Methadonia

A Christmas Story

“My nines are gonna hit tonight,” Momma says with conviction.

There’s still sleep in my eyes, but we have to hurry down to the methadone clinic before it closes for Christmas. The van swerves all over the icy road as Momma steers with her knees. She lights a cigarette, searches her purse for loose cash, texts someone who won’t wake to see it for hours. When she exhales, I see her nicotine prayers make their way to the lord.

Momma’s been going on about the nines for a while now. There’s this lottery game called Cash 3, where you play three numbers—0 through 9—and if you get the right combination, you win. Momma’s gotten good at the game, but it’s been over a month since God told her about the triple nines.

We stop at H&K to get gas. There are ads for cheap beer and live bait carefully stickered to the broad glass. Cricket bait hums from mesh containers by the door. Momma runs inside to see Jeff and tells me to fill up the tank. I pull at the sleeves of my jacket while the numbers slowly spin on the pump. It’s never this cold in Georgia. When the pump stops I head inside.

Momma’s behind the counter, running a coin over scratch-offs. Her stack of Cash 3 tickets, small and square, sit next to the gift box she brought in for Jeff. He’s too busy watching her to open it.

Momma doesn’t realize it, but Jeff is deeply in love with her. Any man who’s ever seen Momma has fallen in love with her at some point or another. They swoon over her sad blue eyes, the way she writes poetry using words like languid, how she tosses her hair back when she laughs and her chin sinks into the soft of her neck. Their mouths hang slack and their pants come alive. She doesn’t seem to notice, even now, that Jeff is peering down her shirt. He pulls at her fingers and she brushes him away, along with the foil from her Pot-O-Gold scratch-off. When I allude to these flirtations, she says he’s just being friendly.

“Ain’t you gonna open your present,” she says, pushing the box toward him. He takes off the sparkly blue box top and sets it on the counter. Inside is a birdhouse. Momma buys them from the craft store and paints them while she watches her crime shows at night. Jeff thanks her, wipes his eyes. He cries a lot more now that he’s stopped taking his lithium.

The coffee machine hisses and burbles from across the store; Jeff always forgets to move the pot to the top burner and the coffee burns by the time Momma’s shift comes around. I grab two Red-Bulls from the cooler, pull M&M’s and Doritos from the shelves and head up to the counter.

“How you doing, sir,” Jeff asks, reaching out to shake my hand.

“Fine,” I lie.

“Your Momma says that new therapist woman you’re seeing is real nice,” he says, as Momma shoots him a dirty look. “I—she…uh, she only told me since, you know, I went away before, too. You ain’t got to be embarrassed.”

“You ready,” I ask Momma. She sweeps the counter, throws away her losing scratch-offs and we head out the door.

“It’s nice having a working heater, huh?” Momma says, once we’re on the road. She hunches forward, her hands trembling as she sips her coffee. The blast of heat from the vents slowly warms the van. “This coffee ain’t doing shit.”

I chew my nails, licking the orange grit from the Doritos. We normally don’t talk until she’s taken her methadone, that way I know she’s listening. She pulls a cigarette from her purse, punches the car lighter. Smoke fills the van, but finds its home in her lungs. The frost on the ground slowly melts away.

“Listen,” she says. “I don’t want you mad, but I gotta stop at Buck’s on the way home, okay?”

“What for,” I ask.

“It’s for Eric,” she explains. “He asked me to get him an 8-ball tonight.”

“Neat,” I say. “Too bad the church doesn’t know about Eric’s drug habit or they might be able to pray it out.” I wait for her to agree, to laugh, make a joke about how being an asshole is some undiagnosed condition he’s suffered from for years. Instead, she says I’m being unfair. He must’ve done something nice yesterday. It doesn’t take much to impress Momma.

She says something else, but I stop listening. When she realizes, she chews on her lip and pretends to admire the scenery, the tacky Christmas lights. But we’ve made this drive every morning for months. There’s nothing new to see.

I used to love car rides with Momma. When I was little, she’d pick me up from school before taking me to Granny’s, and we’d get frozen coffee from Baskin Robbins. There was cinnamon-dusted whip cream on top, and we’d chew on the pink straws as ‘Bitch’ by Meredith Brooks played through the speakers. I wish we could do that now.

When we get to Bainbridge, the sun is finally out. Rays of light slash across the trees and cut open the pink sky. When Momma parks, she asks me to go in with her.

“I think I’ll stay in the car, today.”

She walks in without me, and I can tell she’s hurt.

When she found out I’d tried to off myself with pills—pills I’d bought for her—she promised to never do them again. That’s why she started going to the methadone clinic. It’s also when she started playing the lottery.

There are scratch-offs and old Cash 3 tickets flooding the glove compartment and hidden in the nooks of the van. She steals the scratch-offs a roll at a time, hoping there’s enough prize money to cover all the cash she’s stolen.

Several people pass by, carrying blue zipper pouches. That’s what holds the medicine. There are these little locks that hold the zipper shut, and only two people have a key; the doctor, and an appointed member of the family who will keep it safe from the patient until it’s time for their next dose.

Momma appointed herself.

I went inside once, a few months back. The smell is always the same in places like that; the places crazy people go for help. The base note is lavender, to calm. But it’s overpowered by the ammonia based cleaner they use on the floors. The smell is all I remember about Hope’s Corner. I refuse to expose those memories to light. It’s like if I look at them too early, they won’t be able to process right. I have to keep them in a dark room, wait for them to develop, until they’re ready to show themselves. I shake the thought from my mind and flip through my book as a distraction. It’s White Oleander by Janet Fitch. I’ve read it so many times; I don’t even have to look at the pages to know what it says.

It’s a while later when I see Momma headed to the car. She pulls her blonde hair up into a ponytail, cheerleader perfect. She’s always looked perfect, even now. When she gets in, she checks her makeup in the rearview mirror and then smiles at me.

“What time we get off today,” I ask.

“Eleven. But we work day shift tomorrow and Christmas, so that won’t be too bad.”

She waits for me to respond.

“You’re always reading that book. Why do you ignore me,” she asks, lighting a cigarette.

“I don’t mean to. I just like the quiet sometimes.”

The truth is sometimes, when I find it difficult to be nice to her, staying quiet is the best way I know how.

“Well, that book can’t be as cool as me,” she says. She throws her head back, mouth open wide, and her laughter becomes a symphony of sadness. I wait. She stops and turns to me. “I been doing good, ain’t I? I haven’t taken pills in months.”

I nod and smile, so she knows I mean it. She doesn’t yet know me well enough to read me, so I have to be as clear as possible.

She’s still hurt…irritated, maybe, because she gets snappy and plugs her earphones into her phone and turns on her music. She always does this when she’s pissed off and wants me to regret something I’ve done.

On our way back, Momma pulls into Buck’s. She pulls out a wad of cash she stole from the store the other day and shoves it in his hand. He counts it. She says he can stop by the store and pick up a few packs of beer to cover the rest. He says he’ll see us later.

When we pull into the store, Eric and Zack are standing by the cricket bait. Momma runs up to Eric and throws her arms around his neck. They kiss; it’s long and painful to watch. His lower lip is always stuffed with peach flavored chewing tobacco. One time, when she pulled away, I saw a sliver of it on her lower lip. I walk inside. Zack follows.

“You excited ‘bout Christmas,” he asks, blocking the ice cream cooler as I try to reach in. “I know what you’re getting.”

“You gonna tell me or what,” I ask. I know he’s desperate to tell, but he got a whooping last time he spoiled a surprise. Instead, he just taps my leg with his boot and smiles.

“I asked to go see Georgeanna for a present, but Daddy said I can’t because I’m still grounded.”

“Hmm,” I say, “I didn’t think y’all were still together.”

“Why wouldn’t we be,” he says, frowning now. His teeth are straight but yellowed; dusted in plaque.

“Didn’t you screw that girl at the lake recently? And I saw you kissing that trashy blonde girl the other day…” He hates when I do this. I look past him, through the window; Momma’s almost done smoking a cigarette.

“A guy has physical needs, you know,” he says, and then gives me a once over. “Then again, I guess you don’t.”

“I just figured if you love somebody, you wouldn’t want to cheat on them.”

“We’re gonna get married one day,” He argues. Then Momma walks in and tells him Eric is waiting in the truck. He gives me the bird finger and I watch him storm to the truck.

Momma rushes behind the counter and stuffs a few cigarette cartons in plastic bags for Buck. He pulls up a few minutes later and comes in with a friend, grabs several cases of beer and the bags of cigarettes and slides Momma the coke. When he leaves, she says, “He’s good looking, ain’t he?”

She spends the rest of the afternoon asking what time it is. She cleans the store and paces around, searching for ways to distract herself until the numbers drop for Cash 3. She keeps saying the nines are coming, the nines are coming. She’s won more than anyone else I know, so I try not to doubt her.

The numbers hit; 547.

Saddened by her loss, Momma sends me to the van to get her coloring book. She fills in the pages and pulls scratch-offs from their rolls, waiting for the night to go by. There isn’t any point in talking to her when she’s like this, but I do anyway, just so I feel less lonely.

“I got good money today,” she says, when we lock up. She pulls the register out and begins counting. She has to make sure the paperwork lines up so they can’t tell she’s stolen anything. When she’s paying for lottery, she rings up people’s cash purchases as her tickets instead. When she’s done with that, she just pretends to ring things up and pockets the rest.

On the way home, Momma lights a cigarette with one hand, texts Eric with the other; her knees maneuver the wheel, but the tires of the van still bleed into the grass. Ash falls into her lap.

“Eric said they ate all the fucking leftovers,” she snaps. “Did you hide my chewy bars like I told you?”

I nod.

“You should’ve let Zack go see Georgeanna,” I say.

“That stupid fucker ain’t getting anything he wants for Christmas. He keeps starting shit between me and Eric. Did I tell you what he did the other day? Remember how I got him some pain killers from Buck when he got in that wreck a few weeks back?” She pauses to relight her cigarette. It’s black at the end. “Buck told me Zack’s been buying coke from him for two weeks. I ain’t having that shit.”

She inhales the last of her cigarette and slips the butt through the half open window. I don’t say anything for the rest of the drive.

When we get home, the Christmas lights aren’t on. Momma seems disappointed. She pulls into her spot and we rush inside to avoid the cold.

Eric’s in his recliner, in the center of the living room. There’s some action movie on, but I can’t hear it over the barking. Momma has eight dogs, seven of which stay in the house. They scratch at our legs, begging for attention. Eric hollers at them, and they cower—slink back to Momma’s room.

When I go upstairs, I see Zack has a straw in his nose.

“Oh hey,” he says, wiping the straw against his sheets. I look through the opening by the stairs. There’s no real wall separating our room from the living area; it’s technically a loft, but they added a door last year. There’s still a window sized gap next to it, so there’s no such thing as privacy.

“I don’t know how you do that shit,” I say, disgusted.

“You’re such an ass,” he snaps, tossing the covers off his legs.

I sit on my bed and pull off my pants. Zack lights a bowl and smoke fills the room. “You gonna read tonight,” he asks.

He waits for an answer, and I pick up a book in response. My lamp doesn’t turn on until I tug the string a third time, and then it’s only a mild lime glow. I try to nuzzle into the bed, but springs from the mattress prick at my arms.

“Could you turn the music down,” I ask, after a while. It’s not that loud, but I want something to blame since I can’t focus. He kindly reaches behind him and turns it down, then switches the station.

“Come here,” he says, waving me over.

I tiptoe across the room, in case Momma is listening from her bedroom below us, and sit on the edge of Zack’s bed. He pulls out a pipe and lighter and offers it to me.

I consider arguing that I’m better than this. I don’t do drugs, I don’t have sex, and I don’t fuck with people’s lives. But that’s not entirely true anymore.

“I’m not good at the lighter,” I say, bringing the pipe to my mouth.

He sniffs.

“Suck in when I light the bowl, okay?”

I nod, and he leans close. The flame catches in the bowl and I take it in, feel it burning inside me. He tells me not to let it out. Hold it. Hold it. As I exhale, I cough violently. Zack grabs his pillow and smashes it against my face to quiet me. His middle fingernail catches on my nose. When he was younger, the tip of that finger got cut off while he adjusted a car seat. The nail curls at the top. I rub my nose and he apologizes.

“Need me to kiss it, make it better?” His eyes look as if they’re vibrating.

“What all are you on,” I ask.

“Just this and coke,” he beams. The way he says it, you’d think it was as normal as taking Tylenol. He lies back down, cradles his head in his hands. Sniff. People always joke that Zack is pigeon chested, but he looks so strong to me. I resist from running my hands along his muscles as he stretches from a yawn. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and his face is scratchy, but from the neck down, he’s smooth.

We’re quiet for a while, passing the pipe back and forth. He tries to teach me how to light it, but every time the flame gets close to my face, I panic. He just laughs. At some point, Momma hears us and calls for me.

“He’s asleep, Dee,” Zack yells downstairs. I whisper a thank you and reach for the pack of cigarettes lying on his bedside table. I stick one in my mouth and offer him the other. He lights mine first. I act like I’ve been smoking for years. Zack heads downstairs to see what Momma wants, and when he comes back, he’s got a beer can in one hand and a wine cooler in the other.

“I gotcha one of your lady drinks,” he says, laughing. “I figured you wouldn’t want bud, since it puts hair on your chest.”

He’s right that I don’t like beer. It tastes like carbonated piss. Part of me finds it sweet that he was considerate enough to know what I like. I untwist the cap off the fuzzy navel and gulp it down.

“I think I’m going to bed,” I say, wiping my mouth. Zack grabs my arm.

“Come on,” he says, “just chill for a bit.” I look for his ashtray. He pulls an empty beer can from under his bed and tells me to ash my cigarette in it. I look down at Eric sitting in the recliner. He’s scratching at his bulge, safely nested in his grey briefs. He’s got a beer in his hand, and he keeps changing the channel from an action movie to some Christmas rom-com with Jennifer Aniston, who he says has the body of an angel.

I ask Zack to hand me another cigarette and the lighter. I don’t want to tear my eyes away from the stupid fuck in the recliner. I turn to see Zack beside me, amber light glowing near his mouth. It reminds me of a stone; Tigers Eye. I found one in a bag full of healing crystals’ at my Grandma’s house once. Zack’s cigarette meets mine and I inhale until it’s lit. I pretend I’m inhaling something with healing powers. Zack pulls me back to his bed, grabs me around my ribs and starts tickling me. I cover my mouth and squirm away. When he finally let’s go, I finish my drink.

Sniff.

Next to Zack, I’m disgusting. My underwear is tighter, now that I’ve been eating again; thighs strain to stay contained in the fabric of my underwear. Zack’s wearing the same underwear as me—only in a different color—but he’s got runners legs. He’s built like a man. I admire his sinewy body, the swirl of hair at his navel.

“You a fag,” he asks. I look up, and he’s watching me. My face flushes.

“Fuck you.” I stand up.

“I saw your phone,” he says. It stops me. “You were talking to your friend about being with some guy. I was just wondering.”

“It’s none of your business,” I whisper. I go to my bed and hide under the covers. Zack switches off the light and tells me to chill out.

It’s no one’s business if I was with anyone. Does it even count as being with someone if you didn’t want it? That’s what I was asking Rachel, when I told her about D__.

At some point, between getting back from Hope’s Corner and moving in with Momma, I went to D__’s house. He was headed to college soon, but said he wanted to see me before he left. We’d become best friends, doing musicals together for the past two years. Granny wouldn’t have let me go if she’d thought there was any way to stop me.

When we got to D__’s house, he told me to wait in the living room until he straightened up his bedroom. I plopped on the couch, nervous. I’d never been to his house before. It was nice, a real house; brick exterior. I wondered if he thought I was trashy, living in the trailer park. It was cool in his house, even though it was summer.

He called me in. He was lying on his bed, and he’d taken off his pants. He was stroking himself through his briefs, the way Eric always did. I turned to leave—just long enough for him to get dressed—but he told me to sit on his bed.

I’m not sure why I stayed. Something in my brain switched off, and I went and sat on the bed like he asked me too. He asked if I wanted to touch him. I said no, but he just laughed.

“Take your pants off,” he said.

I stood up and pulled them down. I had on red underwear, which felt more daring than I actually was. D__ said I looked sexy, and I felt my cheeks go warm. I played with the word in my mind; tried to fit it to a part of my body, like a puzzle.

“What do you wanna do first,” he asked, as if he cared what I wanted. The light-bulb overhead flickered. He pulled me to the bed and told me to lie down. I did, and he tugged at my underwear until they were down to my knees. I covered my face with my hands and I prayed. I asked God to forgive me, because I knew he was already disappointed.

“You’re bigger than me,” D__ said, when he took me out of his mouth. He pulled his out and showed it to me. It looked like part of it was missing. He had hypospadias; it was a birth defect. Before I knew that, I was just scared he had something and that I had it now, too.

“Come here,” he said. He pulled at my arms and when my face was close to his groin, he pulled open my mouth. When he was in, he groaned and I felt his weight against me. He was twice my size.

He was bitter in my mouth, and I wanted it out. I wanted him off of me.

“How long do we do this,” I asked, when he finally lifted away. I wasn’t trying to make him mad. I just wanted it to stop.

“If you let me fuck you, it’ll be quicker,” he said. “I have a condom.”

I said I wasn’t sure, but he told me I’d like it.

He pulled my underwear the rest of the way off and pushed my legs open. I was shaking. He pulled a condom from the space between his bed and the wall. It looked old. He put it on and told me to relax.

I closed my eyes again, prayed again. Then there was a pain. I cried, and let out a yelp. He leaned against me, covered my mouth with his shoulder. The condom tore. I could feel the loose rubber shifting around inside me, and I thought of what would happen if I had to tell anyone about this. I turned to the clock. It was 2:12, and then 2:13. At 2:14, he came.

After that, he drove me home. On the way, he stopped by a gas station and asked if I had any cash. I gave him a twenty and felt the fabric of the seat burn against my skin. When I got home, I went to bed and cried.

-

When I wake up, I see the lake outside my window is ice, and there’s frost coating the grass. The paper-thin comforter doesn’t reach my feet, so I curl up to hide from the chill. Zack is gone. Momma calls me from downstairs, and I get dressed and head to her room.

At first, all I see is hair. Not just human hair, but dog hair; fur. Seven of the dogs are fitted into each available space surrounding Momma. Her eyes are closed, face still deep into the pillow, but her muffled voice asks me to bring her a cup of water.

Christmas presents are stacked on the kitchen counter, tooth marks along the corners. I push past them to get a cup and fill it with water from the tap. I bring the cup to Momma. She’s lit a cigarette. It dangles from her lip, glowing, but she’s fallen back asleep. I tickle her toe until she wakes.

“What are we doing for Christmas tomorrow,” I ask. “We gotta work early?”

“We may have to do Christmas tonight,” she says, tapping ash off her cigarette. “Hand me my purse.”

She digs the lock box out, searches for the key. When she brings the small bottle to her lips, she nurses the liquid out slowly, saves some for later. The pink stains the dead skin on her lips.

“Is Eric gonna be okay with that?”

“If not, we’ll figure something else out,” she says, shrugging. She heads to the bathroom to do her makeup, tells me to pick out her clothes and set them on the bed.

“I wish we could do Christmas without him,” I huff.

“Baby, I know you don’t always like him, but he’s your stepdad…”

“Why do you always defend him,” I ask, more loudly than I intend. “You hate him just as much as I do.”

“Don’t raise your voice at me, Hunter. I’m the parent. You gotta respect me, alright?”

She finishes getting ready in silence.

When she’s done, I grab my computer bag, my sketchbook, and my copy of White Oleander; head out to the van. Momma heads out a few minutes later.

“Is Jeff working today,” I ask. Momma shakes her head no, pushes in the car lighter.

“Get me a cigarette,” she says. I dig into her purse; toss the empty packs onto the floorboard. “Suzie’s working this morning, but Jeff said he might stop by. Buck might stop by, too.”

When we get to the store, it’s already clearing out. Everyone’s played their lottery for the morning; they won’t be back until noon, unless they win. Momma waits for Suzie to leave before she plays her own numbers. She goes quickly, four minutes left before the cutoff time. We’ll have to steal three hundred to cover what she’s played today. I guess she’s got a good feeling.

“They’re coming today. The nines,” she says, looking blankly out the window. Bucks truck pulls up. He slides some cash across the counter, and Momma shoves it in her pocket. She hands him a bag filled with cartons of Newport’s, and he taps her chin as he walks out. “He’s good looking, ain’t he,” she says.

The nines don’t come as Momma predicted, and I see her settle into herself. She’s spent so much money this Christmas—we don’t have enough to pay the bills. We don’t have enough money to escape. And as the realization of our entrapment sinks in again and again, I remember a time when Momma thought being with Eric was the escape.

“Bring me a Red Bull,” Momma says. I head to the cooler, pull out two, and grab a cup of tangerine slices so she’ll feel better. She writes it down on her ticket and grabs a cigarette from her nearly empty pack. I follow her outside, leaving the tangerine slices on the counter.

“I really thought they’d be out today,” Momma says, chewing the skin of her lower lip. “It’s Christmas fucking eve. Why can’t God let me have this?”

She puffs on her cigarette, smoke flowing from her nose. The first time I pointed it out, the nose smoke, she said it was from doing too much coke. She said it created a hole inside. I scratch her freckled arm and ask if she’s okay. She wipes at her ammonia blue eyes.

“I know you don’t always agree with what I do, but I only do it so I can be a good parent to you.”

Her tears dissolve the foundation on her cheeks. She’s never felt like a mother to me; if anything, I’m a forgotten toy she gets excited about when she finds me during her spring cleaning.

“I don’t need you to be a parent to me.”

“Yeah you do,” Momma says. Her ears are pink from the cold. “You just needed me sooner.”

“Nothing you did could’ve changed what happened.”

“If I’d been there for you before,” Momma says, “I could’ve saved you from her.” She sits on the slab next to the newspaper dispenser, wiping the streams of mascara away. “Mom never loved me, but I swear to God, Hunter, she loved you so much. I never thought she could…when she sent you away, she wouldn’t even tell me where you were. She wouldn’t let me talk to you.”

“She didn’t send me away,” I grumble. “The doctors did.”

“Because she drove you crazy,” Momma argues. “And I can see it happening now. This place is driving you crazy. Why do you think I’m trying to get us the fuck out? But she’s got us stuck. She’s why we’re always stuck.”

“You always act like Granny is so bad, but she’s never been worse than Eric. You could’ve left him by now; we could’ve stayed with her if you weren’t so worried about hating her so bad.”

“She’s our family! Family don’t treat you like that. I know you don’t like Eric, and he does some really shitty things, but at least he ain’t blood. I’d rather him treat me like shit than my own momma.”

I let out a shreak, something escaping from deep inside me.

“Are you ever going to leave him,” I ask, heaving.

Momma squashes her cigarette into the concrete, flicks the stub into the road. She’s looking past me. I turn and see Eric’s truck at a distance. Momma stands up, wiping her eyes, and says, “You always want me to go, but you never ask what I’ll have to leave behind.”

When Eric gets out, he hollers for Zack to fill up the tank, and walks up to Momma. If he notices her puffy eyes, he doesn’t say it. He tucks a stray hair behind her ear and heads inside. She tells me to stay out here and follows him.

I imagine myself swallowing too many pills, like I did before, and disappearing. I imagine doing it right this time. But Grace, one of the nurses from Hope’s Corner, said those thoughts were dangerous. I try to remember what tools she gave me, to handle myself in these moments. I just can’t remember.

“Dude,” Zack says, grabbing my arm. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I lie, “why?”

“You just—I don’t know,” he says. He looks back to the gas pump. “If it’s about last night, I’m sorry.”

He shoves his hands in his pockets. His nose is red and I can see the nail marks from where he tried to squeeze out his blackheads. He’s wearing his nice shirt. It’s from Hollister—purple with thin rainbow stripes across the chest.

“Why’re you all dressed up?”

“Daddy said I could visit Georgeanna.”

“Oh…”

I wonder what it feels like to be Georgeanna. It must be nice to have someone want you in every way possible.

“Stay clear of Daddy tonight,” he says, checking the gas hose. “He’s been in a shit mood since we left the bank.”

“Thanks for letting me know.”

When it’s just me and Momma again, I bring out my computer and put on one of our shows; a peace offering. Watching her reflection in the screen reminds me of watching her in the mornings when I was younger. She’d be applying mascara and her eyes would flicker to me, and she’d smile. I wait for her reflection to see me now.

At five-thirty, Momma starts putting in her numbers for Cash 3. It’s almost meditative, this practice; punching in the numbers, the mechanics of the printer, sliding the peach-pink tickets into her purse. She’s always calm as she does it. She has me read off the list of numbers so she can do it faster.

“They’re gonna hit,” she says, “the nines.”

We’re almost done when Uncle Raja’s car pulls up.

“Happy Christmas, Dee,” he says as he comes through the door. Momma snatches the tickets left in the printer and shoves them in her purse. “I close tonight. You go home. Family time.”

“That’s okay,” Momma says. “We ain’t in any rush.”

He tells us to leave anyway.

Momma doesn’t want to look suspicious, so she says okay. When we get in the car, she hands me her purse and tells me to go through her tickets. I follow her list, to see which numbers are missing. She didn’t play the nines for tomorrow.

“Can you text Suzie and tell her to play my tickets in the morning?”

“I’ll do it when I get home,” I say.

We’ve done this before. It’s a little risky, because we’re not supposed to play the lottery while on the job, and we’re asking other people to put their jobs on the line for us, but Momma needs this win.

When we get home, Eric’s truck is parked in Momma’s spot. She parks beside the boat instead. The Christmas lights strung across the ceiling of the carport are plugged in now, green and red and blue twinkling. It reminds me of how much effort Momma’s put into making this a perfect Christmas. As we head inside, I reach for one of the strands that have fallen from its hook and tuck it back in its place.

It’s warm inside. Eric’s got the fireplace going, and he’s kicked back in his recliner, wearing his tube socks and grey briefs. He rubs his belly with one hand while spilling a beer with the other. I pull off my too-short jacket and set it on the dining room table. There are dried puddles of dog piss all over the floors, and as I walk, I hear my shoes lift.

Momma’s already in her room, the door closed, so I go upstairs. I sit on my bed and look at all of the things that aren’t mine. The room is crowded, but without much familiar to me. Most of my books are still at Granny’s. Most everything of mine is still at Granny’s. But I can’t think about that. If I think about Granny, I think about school, Dewayne, suicide. I can’t drown in sadness again.

My phone pings.

Text Suzie and tell her to play my nines for Cash 3. The morning numbers, not the afternoon. Love you.

I text Momma back, say okay and I love her, too.

I’m almost asleep when Momma and Eric begin yelling over finances. Their voices blur with Dean Martin’s Winter Wonderland. I slide off my bed and peak through the opening by the door. They’re sitting at the table, and Eric has his checkbook out, pointing at where the money should be. He spits as he yells, words slurring. I think of the empty 24-pack of beer.

The dogs are barking and whining, so Momma gets up to let them outside. When she closes the door, he tells her she’s a lying bitch and he knows she’s stealing him blind.

“Whatever, you stupid fucker; if I steal from you, I’m stealing from myself. God, you’re a fucking idiot.”

“Don’t call me that!” He steps closer, and she asks him what he’s going to do, but it’s in the sarcastic way he hates. “Don’t call me that, you bitch.”

She calls him stupid again and he reaches for the large green candle—encased in glass—that Momma got for the house to smell like evergreen. He hurls it at her head, and when she ducks, it hits the doorframe, shatters. Wax and glass rains over Momma’s head.

I’d flinch, but I’m too used to it. I don’t worry until Zack walks in.

“Where’ve you been,” Eric hollers. He steps up to Zack, who looks confused, and gets in his face.

“You said I could go see Georgeanna, remember?”

Even from upstairs, I can see Zack’s eyes twinkling. He’s realizing he’s walked into a warzone; one wrong step, a land mine.

“I didn’t say you could go anywhere.” Eric tilts his head. “What’s that shit in your ear?”

Zack reaches up to the stud in his right lobe.

“You a fag now,” Eric asks. His voice breaks. He’s been yelling too much.

“Daddy, it’s just an earring. I’m 18, I can…” Eric smacks him in the face.

“Eric, stop,” Momma says, staying back.

Eric grabs Zack’s ear and lowers him to the ground. I hear Zack whimper. Eric rests his knee against Zack’s back.

“You want this fag ass jewelry?” He moves his weight so Zack buckles. “Take it out.”

Zack reaches for his ear, but Eric folds his fingers over the stud.

“Go ahead,” he growls, “take it out.”

“I could take it out if you’d move your hand,” Zack says, breath heavy.

“What’d you say to me, boy?”

Zack’s face shifts; the tears are still coming.

“I said I could take it out if you’d move your FUCKING HAND!”

Eric pinches Zack’s stud, lifting him by it, and as the lobe tears, Zack’s head slams against the ground. Blood spills onto Zack’s shirt, and Momma screams. I run down the stairs, stumbling, missing steps, and then I’m in Eric’s face, begging, “Could you just stop?”

“Get the fuck outta my house,” Eric says. His left brow is heavy as he frowns, and his eyes, bloodshot and black-brown, tell me I’m in danger.

“Go upstairs,” Momma says.

I pull Zack towards the stairs, but run to Momma’s bathroom for the first aid kit before I head up with him. When we’re alone, Zack collapses on the bed and buries his fists into his eyes. I can see how bad it hurts. He kicks off his boots. Downstairs, I hear Eric slap Momma.

Zack’s shirt is covered in blood.

“I know you’re not alright,” I say, “but I don’t know what to say.” I sit next to him on the bed and open up the first aid kit. His legs shake. He asks me to help him take off his shirt. I pulled at the neck hole; stretch it to where it doesn’t touch his ear.

“Thanks.”

“Doesn’t look like the lobe is ripped all the way through,” I say. Zack brings the kit closer to him and pulls out what I need. He makes me clean the wound with alcohol, which makes me wince. He doesn’t react to the burn, if there is one. He only grits his teeth.

“I hate that asshole.”

I rest my hand on his shoulder when I’m done mending him. Then tell him I’m going to go check on Momma.

She’s in her bedroom when I go downstairs. I walk over to her side of the bed, and her face is pressed into the pillow. She’s crying.

“You wanna leave him?” I ask.

“I can’t. I ha-have nobody,” she sobs. “Nobody is gonna help me.”

“Whether you leave or not, I’m gonna. I’m calling Granny tomorrow. You can choose what you wanna do, I don’t care.” I don’t look at her again as I head back upstairs. She chose this. You can only be the victim for so long.

In our room, Zack is struggling with his jeans. He ends up kicking them off. He pulls out his stash of pot and asks if I mind. I shake my head no.

“How’s Dee?”

“Throwing herself a pity party downstairs,” I say. He looks at me in a funny way, and I realize I’m still crying.

I lean into him and look at his ear, move his head towards the light so I can see. The blood has dried now; brown and crusted. When I look him in the eyes, he’s frightened. His breath, sour sweet, whiskey and cigarettes; he kisses me. I don’t stop him.

“Sorry,” he says.

“It’s okay.”

“I ain’t a fag,” he says.

He looks down at his comforter for a while, following the stitching with his toes. He chews at the bad fingernail and I stop him.

He tugs at his underwear, fondling himself absentmindedly. He’s lit the candle on the bedside table, and as it flickers and the flame whips about, his face goes in and out of shadow.

I sit on the floor and pull a cigarette from his pack. When I light it, hands shaking, he takes it from me and takes a drag. He lifts his hand to my face and his thumb drags across my lip.

“They’re soft,” he says. Then he smiles. “I bet they’d feel good wrapped around my dick.”

“Fuck off,” I snap.

“I know you wanna do it. You should be flattered,” he beams.

“I am, but I…” I stop myself. I don’t want to be with someone just because I feel alone and scared. Zack grabs my hand and bites down on my pointer finger.

“At least jack me off, dude.” The light from the candle stretches and yawns as my eyes well up. I tug his underwear down, just enough. He stops me, pulls my face to his. His thumb hurts my jaw. “You wanna do this?”

“Do you?”

“I want to feel something besides what I’m feeling right now,” he says, trying to pull up my shirt. I hold it where it is. He gives up easily, but runs his hand along my arm. His palm is sandpaper.

Zack wriggles out of his underwear, kicks them off; he’s bare now. There’s a confidence there that I’ll never have. I let my fingers press into him. I’m clumsy, inexperienced; watching porn does little to prepare you for the mechanics of sex.

I stop and look at Zack. His neck is craned back, and the pale flesh right under his chin has dark crosshatches from the beard growing in. He lifts up to look at me. “You’re doing good, dude,” he says. I roll my eyes; pretend I’m not happy that I’m doing something right. Pretend I’m not ashamed of myself. “I’m getting close.”

Zack puts his hand on the back of my head. I resist at first, but he just pushes harder, nails digging into my scalp.

“I ain’t a queer, but you look hot when you do this.”

I smile, not meaning to.

“Can I fuck you,” he asks. “It’ll be over quicker.”

“What do I need to do,” I ask.

“You need to take off the rest of your clothes.”

“I’m not doing that. Sorry.”

“It’s not gonna work with them on,” he argues.

“Please let me keep my shirt on.”

He shrugs. I move up on the bed and turn away from him. His rough hands grab my hips and he tugs my underwear until it’s around my knees. There’s no preparation, just a sharp pain. I lose my breath and he leans in, draws out.

It doesn’t take long, only a few minutes.

He pulls out, patting my back, and tells me to go downstairs to clean off.

When I open the door, I’m blinded by the flash of the TV screen. Eric’s sitting in his recliner. He’s watching porn. His hand pumps into his groin and he looks at me as I walk down the stairs. When he comes, he wipes himself off with his underwear. I can tell he’s high.

In the bedroom, Momma’s asleep. The dogs are surrounding her, contorting so each has some contact with her. The little Chihuahua, Skip, drowsily lifts his head and looks at me like he’s checking on me. I smile at him as I close the bathroom door.

I leave the light off, so I don’t have to look at myself. My hands reach out, feel for the commode, and I ease myself onto it. The tile floor is so cold, it burns. No one’s ever told me how to clean myself after sex. I’m not sure what to do, so I just sit there.

Eventually, I realize what’s happening.

When I’m done, I wipe myself off, wash my hands and head back upstairs. When I open the door, Zack is asleep in his bed. I go to my bed, lie down, and cry. I can’t look up, because I know God is judging me. They tell you that in Church, that God will judge you if you purposefully sin against him. I ask his forgiveness even though I know better, and I cry myself asleep.

I wake up and it’s Christmas. Momma’s calling me from downstairs. I look to where Zack was, and in his place is an old pillow and twisted sheets. I get up, get dressed, and head downstairs. Wrapping paper litters the living room floor. Everyone must’ve opened their presents this morning, without me. It smells like syrup in the kitchen.

“Get my cigarettes out of my purse,” Momma says, as I enter her room. The unopened pack is buried beneath scratch-offs, Cash 3 tickets, old streams of saran wrap she’d used to keep her pills together. I take the pack and hit it against the palm of my hand, unwind the cellophane and hand it to her. She scrambles for the lighter by her bed. Her thumb brushes against the flint of the lighter a few times before a flame appears.

“What was that last night,” I ask, sitting on the bed. “Why was Eric so mad?”

“It was about money,” she snaps. The lids of her eyes are heavy. She shoves the covers off and stumbles into the bathroom. When she yanks the chain of the overhead light, it rattles against the door.

“Was it about Cash 3?”

“No.” She scrubs her face with a Sea Breeze-soaked wad of toilet paper.

I lick my lips.

We say nothing while Momma plunders through her makeup bag and slings her eye-shadow palette against the sink. Her skin is freckled, lined, irritated.

“Are you gonna tell me,” I ask. Her hand freezes at her forehead. She’s holding a sponge applicator, dapped in concealer. When she turns to me, the light cream reminds me of warrior paint.

“It ain’t been easy on us, taking you in. You know that, right?”

She’s applying foundation now. I nod.

“Eric thinks something needs to change,” she says, “and I don’t know what that something is, but I think he’s right.

One of the dogs hops into my lap, licking my chin. “He threw a candle at your head last night.”

“I don’t wanna talk about last night. Last night is over,” she says. She takes her hairbrush from the sink and works the bristles through her hair. “Eric’s my husband, and I love him for better or for worse. I didn’t make that agreement with anyone else.”

“You didn’t make that agreement with me,” I say.

She steps closer; her blonde eyelashes look odd against the thick stream of black eyeliner.

“Hunter,” she says. “If he kicks me out, I ain’t got anywhere else to go.”

“He could’ve killed you last night,” I say, voice rising. “You can’t be pathetic enough to stay with a man who’s—“

“Don’t yell at me!” Momma throws a bullet of lipstick and it lands against my shoulder. The tube of red runs down my shirt, a waxy wound. “I’m the parent, goddamn it. You tried to leave me last night.”

“This is about me wanting to leave? I was scared, Momma.”

Momma’s hands are shaking. She’s looking around for her lock box, her Barbie pink methadone. I think of what the doctors told me about taking deep breaths, learning to control my actions when others around me were overwhelming.

“I told you I wanted US to leave,” I say. I stand up, letting the dog slip from my lap. Momma holds a hand up to me, the way Granny always did when I got closer while I was yelling.

“Back up,” she yells. “Don’t you fucking hit me.”

“I’m not even doing anything,” I say. I feel crazy. Why do I feel crazy? I’m staying calm right now. I’m doing what I was told to do. The dogs all jump from the mattress and hide under the bed. I shake my head, walking towards Momma, and her eyes widen and she screams.

“Why are you being a crazy b—,” I stop.

“Say it,” she snaps. “You wanna say it, mother fucker, go ahead. You can be just like Eric, then.”

“God, Momma,” I do start yelling then. She’s doing this on purpose. Momma’s done this before, where she talks to someone like they’re crazy until they get crazy. Granny said Momma did this to her all the time. “You’re being a crazy bitch. I’m done.”

Momma reaches for the door at the same time I do. I think she’s going to close it so I kick it open, and she yells at me to get out. She slams the door, telling me I’m crazy, and I start screaming that she’s a crazy bitch. It’s all I can say.

“I’m calling the cops,” she says. She’s put her phone on speaker and I hear the ringing.

“Why are you so fucking crazy,” I scream. “Seriously, you’re a fucking bitch. I hate you! I want you to just go…the fuck…away.” I can barely breathe.

I hear Eric’s voice from the bedroom. She didn’t call the cops, she called Eric. She asks if he hears how crazy I am right now, tells Eric that I tried to hit her and that she’s going to call the police. I run out of the house, slamming the door so hard the walls shake.

I’m spiraling. Just like the night I was sent to Hope’s Corner, I’m spiraling and I can’t stop it. If the cops come they’re going to send me away. They’re going to see how crazy I am and they’re not going to understand why and I’m not even going to be able to kill myself to get out.

I run down the driveway. It’s muddy, freezing. I forgot my jacket inside and the cold finally hits me. My breath trails out; my fingers ache as I flex them, milky blue, pink at the tips. I reach in my back pocket, pull out my phone and call Zack.

Voicemail; I try again.

‘Yeah, man,” he answers on the third ring.

“Momma’s going crazy,” I sob. He stays quiet, so I keep going. “Can you come get me? I need to get out of here. Where are you?”

“H&K. Your Momma told me to pick up her numbers.”

“I forgot to play them,” I say. “What’s going on in there?”

People are hollering. It sounds jovial.

“The nines hit,” he says.

My body goes limp. I fall into the mud of the driveway. Momma’s going to kill me.

“Hang on,” he says. I hear him walking outside.

“Zack, you gotta come get me,” I say, feeling the tears freeze against my cheeks. “Momma’s gonna call the cops on me. Please come get me. We could go wherever, I don’t care.”

“Dude, I appreciate you helping me last night, but…”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“I ain’t gonna run away with you or nothing like that,” he says.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I cry. “I just have to get out of here.”

“Just calm down,” he says, “I’ll maybe see you when I get home.”

He hangs up and I know I’m alone now.

I go back inside, because I don’t know where else to go. Momma’s bedroom door opens, and when she walks out, she looks like nothing has happened. She’s already smoothed the tear streaks out of her makeup.

“Suzie text me; the nines came out.” She smiling now, like nothing happened. “How many times did you play them?”

“Enough for a few thousand,” I lie. I look at her. She’s so happy, now that she thinks we have this money. I wipe at my face. “I’m gonna go start the van. It’s still pretty cold outside.”

“Alright,” she says. “I’m gonna finish getting ready.”

I go outside, get in the drivers’ side and start the ignition.