Free The Sisters Montclair by Cathy Holton Page B

fighting off junkies. The drugs scared her, the ease with which you could fall into addiction, the things people would do for a fix. She knew that once she went down that road there would be no turning back, and she felt there were other quicker ways to end herself. She fell in with two rough girls from Chicago, Sam and Rocha, who took her under their wings. Rocha was small and feminine with short spiky blonde hair, and Sam was not. She had scars on her neck that she never spoke of and she carried a switchblade in her boot. At night they slept under bridges or in abandoned houses in Norwood, and during the day they hung out with other kids at Linn Park, raiding restaurant dumpsters for food.
    In April, Rocha announced that she and Sam were hitchhiking to San Francisco. They left the following morning. Stella, lonely and homesick, walked to a pay phone and called her mother.
    “Well, we were just talking about you,” her mother said. In the background Stella could hear her little brothers arguing.
    “How’re George and Anthony?”
    “They’re fine. Can’t you hear that racket?” She put her hand over the receiver and Stella heard her shout, “You boys pipe down, I’m trying to talk to someone on the telephone.” She didn’t say,
I’m trying to talk to your sister on the telephone.
    “I’m hungry,” Stella said.
    “Have you been taking care of yourself?”
    “I’m sick.”
    “Where are you?”
    “Birmingham.”
    “Still there? I thought you might have moved on. You always liked to travel. Remember when you were little and we used to hit the road? We went through Birmingham years ago. Do you remember? It was before I met your step-dad. Before I had George and Anthony. You and I were coming through on our way to Tuscaloosa and we stopped and stayed the night with a friend of mine. Rena. I wonder what ever happened to her?”
    “I want to come home.”
    “You can’t do that.”
    “Why?”
    “You know why.”
    In the background, Anthony began to cry. Stella’s mother said, “You boys stop fighting! I mean it; I’m going to take a switch to you.” She came back on and said, “I have to go. These boys are driving me crazy. You take care of yourself now, you hear? You’re a big girl, and real smart, and you know how to do that. You’ll be fine. I have to go now but thanks for calling.” She hung up.
    A semi-truck went by, its headlights sweeping the wet pavement. Behind the brightly-lit Waffle House, a lone dog nosed along the dumpster, looking for scraps.
    Stella stood, for a moment, with the phone cradled against her chest. Then she hung it up carefully, and turning, picked up the bag at her feet and went out into the cool, gray morning.
    They were all drunk; Stella could see that from where she sat. Josh was laughing and gesturing wildly, the way he always did when he drank too much and was spoiling for a fight. The bonfire had begun to die down, no one was willing to chop any more wood, and Stella was cold. She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. The chill night air, the smell of wood smoke and damp vegetation reminded her of being on the road. An unpleasant reminder. She supposed that for the rest of her life, however short or long that might be, these smells would carry unpleasant memories, a reminder of the baggage from her former life that she would never be able to discard, no matter how hard she tried. She wondered how people managed it, those lucky few who seemed able to transcend their childhoods. She supposed that was why she’d been drawn to the study of psychology.
    Physician, heal thyself.
    Josh was looking for her; she could see him peering through the smoke at the sparse crowd, weaving on his feet. He put his head back and began to shout, “Stell-a!” in his best Stanley Kowalski imitation, even though he had no idea who Stanley Kowalski was, he’d never seen
A Streetcar Named Desire
. But he’d seen John Belushi on
Saturday Night Live
. Beside him, a boy with