‘Any worries you’d care to share?’
‘Nah. I’m just being silly.’
‘That I can believe,’ says Callie. ‘You needn’t stress about Sonny. He’d cut off all his limbs before he’d do anything to make Mum unhappy. And he’s been like the dad I never had. He’s the one who taught me the sign language that I taught you.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ I fake a smile. ‘Don’t worry. Sonny is having no effect on my stress levels.’
‘Well, I’m afraid I’ve got plenty to raise your blood pressure,’ says Callie, suddenly serious. ‘I hope you’re sitting comfortably.’
Oh hell!
Now what?
Already, Callie is eyeing me apologetically.
‘I’m not going to like this, am I?’ I state.
She shakes her head. ‘Just don’t hate me, OK?’
And what gets to me is that Callie believes whatever it is she has to tell me might make me do that.
twelve. Libby
* * *
I hear her before I see her. The sound of a key scratching at the front-door lock. Mum’s obviously having trouble fitting one inside the other. At least a minute passes before the door finally opens. Not good. That’s how I judge just how wasted Mum is – by how long it takes her to open the front door. Reluctantly, I make my way downstairs. One look is enough to make my heart tumble. Mum stands at the door, swaying slightly. Her pupils are barely visible, mere pinpricks at the centre of her grey-blue irises. Her yellow blouse is dishevelled and buttoned up wrong. I’m pretty sure she didn’t leave the house that way. Mum is very careful about how she looks before she goes out anywhere. Coming back home? Not so much.
Pete the creep, Mum’s boyfriend, slinks into view, the usual hateful, knowing smirk already on his face. He wears denim jeans, a black T-shirt decorated with the profile of a silver wolf howling and a leather jacket that’s too well worn to be fashionable. His long black hair is tied back in a ponytail. He has one hand on the front-door lintel above his head, like he’s posing for a photo shoot. No doubt he thinks he looks too cool, but he comes across as exactly what he is – a total loser. He’s over forty and trying to convince everyone he’s half that age. Pathetic. My lips press together in a bloodless line as I glare at him, unblinking.
Creep! Loathsome, scumbag, son-of-a-bitch, low-class, bastard blanker. I don’t even feel guilty about applying that word to him. In his case, the word fits.
‘Hey, baby girl …’ he says.
The expression on his face makes my stomach churn. His words make me sick, like one second away from actually heaving. I’m not a baby and I’m certainly not his girl. I bite back the curse that has sprung fully formed into my mouth.
Ignore him, Libby. He’s not worth it.
‘Mum, are you OK? I need to talk to you.’
Pete enters the house, not bothering to shut the door. He stands to one side as if inviting me to walk past and close it. I have no intention of going anywhere near him. When he sees his ploy isn’t working, he kicks the door closed. The glass panes rattle in the door. Mum doesn’t say a word.
‘Tonight, your mum told me all about your dad,’ Pete informs me. ‘It was a very interesting discussion.’
That’s more than she’s ever done with me. Clenching my teeth so hard it’s a wonder my molars don’t crumble, I pin Mum with a contemptuous glare. She visibly squirms, then looks away – anywhere but at me. It doesn’t stop me scowling at her.
‘Mum, where’ve you been?’ I ask. ‘I was worried sick.’
‘Shame your mum didn’t tell me before, because then you and I would’ve had so much more to talk about,’ Pete interjects with a grin so oily I’m surprised it doesn’t just slide right off his foul face.
Owl-like, Mum blinks at me like she’s trying to remember who I am. After so many times of this, it shouldn’t hurt, but it does. As always. Her lipstick is slightly smudged and the mascara on her left eye has run.
A good time was had by all.
‘I was going out with Pete. I told you,’ Mum slurs.
‘No you didn’t.’
Pete again. Always encouraging Mum to drink this and snort that. And she’s weak enough to give in to him. Mum has been going out with Pete for over six months now and the more I get to know him, the more shivers of revulsion slither over me whenever he’s nearby. The last time I found myself alone with him, he stroked one finger slowly up and down my bare arm, his finger running over the scars on my forearm. Just remembering it makes me shudder.
‘How did you get these scratches?’ he asked.
‘Next door’s cat – if it’s any of your business. And get your hand off me.’
But he just carried on stroking up and down my arm. When I threatened to tell Mum, he laughed in my face.
‘Go ahead. Tell her. And I’ll tell her what a tease you’ve been, flashing me and trying to get me to dump her for you. Let’s see who she’ll believe.’
No contest. I already knew the answer to that question.
‘I dist— distinc— totally remember telling you that Pete and I were out tonight. We’re celebrating our seven-month anniversary,’ says Mum, swaying like a sapling in a high wind.
Why bother to even argue? Mum won’t remember a word of this conversation in the morning. Hell, ten minutes from now it’ll be out of her head.
‘I bet your dad dotes on you, Liberty,’ says Pete softly. ‘You being his only child and all.’
What the hell is he talking about? Didn’t Mum tell him that I’ve never even met my dad? My nails bite into my palms as I scowl at him, wishing he’d just drop down a deep hole and die.
‘Pete, stop it,’ Mum admonishes. ‘I need a drink.’ She weaves her way to the kitchen. ‘You want one, darling?’
‘No thanks. I’ve got plans,’ says Pete. ‘Be seeing you, Libby.’
Not if I see you first, I think sourly.
He blows me a kiss, chuckling at the look of utter loathing darkening my narrowed eyes. Only when he’s closed the front door firmly behind him do my fists slowly unclench. Mum brought that toad to our house again, despite the fact that I’ve told her more than once that he makes me feel uncomfortable. Tomorrow morning she’ll tell me she forgot, or she couldn’t make it home alone. Always some excuse. Much as I want to question Mum about the letter I received earlier, I know there’s no point. Not when she’s in this state. It’ll just have to wait till tomorrow. Better yet, I should gather all the information I can so Mum can’t easily lie to me any more.
‘Goodnight, Mum,’ I say through gritted teeth, heading back upstairs.
‘Don’t I get a hug?’ Mum staggers to the foot of the stairs, her arms open wide. Funny how she only wants to hug me when she’s drunk.
‘Mum, you’ve got food down your front,’ I point out.
She pulls her half-unbuttoned yellow shirt out of her black skirt to peer down at it. Vomit, food remnants or booze, it doesn’t matter. It’s nasty. ‘How did that get there?’ she says, frowning and still swaying with the effort of staying upright.