It was a soft kiss, sensual and slow, his full lips teasing in a way that differed from what I was used to. This was a new side to us, something that started after he mentioned renegotiating our association post-graduation—something I still struggled to accept.
He pulled away, and my eyes blinked open, too preoccupied with other thoughts to notice any flutters or chills such a kiss should have created.
“Good night, Avery.” He let himself out, and I hung by the door.
When I heard the elevator come and go, I peeked into the hallway. Noah’s door was shut, no light shining from beneath.
33
Avery
The bitter wind cut through my clothes as I stood outside of the place I’d grown up—the place that never fit the word home. The ransacked yard wore a dusty scruff of brown grass and frosted leaves. Faded, broken lanterns hung like ghosts of merrier times, relics that were once colorful, now a bleak reminder that nothing exciting happened here anymore.
I tightened my arms, not ready to go inside. Cars filled every sanded drive like blemished trophies that no longer served a purpose. The majority of folks in Blackwater were unemployed with nowhere to go.
Bare trees curled like talons, reaching as if they, too, wanted to get out. But people from Blackwater rarely escaped. I was one of the few exceptions.
Breath formed a cloud of vapor in front of my face as I proceeded to the door. The rattle of daytime television penetrated the thin windows. My worn key turned in the lock, and I shut my eyes, bracing for the unwelcome reality on the other side.
The rancid scent of unwashed laundry battled the stale stench of cigarette smoke. My mother, buried in a mix of laundry and blankets, snored on the couch. Plates and paperwork covered the coffee table. The carpet had a few new stains, but the old ones were mostly covered by boxes of God knows what.
A talk show played on the dated television set, the screen scrambling every other second. Not finding the chill I expected, I moved toward the kitchen.
“Jesus.” My disgust cranked another notch higher.
Dried macaroni, crumbs, and other grime coated the small counter. Unwashed pots and pans were pushed to the back of the stove, a different color film on the inside of each one. I tried not to look in the corners, certain I’d find mouse shit mixing with crumbs.
Shaking my head, I shut the oven door, which was where the heat was coming from and turned the dial to OFF. She was going to burn the place down.
Dropping my bag on the only chair that wasn’t covered with crap, I scanned the trailer, knowing I couldn’t let anyone see her living this way—not even the fuel company scheduled to come out with the replacement boiler. I had a little over two hours to clean this place up and about four years of filth to disinfect.
I searched the cabinets for trash bags and any cleaning products I could find. The sink was overflowing with crusty dishes, the stench of rotting food so thick it burned my sinuses and turned my stomach. I dumped several plates of rotting food, wrappers, brimming ashtrays, and soiled tissues into the bag, which was soon full.
I feared what I might find in the bathroom and bedrooms. This was never going to get clean in two hours. Tying off the garbage, I tossed it out the front door and didn’t care when it slammed shut.
My mother stirred and grunted. “Avery Dean? What are you doin’ here?”
“I came to see that your boiler was installed.”
She sat up, her hair so thin I could see her scalp and her clothing wrinkled and stained. “You got me a boiler?”
“I told you I did.” It wasn’t like I had a choice. Now if I could just tell her this was the end of my taking care of her. But something held my tongue.
I didn’t have thousands of dollars lying around, and I couldn’t keep doing this. Asking Micah for help was more than I could stomach. I hated debt, especially the sort people wouldn’t let you pay back, the sort of debt you could never quite calculate in terms of a loan.
I grimaced as she leaned forward and sipped from a random cup on the table. “They’re coming in two hours, Momma. We need to clean up this pigsty.”
She rubbed her eyes and yawned, showing a gaping hole of stained teeth and gums. “Let me find my teeth.”
The sight of her fishing dentures out of a coffee mug and popping them into her mouth was enough to make me gag. I looked away in disgust, swamped by the overwhelming urge to run out of there.
“How are you living in this filth, Mom?”
She scoffed. “Don’t you come home—first time in almost four years—and judge me. I don’t got no one here to help with things.”
“It’s just you. How can one person make such a mess? You can’t keep bringing junk home.”
“Avery Dean, if you think I’m gonna be criticized in my own house, you got another think coming.” She reached under the coffee table and lifted what looked like a dead rodent, placing the ratty, old wig on her head. “How long’s this gonna take? I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Cleaning or the installation? One should only take an hour or so.” I counted nine overflowing boxes of crap in the living room alone. “Cleaning could take weeks.”
She stood and grumbled something about needing coffee.
I followed her to the kitchen and watched in disgust as coffee grounds spilled onto the counter. She made no move to clean them up. Not like it mattered.
When she went to use the bathroom, I got to work. I shoved everything out of the way and set out—what I hoped was—a clean dishtowel and started washing. As I heard her return, I said, “Start bringing me dishes.”
“I haven’t had my coffee yet.”
“Well, you can bring me dishes while it’s brewing. We don’t have a lot of time.”
“Lord knows you probably gotta rush out of here soon as they’re done,” she grumbled, collecting plates and cups off the counter.
The cabinets were mostly empty, so, once I dusted out the crumbs, I started stacking clean dishes in there. More trash bags filled and I expected to see a notable difference, but there really wasn’t one.
“We have to crack a window. It reeks in here.”
Several ashtrays overflowed, and I resented the sight, not for health reasons, but because this woman cried poverty and poor me but threw away six or more dollars a day to support yet another bad habit.
“It’s too cold to open a window. And why’d you shut my oven off.”
“You’ll start a fire that way. And if you move around you won’t be as cold.” I shut off the television, hoping she’d finish her coffee, snuff out her morning smoke, and get up off her ass.
“I was watching that—”
“Enough!” I snapped. “I came here to help you, and you aren’t the least bit appreciative. I’m not cleaning your house alone. Get up, grab a laundry basket, and start doing something with all these clothes!”
Her level stare burned into me as she swept the smoking filter of her cigarette against the bottom of the ashtray. “Well.”
I didn’t linger to hear what else she had to say. There was too much to do, and we only had an hour until the boiler people showed up.
34