Jamie
by Sarah Moesta
Jamie’s bedroom door is open when I wake up and when I step
inside I see that her bed is made, her alarm clock unplugged. She knows
that I hate when she lets it go off and I have to come into the room to
turn it off for her. The walls are thin.
She isn’t downstairs, either, but there is a single blue bowl and a
spoon soaking in the kitchen sink, which was empty last night. Cereal,
probably. She loves cereal, and I just bought Cap’N Crunch for her the
other day. I felt good about that then, very motherly.
I hurry to the closet by the door and open it to find that her little
white sneakers are gone, as are her backpack and purple windbreaker. I
shut the door and lean against it, biting my nails. She couldn’t have been
gone all night, could she? She must have left early this morning. How far
can an eight year old go on foot, anyway?
There’s no time to think. I open the closet again and pull on my
jean jacket and push my feet into the first pair of shoes I can find: a pair
of gray clogs that used to be tan. Next thing, I’m out the door: no bra
underneath my t-shirt, morning breath acidic and laced with whiskey.
***
The window at the end of the hall is open, thick plexiglass cast
aside to reveal a heavy screen. Cigarette butts clutter the sill. If it were
summer, the screen would be dotted with dandelion seeds, their white
parachutes puffing out lazily and settling again in the breeze, and people
would mill about on the ground, just a few stories’ drop. If I jumped, I
probably wouldn’t even break an arm. But it isn’t summer; it is winter,
and the window shouldn’t even be open. The wind is sharp and it blows
through the screen onto my hands. I clutch the windowsill; the thumping
bass and buzz of party chatter swimming behind me. Though I haven’t
had anything to drink tonight, I throw up hard onto the tile floor, and
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