Free Death Spiral by Janie Chodosh Page B

mug, takes a sip, then dumps in another container along with about ten packets of sugar and sips again. Once his coffee expectations are satisfied, he picks up the flier I set on the table and reads it over. Then he reads it again. I’m wondering if he intends to memorize the thing and am about to snatch it out of his hands when he says, “Melinda doesn’t seem capable of making this up.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œThis,” he says, waving the flier in my face.
    â€œSo?”
    â€œSo, I’m just saying, she did have this flier for the clinical trial. It has to be legit.”
    I roll my eyes. “She could’ve found it in the trash.”
    Jesse shrugs and sips his coffee. “She seemed pretty scared, though. Totally messed up, but scared. It seems possible she’s telling the truth.”
    I lean forward, knocking over the sugar with my elbow. “So you think my mother was being used as a lab animal in some clinical trial that she never told me about?” My voice is loud, too loud, but I can’t help it.
    The girl behind the counter throws me a dirty look, like I might be some kind of teenage psychopath sporting a gun under my jacket.
    â€œYou’re getting too emotional,” Jesse says.
    â€œToo emotional?” I burst, and then lower my voice, forcing myself to keep control. “It’s my mother we’re talking about. Not some lab animal.”
    â€œYeah, well I’m just trying to help.”
    â€œYeah, well I’m not a charity case.”
    â€œYeah, well I’m not your punching bag.”
    I’m about to start another “Yeah, well…” but I look down at my hands folded in my lap and feel lame for my outburst. I want to say I’m sorry, but I don’t have much practice in the field of apologizing. Mom and I solved most problems by pretending they didn’t exist. In fact, she was an addict and her whole life was a problem. That meant our entire relationship was one big avoidance.
    â€œOkay, fine. You’re right. It could be true,” I concede after several minutes pass, hoping this counts as an apology.
    I pick up my coffee mug, but put it back down without drinking. I stare at the kid with the big eighties hair and duck tail who’s passionately working the pinball machine. I watch the flashing lights, listen to the ping as the ball drops into the gutter. My thoughts bounce back to that last day. I try again to understand what happened.
    Mom’s in the kitchen attempting to scrape together something to eat. Dylan’s “Tangled Up In Blue” crackles on the radio. I’m in my room, digging around the dirty laundry pile for a pair of jeans.
    â€œDid you finish the peanut butter?” Mom shouts to me from the kitchen. “I’m trying to make PB and J, Faith! If you finish something, you gotta tell me.”
    I’m about to shout back and tell her there hasn’t been any peanut butter for three days, that I threw out rest of the Wonder Bread, which looked like a science experiment, when there’s a knock on the apartment door.
    I hear Mom’s footsteps as she stomps across the kitchen, then the squeak of door hinges. I’m still in my underwear, so I stay in my room, but when I hear a man’s voice, I peek out.
    â€œCome on,” he says. “You’re coming with me.”
    Mom’s shoulders are hunched. Her head is down. At ninety pounds, she looks like a kid getting scolded by a teacher.
    â€œI don’t want to go,” she tells him.
    â€œYou have a debt to pay,” he says in a voice that leaves no room for argument.
    â€œOne minute…I…need my purse.”
    She’s stalling, but why? Does she think she can get away from him? That she can call for help?
    â€œFaith,” she whispers as she passes my room. “I’m…”
    But that’s all she gets to say. He yanks her to the door, and then