my timer, and she doesn’t have gymnastics tonight (only Tuesdays and
Thursdays), so we take advantage of every spare bit of free time she has.
She’s tried to broach Christmas talk, but I keep changing the
subject.
“I wonder how Santa knew that I needed gymnastic shoes last
year,” Pea asked. The girl sure does love questions.
“He’s a smart guy Pea, he knows everything.”
See, talk of reindeer, elves, and the big man himself just isn’t the
safest right now. Christmas talk isn’t quite Santa talk, but you know how
one thing leads into another. She looks almost wounded from inside of
her favorite purple hoodie when I ignore her talk about the possibility for
snow this year, but like I said, she is easily sidetracked.
We head into the house after a few hours, when Pea starts
complaining about wanting a snack. Snacks are all she can really count
on having everyday, as typically the Bitch passes out on the couch before
she’s had a chance to mix some macaroni and cheese. The rancher hasn’t
changed a bit since I was sent here, save for the passing through of its
male occupants, and at a time like this that’s oddly comforting.
Pea walks ahead of me and opens the front door. The scant
amount of light that filters through the dingy curtain on the rusting
door’s window creates a lovely pattern on the steps below, and I take them
slowly, stepping in only the yellow spots.
The moment we get inside, my back (and the non-existent spine
that lies inside it) stiffens. The air, every tiny molecule in the room, is
saturated with the smell of alcohol. And the Bitch isn’t sitting on her
couch watching the reality show reruns that are playing for the empty
room.
“Momma?” my sweet Pea calls through the house. The only
answer is the constant dripdropping of the leaky faucet in the kitchen.
Her eyes are wide now and her face is painted with a look that no six year
old should ever need to make. Her mouth is parted loosely, her lower lip
quivering, and her usually peachy face has bleached.
We scour the entire length of the tiny home looking for her, and
she’s still nowhere to be found. The sound of Pea’s hurried footfalls echoes
through the silence.
107