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2
Willow
Isuffer a glance at the bed where the woman, who brought my older sister, Hillary, and me into the world, lays beneath a pile of scratchy, thin blankets. A dull tint covers her mocha tone, and an inch of new growth lies beneath her dreadlocks. When I was little, each loc fell past her ample hips, ends kissed golden by the sun. My tender-headed ass begged—and even had the nerve to have a tantrum too—for her lovely locs. I learned my fucking lesson when she didn’t beat the defiance out of me and actually allowed me to start them. The maintenance alone is a beast, even now.
“Look at me, Willow.” Annoyed, Hillary tugs at her diamond chandelier earring. “Dad’s not—”
With a gentle approach, her husband slides in, “Your father isn’t in the right frame of mind to care for you.”
I square off with the princess, flanked by her walking, silver-haired piggy bank. The same honey eyes reflect back at me, yet hers aren’t swollen red. She looks impeccably put together while I sport yesterday’s baggy jeans and a tan hoodie from the top track-and-field university in the nation. The very same university whose recruiter I told to shove my impending scholarship up his ass sometime last week.
“Can you honestly hear yourselves, Hil, Thad? Leave my mom?” Trembling mad, my gaze bounds between the two walking advertisements for Neiman Marcus.
Hillary scoffs. “Mom is off the table, Willow. We’re discussing your reckless behavior. This isn’t the same neighborhood Momma and Dad brought us up in. You leave home at all hours of the night.”
Drowning in emotion, I squeak out, “Because I miss my mom. She’s here, all alone.”
“While you’re catching the bus, at friggen midnight, a transient could—”
“I’ll run.” A chortle bubbles through me. I’m fast as fuck.
“Willow,” Thad drops his hand onto the waistband of his slacks, “your sister and I are invested in your safety. You’re jeopardizing your last year as a child—”
“I’ll be eighteen in two weeks,” I snap.
Hillary’s manicured fingers curl under at her sides. “You have forty-seven absences, girl. Let’s agree to disagree. Until you and Dad start thinking like adults...”
While she drones on, I focus on the white noise of the room, monitors beeping, machines pumping. I rustle a hand through my thick twists, pushing them away from my face. Neither of us heeds the other’s words. We never do. It’s all a game for who can argue the other into submission.
At her next intake of air, I grab the ball she dropped. “Hello. I’m the only person visiting our mom—at the hospital and here.” My hands wave around the room of the nursing and rehab center. “By the way, nice vacation afterglow, you guys.” I clap my hands. “The flower delivery, while you were away, was a refreshing surprise.”
“Don’t be sarcastic.”
“No, congratulations are in order. Hil, you put Mom first for the length it took to purchase said flowers.”
She sucks in a harsh breath. “Barbados was scheduled a year in advance, Willow. I pleaded for you to accompany us. I’m done arguing. Dad doesn’t have the mental or emotional capacity for you at this time. So, the job reverts to me. We just left the apartment. I packed your luggage. The three of usare going home together. You have a comfy, more than accommodating room at my?”
“Fuck Dad. Fuck you. Fuck your husband.” A broken chuckle escapes my lips. “In fact, I hope someone else fucks your husband.”
Hillary’s dedicated to her status as a trophy, removing herself from the shelf for a swift polishing every now and then. I’ve seen porcupines simulate a more promising love story than these two. Thad drops a placating hand on Hillary’s slender shoulder, though his Armani shoes aim at departure.
“You don’t mean that, Willow.” Hillary clears her throat. “I’ve also sent a very nice apology to your old track team.”
“You? Or Thad?” My fury descends on the old guy who zoned out. “What’s the going rate for an apology? Complimentary hot stone massages in Beverly Hills?”
“While a thank you would’ve sufficed, sister, I’ll defer to your forty-seven unexcused absences.” Her tone volleys. “I’ve packed your bags. You’re moving from Watts. Thad paid a pretty penny for your new private school. That requires a thank you.”
I offer a few resolute blinks. “Thad, stop me if it appears I’m digging into your pockets. However, your money may have been better served moving our mom to a nicer facility and not wasted on DuPont Prep.”
“Willow, the chance of your mom recovering and awakening . . .” Thad’s voice tumbles over the cliff I lack the strength to toss his ass over. He edges out, “I’ll wait outside.”
“I smelled this setup,” I sniff, watching his retreat. “Thad never accompanies you. In the seventy-one days since Mom’s car plummeted from a cliff, he’s visited her three times—including the ER. You’ve completed five pageant showings. Lift your hand. Do the prissy wave, Hillary.”
“Stop it!” Red burns beneath her light skin. I’ve hit a cord. Time to jab at the festering wound because my misery deserves company. “Nice flowers, but I’ve spent every waking hour here.”
“You’re a senior, Lolo.” Her taut lips snap each word. “You kissed your track and field scholarship goodbye. Thad’s giving you a fresh start. A recommendation from any of the teachers at DuPont Academy will revive your chances of attending a good university. Shall I slap the stupid off your face?”
Suddenly, I’ve grown tired. A cocoon wraps around me. Contrite, I mutter, “But the absences . . . Forty-seven of them.”
A prism of a thousand tiny, infuriating Hillarys liquifies in front of me as tears sting my eyes. She tosses out how they’ll be waiting in the car, and I should say one last goodbye. At the resounding click of her retreating stilettos, the dam breaks, and Mom fades.
“I’m sorry,” I croak, knees weak. The vinyl chair supports me as I crumble into a folded position. Momma would be so disappointed. I let my grades plummet—amongst other things—and burned almost all my bridges, except for two. One bridge just walked away. The other bridge, I’ve run fast and far from. I’ve no desire to watch the fire flicker across it. I can’t lose him too. But when it comes to Hillary, hell, life as I know it, I’m holding the match and a can of gasoline ready to set all our good times ablaze. Fuck. My. Life.
