Believe (True Believers #3)(31)
Author: Erin McCarthy

“Thanks for the cake you baked me for my seventh birthday,” I said to the grass. “And for letting me stay with you that summer Mom got put in for possession.”

Then because I felt too tall, too overpowering standing up, I squatted down and peeled the plastic wrapper off the flowers. “Sorry I missed the funeral. But just so you know, Easton and Jayden are fine. Riley and Tyler take good care of them.”

Robin’s phone buzzed in her pocket by my ear, and she jerked, then pulled it out and quickly swiped at her screen before shoving it back in.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“It’s okay,” I said, but it really wasn’t. I couldn’t help it. It was starting to frustrate me that Robin wouldn’t tell me what was bothering her. We were doing this thing, a relationship, and I thought she trusted me. But that was for working out later. Right now I needed to figure out how to say good-bye to someone who had always been a part of my life.

There had been times when I was sure my mother was going to die, when she had overdosed and flatlined. Twice I had been the one to call 911, once she had been with someone else, but death had seemed like a real possibility, a morbid inevitability. But now that it had happened to my aunt, it seemed unreal. How did a junkie do it? Gamble with their life every time they smoked meth, or stuck a needle in their arm, or snorted their pills? I guess, even when I had been the weird little kid with no father and an IEP from the guidance office for my supposed disorder, I never thought my life had that little value. Even if no one else cared about me, I did.

That was worth something.

But that was the disease of addiction—the user gave up their worth in exchange for the oblivion.

And now Dawn’s oblivion was permanent.

“Some day, we’ll get you a headstone,” I told her. “You deserve that. But for now, I hope you enjoy the flowers.”

Standing up, I realized maybe it was kind of freakish to talk to the ground out loud, but Robin didn’t look like she thought I was certifiable.

“Ready?” I asked her.

“If you are, yes.”

“I’m good,” I told her, and I meant it.

That feeling lasted for two hours then my mother shattered it.

We had picked up art supplies for Robin, and after eating some dinner at her place, we were kissing and I was seriously contemplating taking her into her room for a little action when my phone rang. No one ever called me, everyone texted, so the ring tone caught my attention.

It wasn’t a number I recognized. We were on the couch, my phone on the table next to us, and I asked Robin, “Do you mind if I answer this?”

“Go ahead.”

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Mom.”

Shit. My gut dropped to the floor. “Yeah?” I asked, tone neutral, even though my heart rate had just kicked up a dozen notches.

“Where you at?”

“Around.” I wasn’t telling her a damn thing until I knew what she wanted.

“I need a favor.”

“No.”

“You didn’t even hear what it is,” she said, sounding exasperated. “God, and to think of all I’ve done for you over the years. Could you be at least a little f**king grateful?”

That got me. I didn’t yell, but I came close. “Mom, you moved when I was in jail and didn’t bother to tell me! I don’t know what you expect at this point.”

“I had to leave quick and how was I supposed to get ahold of you? Your phone don’t work in jail.”

I sighed. Same old shit, different day. Always full of excuses. “Never mind. But what happened to all my stuff? My clothes and whatever?”

“I don’t know. I told you, I had to leave in a hurry. Can I borrow a couple hundred bucks?”

“No. I’ve only been out for a week, I have two bucks in my pocket. But even if I had more, I wouldn’t give it to you. I’m not paying for your fix.”

“You’re a little shit. I should have had an abortion, but your f**king father was too cheap to front me the cash. Guess you take after him.”

Then she hung up.

No mention of the fact that I was in jail for protecting her. She obviously didn’t think it was a big deal to have someone take a knife and carve her up like a steak. No mention of the fact that we hadn’t spoken in five months.

I tossed my phone down on the cushion beside me and struggled to keep from exploding. It wasn’t anything new, and she didn’t hurt my feelings, not exactly. I knew that she lashed out to cut when she didn’t get what she wanted. It was what she’d always done, and it was what an addict did when they were desperate for their drugs. But it still made me furious, that she could just pop up whenever she wanted and disrupt my life. She was like a bleach-blond tornado who tore through my trailer park a couple of times every season.

Robin put her hand on my knee. Her face was concerned. “Are you okay?”

I shook my head. “No. I need to do push-ups or punch a wall or something. I feel like my head is going to explode.” I was flexing my fists compulsively, and my knee had started bouncing up and down in agitation. “I should be used to it, but it just pisses me off that she has the nerve to ask me for money for drugs. I don’t think that keeping me in food and Levis gives her the right to guilt-trip me.”

The anger pulsed inside me, and I debated whether to stand up and box it out or drop to the floor and push it out.

But before I could do anything, Robin’s hand turned my face toward her. “Hey, look at me. You’re entitled to feel angry. What she does is wrong. Don’t act like it’s a failing on your part to be mad at her.”

I let out a quick breath. She was right, I knew she was right. But years of bottling shit up made me all too aware of when I couldn’t keep it in anymore. “You don’t understand . . . the anger I feel, it’s like I’m a pop can that’s been shook up, and if I don’t pull the tab I’m going to explode. It feels chemical.”

“You’re right, I don’t understand. But I do know that the way your mother treats you is appalling and unfair, addiction or not. She doesn’t deserve your loyalty, but part of the reason that I love you is that you will still give it to her, no matter what she does. I really admire that.”

I froze, stunned by what she had just said, both by how vehement she had been that my mom sucked and the other part . . . the part that made my nostrils flare and my chest to tighten. “What do you mean, you love me?” She must mean generically speaking. Not love, as in love love. Just more like the way when you care for someone.