Ice Country(22)

Wes raises his eyebrows. “I know what you’re getting at, and I swear it’s true. She looked at me, not through me. Not like I wasn’t even there. We made eye contact, and then her mumbles were reasonably coherent—weak sounding, yah—but real words and phrases. Of this world.”

“What’d she say?” I can’t help but to sneak another peek at her, my mother, who looks and sounds like a different person, what with her sitting in a chair and humming an old memory.

“She said she was sorry. She said she needed help. She said she loved us.”

“And that was it?”

“Not exactly. She said if you—meaning you, Dazz—could do it, then she could too. I think you getting a job inspired her.”

Now it’s my turn to raise my eyebrows. If they only knew. If Mother only knew. How my gambling losses led to a job that I’d swear was a gift from the Heart of the Mountain. If she knew that, would she still have been inspired? Doesn’t matter. Not one bit. What matters is she’s clean for the first time in a long time. But there’s a long way to go.

“Any signs of the need?” I ask Wes, who’s back to smiling. His lips curl opposite and he frowns. It’s almost like he was avoiding the topic. The few times we’ve been able to get Mother clean haven’t worked out so well. The need always comes back, and with it the shakes and the sweats and the cursing and the scratching. And then she gets her hands on some ice, almost magically, and we’re right back where we started.

This is life after Father.

“Not yet,” Wes says. “I skipped work today to watch her, but I can’t miss again.”

“I’ve got it covered for the next two days,” I say.

“Don’t tell me,” Wes says, and I can see what he thinks in his narrowed eyes.

“I still got a job,” I say, not getting angry at Wes’s assumption. It was probably a fair one anyway.

Wes frowns. “Then how do you got it covered?”

“We’ve got two days off,” I say, shrugging. “It’s different than most jobs.”

“I’ll say,” Wes says. “But they’re paying you?”

He wouldn’t believe me if I told him how much. But they took half of it to repay my debts, so what’s left over seems more reasonable. I show him the silver.

He whistles, high and loud. “That’s for a day?”

I shrug again, give him half. “For food and such,” I say.

He grins. “My brother, the working man.”





~~~





Wes thinks five to six days should do the trick. So I’ll watch her for the next two, then he’ll try to get off work again for the third, and hopefully I’ll get another couple of days off to cover the end of her needing period.

But I can’t wait that long to tell Jolie, even if I’m getting her hopes up more than I should.

I’m too excited to even take the time to get washed up before heading down the road. Neither do I eat anything before I leave. Truth be told, I’m secretly hoping for more of Looza’s famous stew. Talk about a perfect ending to a perfect day. I never knew having a job could be like this; if I did, I’d have gotten one as soon as I was done with school, when I was fourteen.

I find myself whistling the same tune Mother was humming as I stroll along, stepping in deep footprints made by someone a lot bigger than me. Not a care in the world.

I almost pass the house, which I never do. Because the lights are out, which they never are. Not this late anyway.

I stop, look along the row of squat, stone houses. Every last one’s got the orange glow of firelight coming from them. But not Clint and Looza’s place. Are they out? Do they ever go out? And if they did, wouldn’t they tell me? They know I come by to visit every night, without fail, even if it’s only for a minute before I traipse on down to Fro-Yo’s.

My heart’s beating faster and I don’t know why. There’s no cause for concern just because the lights are out. It is rather late—perhaps they turned in early. But still…

I peek in the window, see only darkness. And then—

I’m blinded by the flash of something bright and sharp in my eyes. A beam of light through the window. I cry out, look away, blinking at the spots as if they’re something I can crush between my eyelids.

Something’s not right, but I can’t see well enough yet. I keep blinking, furiously, rubbing at my eyes with the backs of my hands. When I open my eyes again I can still see the ghost of the light flaring up before my vision each time I blink, clouding it, but not enough that I can’t see at all.

As I grope for the door, there’s a scream, high-pitched and small and almost animalistic, desperate, but it’s cut off only halfway through.