Chapter 9

** Candice **

I race back to the apartment, hoping-no, praying-my mother isn't home. Or at the very least, passed out from a night of drinking. But no such luck. The kitchen light is on and I can see her through the window, sitting at the table with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. My stomach drops. I'm in for it now.

I want to turn around and run but I know I'll have to face her eventually. I slowly open the door and calmly walk over to the table, scooting back a chair as I sit across from her. Hopefully there will be enough space for me to avoid a slap-or worse.

She doesn't say a word; she simply stares at me, cocking her head to the side as if in serious contemplation on how to murder me.

I'll try my best not to set her off; I don't want to say anything she could use against me. She's already fond of that little trick, but I have to come up with something. Anything to break the solid block of ice hanging between us. She reaches for her whiskey glass, pulling her eyes away from me, and downs the remaining sip.

I take it as my cue.

"I'm sorry...I fell asleep at a friend's house after school," I lie, but not entirely.

I watch little wrinkles form in the corner of her eyes as she peers back at me.

And there it is.

If she had the power to kill me with one look, I'd be a bloody mess on the floor.

Her fist pounds on the table. "Bullshit!"

I flinch but don't have time to react because she grabs the side of the table and jerks it up. The whiskey bottle slides down, spilling all over the floor, and when she suddenly lets go, the table slams back down, narrowly missing my foot. I'm startled by the crash and jolt out of my chair, crouching as I back away from her like some kind of frightened animal. Mom means business and I dread what will come next. She's beyond fast, a whiskey-fueled leopard, and I am once again her prey. Before I know it, her hand cracks across my face. It burns instantly. I have no doubt there's a trail of red welts on my cheek.

"You lie to me again and you won't be able to talk at all! Tell me the truth!" Her breath reeks as usual and I try like hell not to let it show on my face.

"It's the truth, Mom! I really did fall asleep," I say, trying to ignore the hard sting on my cheek.

She stares at me for a minute as I secretly pray for the old Mom to come out and laugh, saying she was only kidding. She always did have a sick sense of humor.

"Your curfew is midnight, Goddammit! And not a second after!" She staggers and points her finger at me like it somehow increases the severity of her words. "This isn't over, little missy. Not by a long shot!"

She backs away and blinks as if tired of dealing with me, fumbling to reach another half empty whiskey bottle from the counter. Not a normal reaction, but I'm suddenly grateful for the late hour and the alcohol that might have made her world spin.

I watch her stumble away in a drunken haze, hoping like hell she won't remember this in the morning.

**

It takes exactly thirteen steps to walk from one side of my room to the other. I feel like a caged animal, waiting for someone to open the trapdoor so I can bolt and never look back. I'm fully aware that I may not sleep tonight, trying to piece together what happened in that house. I assume it's what a caffeine overdose feels like when the anxiety sets in. Only time will fix it. But there has to be some kind of reasonable explanation why I basically passed out for almost nine hours. It scares me that I have an intense yearning to go back. Maybe I'm having some kind of psychotic or bipolar breakdown? The only thing missing is a straightjacket and a thread of drool hanging from my mouth.

It's quite possible this last move has finally broken me. I'm already living the life of a gypsy because no matter where we end up, no place ever feels like home. It's borderline torture living with a mother who doesn't remotely act like one. Lately, everything sets her off and her red-hot temper is getting worse. The constant abuse she puts her body through can't be helping, either.

Sometimes I think I'm a bad person for hating her, but the truth is, I actually don't hate her at all. I hate what she's become. She contradicts everything a mother should be and now she's merely surviving. Mom's never been a nurturer and she has no mercy for weakness, but as strange as it sounds, those two things have become her strengths. I just hope she uses them when she finds her next guy. But that might be wishful thinking. It's true what they say about old dogs and new tricks.

I have less than five hours before school starts. I wasn't planning on staying up all night, but I don't think I have a choice. Before I lose my mind, I need to occupy my brain and try to relax while I still have some time. Besides, I have all day tomorrow to be freaked out.

Thankfully, I have a stack of Jane Austen books on my dresser. I reach for Pride and Prejudice because it's my favorite. I've read it at least ten times and it never fails to take me to another place. And, no matter where I begin, Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet eventually end up together and live happily ever after.

I'm about to climb in bed when I realize I'm still in the clothes I wore to school, so I undress and put on my favorite oversized t-shirt. I almost forgot how much comfort this old thing gives me. Especially now. It belonged to my father and was one of the few things he left behind. I've treasured it all this time and have probably given it more sentimental value than it's worth. I thought for sure my dad would want it back and the first year after he left, I held out hope that he would. At the time, I didn't realize it was me he should have come back for, not some random piece of clothing. Eventually, that fantasy was replaced with reality. He's never coming back. All I have is this dumb t-shirt. It's riddled with holes from too many washings but that doesn't matter. It knows all my secrets and holds so many tears and as silly as it sounds, it somehow represents home, even when it never feels like I have one.