26

 

 

 

 

26

 

 

I don’t know where Susie is. Gone for the day with his deliveries and grades. Mom bolts the front door from the inside and drags a chair up against it.

“Our space now,” she says.

She’s hungover again, red-eyed. My mom, she can look pretty young even though she has to be around thirty at least, but when she’s had too much to drink the night before, no amount of cleanser and hairspray can pull her youth back into focus. Her skin dries out and shows the crow’s feet and fine lines creeping in under her eyes, shrinking the blue above. Her mouth curves down at the edges against her smile—her headache grimace, warping her mouth. Her color is too waxy, too grey. Concealer helps, but it can’t change what’s beneath.

We don’t have a hairdryer, so I’m combing my hair and toweling it in turns. My hair slides wispy and damp between my fingers when I pull. The process is drying it fluffy, light. My skin is slick with lotion. I’m chewing gum, eve