as published in The New Plains Review
by C.E. Layne
Mom poured herself a third glass of red wine, sat in the tattered brown Barcalounger by the patio door, and lit another cigarette after letting Rumor out for his final pee and lap around the pool. She curled her legs onto the cushion, pressing her knees close to her chest, and secured Grandma’s quilt across her shoulders to nestle as much warmth as she could manage. Were it just five degrees warmer, she would have been outside. Were it fifteen years prior, something told me she wouldn’t be here at all.
I watch her from above the rim of my eyeglasses. She doesn’t pay too much attention to me. She probably imagines I am absorbed in some trifles on my phone—a TikTok from someone whose parents make more than mine and who can afford not to study all day just to get a scholarship from a college with a reputation strong enough to end generational pain. Her stillness means more than this.
It’s quiet now, save for the man on the news streaming from the TV in this dark room no longer fit for living, with its volume turned all the way down to Inside Voice. That’s all the noise my mother and I can tolerate.
She sneezes. I bless her. She’s quiet again. We do this three times before she tells me it’s getting late, and I should go to bed.
In the corner of the ceiling above her head hangs the shriveled remains of a spider. Lighter than a string of its own silk. I can’t help but wonder how long it’s been stuck there and whether it will ever fall.
When I’m in bed, she’ll turn to whiskey, then sneak into my bedroom to tuck me in and press her bourbon lips, hot breath, against my head. Sweet dreams in a bitter whisper. Then she’ll go next door to Jasmine’s empty room, lay on her bed, and muffle her sobs into a pillow.
***
In the morning, my mother is revitalized. From the way she’s dressed up, she plans to leave the house today. Fresh face clean, eyes bright, pulled open with the help of bags drooping above her cheeks, puffy and pink with rouge. Her eyeliner looks smudged, though, creating shadows where they shouldn’t be; applied with an unsharpened tip because you get more with a pencil than a mechanical stick, or so she had taught Jasmine to believe. Her burgundy lipstick clings to her teeth as she turns to smile at me. She’s rolled the sleeves of her blue pin-striped shirt up to her elbows, and the pile of dishes in the sink from last night now rests on a drying rack beside it. A new chore I missed.
She either slept in Jasmine’s bed soundly or took the blue pills that make sleeping absurd. There is no in-between, and there hasn’t been for four months now.
On the counter, she spilled hot coffee, hands shaking. She snuck a shot into her thermos before I came into the kitchen to make toast.
She says good morning, my prince. I hope you slept well, as she stands on her tippy-toes and stretches to scoot the bottle further back on the shelf that I can’t reach yet. I hear it grind against the unfished plywood as it slides. Jasmine told me all her secret stashes. There’s another one in the linen closet upstairs beside the master bedroom, top row, behind the curtains we keep around despite them being too small for the windows in our house. Another in the garage behind Dad’s tool locker. A brown bottle, kept in a brown paper bag. It’s an act she’s rehearsed for years as a result of all the diplomas collecting dust on the wall.
Oh shit, she says, realizing she forgot the scrambled eggs, now an omelet in a scratched-up, non-stick pan. Doesn’t matter. They were for Dad—a habit she also finds hard to break. The house is too quiet for him to be back home. I saw him a week ago carrying a duffle bag out the door.
Despite my aversion to the liquid carcass of unborn baby chicks, I eat them, forgoing a new dietary restriction only I seem to observe. I tell myself when I’m old enough, I’ll prepare breakfast for her.
***
I got an A on my history test, a 98%, and another on a book report I turned in one week late. But to be fair, two years ago, Jasmine was on the same track as I am now, so it’s as if all those same teachers conspired to take it easy on me. At least thoughts and prayers translate to better grades.
Pick up a copy of The New Plains Review Fall 2024 to read the rest.
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