Shift

10

“Your mom got lucky this time.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell the emergency room doc that my mom got lucky last time too. And the time before that. Seemed like bragging. Too much luck for one woman to have in a lifetime. Instead, I gave him a response straight from my heart.

“Yeah, she’s real fuckin’ lucky,” I said.

He wasn’t impressed with my honesty. Or my tone.

This is the third time I’ve driven my mom home after a near-deadly overdose. The first time I drove her was without a license. I was eleven. Seemed like a no-brainer to talk my way out of trouble if a cop pulled us over.

Sorry, sir. My mom overdosed.

No cop’s going to punish a kid in that situation. Besides, it’s a small enough town that most people around here know my story. Colt Bridge’s kid.

So far this time, I’ve been able to ignore my mom’s promises. It’s the same string of words it always is—lies about getting clean, about this being the last time, and about telling Colt to get out and stay out. Nothing will change, and this drive? It will happen again. Only, I swear to God, I won’t be the one making it. I’m making that promise, and I’ll keep it. This happens again and I’m around, I’m slamming the door shut behind me and driving away for good.

When we arrive home, I’m not shocked to find Colt’s El Camino pulled up nice and tight to the front door. I wonder how much shit he had to get rid of after he called 9-1-1? I bet he parked nearby to watch it all play out so he knew when it was safe to come back. He’s not a big-time drug dealer, but busy enough that if authorities opened their eyes and saw the evidence, they’d have to do something about him. He’s small time enough to fly under the “who gives a shit” radar.

“Alright. Home. Go on, get out. Put yourself in bed for the next week or whatever it is you do after this,” I say. If I could reach across my mom and push her door open, I would. As it is, she moans and rolls to her side in the passenger seat. I wish I had a single memory of this woman being sweet to me so I could muster enough empathy to actually want to help her.

“Don’t be like that, Dusty.” She reaches for me, her shaking hand and dirty fingernails coming at the side of my face. I flinch and scowl.

“Uh, no. This is not that moment. Time to get out. Go on,” I say, pushing myself against my door to gain as much distance as I can. I actually felt sorry for her last night. She seemed lucid and flu-like. We conversed, and she asked for soup. I heated up a can on the stove. She wasn’t sick like that, though. She was withdrawing. Probably from something new. It’s hard to keep up with her highs.

Her shoulders shake as she fumbles with the safety belt. She’s going to fucking cry. This is usually what breaks me, but I’m numb to it this time. A

“Dusty . . .” she mumbles through spit and tears.

“Gah!” I push open my door and rush around the car, not because I’m in a hurry to help her but because I need her out of my car. I need to get out of here.

She’s unable to work the handle to open her door, so I yank it open wide and grab her arm, propping her up against me. She’s strong enough to walk inside. If I weren’t here, she’d do it on her own just fine, probably make herself a snack and turn on her soap operas. She’s putting on this show for me. She likes to play invalid, which is shameful and a punch in the face to people who really need to be cared for.

“Come on. Let’s just get this over with,” I hope she at least takes the stairs without going limp. We slam into Colt’s chest at the doorway, and I grit my teeth and look down at his feet because if I look him in the eyes right now, I’m going to lose it.

“Oh, ho ho! Look who’s got time to help out now, huh?” His breath smells of stale cigarettes, and his unwashed body reeks.

“You should be saying that shit to yourself,” I say, pushing past him. He steps in front of us again before I get my mom fully inside. She slips from my grip, collapsing to her knees with one hand on each of our legs as she starts to cry.

“Don’t do this. No, no, no . . .” she moans. I pinch the bridge of my nose and pull my foot away. I’m pushed into the trailer with a hard thrust to the center of my chest the second I do.

“Don’t kick your mother!” Colt comes at me, his hand cupped and out to the side. He swings it at me and I flinch, preparing to be hit. He stops before contact though, his belly rumbling with an amused laugh that gurgles out of him. I hate that I give him this power.

I move so the recliner my mom practically lives in is between us. My pulse steadies just having some sort of barrier. It’s not that Colt is bigger than me. He isn’t anymore. Hasn’t been for at least two years. It’s that he’s so wild and unpredictable. I’m never sure whether a fist is going to land on my face or a knife at my side. He’s made threats, flashed metal, and even shown off his gun a time or two. That threat keeps me in check, and the fact he has this hold over me makes me hate myself sometimes.

“Look, let me get her to bed. You can go back to . . . whatever you’re doing.” I hold out my palms and glance around the shithole they call home. A few duffle bags are piled in the corner of the kitchen. Probably the cash he took off with, maybe his supply too. It doesn’t smell like burnt acid in here, so I don’t think he’s cooked anything yet. That’s Colt’s thing—he melts down shit he buys at the border and mixes it with over-the-counter crap to increase his profit. I know guys at school who use his stuff. They call him the Candy Man. Hell, he probably melts down Jolly Ranchers with that shit.

Colt’s upper lip raises into a cocky smile on one side that shows off his discolored teeth. He takes a few steps back, gripping the door jamb as he leans out and looks into the driveway.

“You got that windshield fixed, huh? How you pay for that?” He pulls himself back inside and his demon eyes land on mine.

“I sold something,” I say, instantly regretting answering him at all.

He snickers and steps back outside, lifting my mom. She’s shaking, a little because she’s scared of him, but more because she’s lost control of the act she was putting on.

“Why don’t you go on to bed. I’ll go get us some burgers later,” Colt says, nuzzling his chin in the crook of her neck. She nods slowly and turns into him, croaking out an “okay.”

I step to the side, flattening against the far wall as she passes through the living room and levels me with her pitiful gaze. I used to fall for this, feel sorry for her and tell her I loved her. I haven’t said that to her in so long. Haven’t said it to anyone. I’m not sure my lips know how to form the words anymore.

My mom drags her fingers along the wood-paneled hallway and I watch her in my periphery until her door clicks shut. My attention snaps back to Colt the second we’re alone.

“You didn’t sell anything of mine, did you?” He knows I didn’t. He’s fishing, pushing me.

I laugh out a breath and grip my lip with my teeth, lifting my chin as I stare him down.

“I don’t need to make money the way you do.”

His eyes dim and his mouth ticks.

“You sure about that?” He holds up a handful of cash. My cash.

“That’s mine!” I lunge at him, no longer caring about the bulky piece of furniture between us, stepping over it as if I’m going to leap at him with a fist like some character in a video game. He strong-arms me, grabbing my forearm with his other hand, holding my money out of reach. I take wild swings at him but his grip tightens, his nails digging into my skin.