"I hate Daddy," Lucy whispered angrily.
"Me too," Grace agreed.
I barely bobbed my head with a nod as my eyes fell on a faded stain from where our old dog—poorSmoky—had shit years ago.
So do I, I almost said before our private conversation was interrupted by a tired voice I hardly knew but recognized immediately.
"Don't talk about your father like that.”
I turned my head slowly to watch with exaggerated boredom as my mother descended the stairs. God, I almostlaughed, seeing her in her robe and slippers, her hair a complete wreck and her eyelids barely open. The woman had spent most of my childhood absent, cocooned in … whatever state she was forever in. Depression. Drunk. Disinterest. I didn't know. Yet there she was, pulling herself out of bed long enough to, what? Say goodbye?
"If he didn't want us to talk about him like that, then maybe he shouldn't give us reason to," I replied, hoping my tone matched the indifference on my face.
"Your father works hard to give us this beautiful life," she murmured, holding on to the banister with both hands, as if to keep herself from falling over.
"And what a life it's been," I fired back sardonically, narrowing my glare.
She tipped her chin up, looking down at me over her nose. "All you had to do waslisten," she said, her voice the equivalent of a frosty winter chill, and I wasn't sure if I hated her or my father more.
But I didn't reply. What the hell was the point?
I bent down and grabbed my bags in both hands. There wasn't much to bring; I didn't have much as it was. Lucy and Grace watched through watery eyes as I took a step toward them.
"Everything is going to be okay."
They didn't argue this time, not under the watchful gaze of our mother. They just nodded, avoiding my eyes.
I turned to walk out the door when Mom spoke again.
"I always did sort of care, you know," she said, projecting her voice just a little more than usual. "It was just hard for me to … be a mother to you.”
And what the hell was I supposed to say to that?
Nothing—that was what.
I took a step closer to the door.
"Good luck, Max," she said in a softer, gentler tone that almost made me think that she was telling the truth. That she did care. And, hell, for all I knew, she did and just didn't know how to show it.
Lucy and Grace followed as I walked out the door, leaving my mother to retreat back to her room. There were about fifteen feet between the porch steps and the car door, and I needed to make this quick.
"Listen to me," I said, keeping myself moving so as not to raise suspicion from our father, waiting impatiently behind the wheel. "You canwriteto me as much as you want, and I will try to call when I can. Dad should be on his best behavior, but if for whatever reason you need someone, go to Ricky. He lives at 22 Walnut Street. Okay? Go to him for anything, and he and his mom will help."
"Okay," Lucy said.
"Twenty-two Walnut Street," I repeated, nearing the car.
I opened the trunk and dropped my bags in. Then I closed it and turned to my sisters.
"Be good," I said as if they needed the reminder, and I wrapped my arms around them both. "What's Ricky's address?"
"Twenty-two Walnut Street," Grace answered, her cheek pressed to my chest and her tears wetting my shirt.
"Good." I kissed them each on the top of their head. "Okay. Get back inside before we piss him off."
They nodded and wiped their eyes.
"Love you, Max," Grace murmured, and Lucy parroted the sentiment.
