Free Hand Me Down by Melanie Thorne

where we were. Deborah’s loyalty to Mom bore the price of Dad’s anger, but she probably helped save our lives.
    Dad tosses the bags into his truck bed. “Girls, this gravy train is moving out!”
    I catch Deborah’s eye. “We’ll be okay,” I say.
    “Are you sure?” she says. “I can keep you here until your mom can come.”
    “I’m sure,” I say. At least, I’m sure he’s sober, which means our odds are better than usual.
    Deborah hugs me and Jaime, her perfume too sweet and fruity. She tucks a hand under each of our chins and says, “I love you, girls.” She kisses the tops of our heads. “Be safe.”
    Dad shouts from the azalea bushes at the edge of the driveway, “I’m peeing in your flowers.”
    Winston says, “Grow up, David.”
    “I don’t think he’s kidding,” Deborah says, rolling her eyes. “Inside, kids.” Ashley and Matt wave at us as they scurry into the big house they’ve lived in since they were born, to their own rooms and stable lives.
    I hear Dad zip his pants as Jaime and I climb into his truck. “Thanks again for your hospitality,” he says loudly and laughs.
    Deborah blows us a kiss and then rushes into the house, her eyes watering. Winston stands in the doorway glowering through his thick black-rimmed glasses at Dad. “Your sister loves you, David,” he says. “But you are no longer welcome here.” He slams the door.
    Through two car windows I see Crystal smile a malicious and content, lips-curled up at one-edge smile like a gloating cartoon villain. Her car starts and in two seconds she’s speeding down the quiet neighborhood street.
    My arm goes around Jaime’s shoulders.
So much for a nice family Christmas
. I think of Mom and Noah with Terrance and his family, and my heart aches at the thought that we will never spend another Christmas morning at home with Mom just the three of us girls, eating cinnamon rolls and scrambled eggs, cuddling together on the couch to open handmade gifts like fuse bead key chains and threaded pot holders, and once, a crystal vase Jaime and I spent months coveting and secretly bought at Raley’s with saved babysitting money when Mom wasn’t looking. The blue glass vase still sits on her bedroom bookcase.
    Dad hops into the cab and brushes off his hands. “See, Liz,” he says, “how much fun life is living with your dad?”
    Jaime tilts her head into my chest and sighs. “This isn’t fun,” I say.
    “Come live with us, and join the twenty-four/seven party!” he says. “We’d have a blast.”
    “
You
would,” I say, but he’s already singing along to the radio. I hold Jaime closer like I can attach her to me if I squeeze hard enough. I press my cheek against her hair and my lungs contract. Tears well and feel heavy in the bottom of my lids, but there is no chance in hell I can make a home with my father. My one wish is that Jaime felt the same way because I’m not sure I can make a home without her.
    Before Terrance, Mom and I were a team. She checked Dad’s breath for booze when he came to pick us up, and I was responsible for keeping him sober until he dropped us off. My job was harder. My threats didn’t pack the same punch as Mom’s, and I couldn’t always keep him from stopping at a gas station and cracking open one of his ice-cold Olde English 800s right there in the parking lot. Then Mom realized that sending us to Dad’s was a good way to make time for Terrance, and started encouraging us to visit. She became too distracted with primping for her dates to sniff the air near Dad’s face before we got in his car.
    Dad liked to drive the empty farm roads near Crystal’s trailer park village on the outskirts of South Sac. I imagined if I could drive, I’d like these roads, too. Not because there were fewer cops and less traffic on these dark country byways, but because the lackof lights meant deeper night skies and brighter stars. On the few nights I won the parking lot negotiations, I loved to gaze out the