be our neighbor’s bathtub sagging. One day it will fall through, but the landlord—the slum lord—doesn’t give a damn. In this kind of place, very few people care about anything.
“I’m going to speak to Eli,” I say, standing up.
Mom sighs, rubbing her cheeks. “That mad old man can’t help.”
“You don’t know that.”
Eli lives in the apartment at the end of the hallway. I met the ancient, gnarled man when he was trying to carry a refrigerator up the stairs by himself. He was eighty-six, but that didn’t stop him. He gritted his teeth while spitting and wheezing. Together, we just about managed to get it up there.
“I can’t believe you thought you could do that alone,” I told him.
He grinned, flashing an almost toothless mouth like he was proud of it. “Gotta try, girl. Always gotta try.”
Now, he sits in his chair, surrounded by towers of paperback books. The room has a musty but somehow not unpleasant smell.
“I wish I had the money.” He drums his cane on the floor, a habit that must make him one of the most beloved upstairs neighbors imaginable. “But the moon hasn’t opened for me in twelve months, and the stars aren’t singing either.”
Eli has his own way of speaking sometimes. “I used to be mad, me,” he likes to say sometimes. I never mention he might still be a little, but he doesn’t hurt anybody. He’s a good person—a rare one around here.
“I’d pay you back,” I tell him, “but I know you don’t have it.”
“Five smackers.” He smacks his lips together. “That’s quite the tall order, aye?”
“It certainly is, but I was thinking. Well, you used to be in the Army, right?”
He grins, seeming younger for a moment. Maybe it’s because his mouth is closed, his paper-thin hair combed to the side. “Still am. Never could skin-slip my fatigues.”
