Free Pitcher's Baby by Saylor Bliss Page B

don’t understand how she does it. I don’t understand how anyone would
want to be around her.
    She still goes in the bathroom . . . a
lot. She practically lives in there. I notice it more now, probably because we
are all stuck in this small motel room together. I wish I didn't know what she
was doing in there. I wish I could smile at her and pretend like I was still
naive, but I can't hide the disgust on my face when she comes out, not that she
even notices the way I feel. Frank goes in with her sometimes too, but not
often. He seems to prefer to drink the nasty brown stuff instead. I don't think
he knows that I know what they are doing there, because he always makes sure to
shut the door and lock it, and then when he comes out, he leaves the room and
doesn't come back until he's ready to go back in the bathroom. I think, in a
way, he is ashamed to be high in my presence. I don't care. I'd rather see him
high than drunk.
    I don't like Frank drunk.
    I see the differences in Mom now. Her
cheeks are sunken in, making her look older than her thirty-five years. She has
sores all over her body that she picks at constantly, making them puss up and
bleed.
    She doesn't notice.
    I do.
    I can't even stand for her to touch me. I
don't want to feel her skin against mine or to think about her sores leaking
out on me. I sleep on a pallet on the floor so I don't have to be next to her—on
the nights she sleeps—and so I don't have to pretend to sleep when her and
Frank are naked on the nights she doesn't sleep. I hate being near either of
them.
    I hate them.
    Her hair is smothered down, pressed flat
to her scalp and greasy. I wonder silently when she last used the bathroom for
showering. Her clothes are starting to hang off her body now, too. I notice as
her shirt sleeve falls down her arm, exposing her pink bra strap. She pushes it
back up as she stands.
    “Come on, baby,” she says as she walks to
the door.
    “Where are we going?” I ask as I slide my
feet into my tennis shoes. They hurt to put on. I outgrew them months ago, I
think, but I don't have anything else to wear.
    “To Sam’s. Hurry. You can tie them in the
car,” she says, glancing at my feet. I slide my foot in the other shoe and walk
out of the room. I don't complain about going to Sam’s anymore. He’s a nice
enough guy. Him and mom always go to the back room when we get there, and I
don't see him again until we are leaving.
    The first time I met Sam, he scared the
living crap out of me. We drove up to this white mobile home with blue shutters
and blue swans all over the yard. Mom got out and walked straight up to the
door with ease. I could tell she had been there before, and she was not worried
at all when this giant of a man opened the door. He stood there, taking up the
entire doorway with his wide shoulders, and ducked slightly to keep from
hitting his head while he looked out. I couldn't make out any other features on
his face. I was so terrified.
    He stepped back, and Mom walked right up
the steps, pulling me in after her. I remember looking around the living room,
my eyes landing on anything and everything to keep from having to look back at
the giant black man. Then he dropped down on one knee and took my tiny hand in
his, drawing my attention back to him.
     “Nice to meet you, Miss Charlee. My name
is Sam,” he said.
    “He—hello.” I stammered out a greeting.
    “You thirsty? Hungry?” he asked, and I
glanced up at Mom, not sure how to respond. He didn't wait. Instead, he walked
to the kitchen and made me a fried bologna sandwich and a glass of Kool-Aid.
When he was finished, he placed them both on the bench of a sleek black piano.
    “You sit here and practice on this old
thing all you want. Me and your momma are gonna go to the back and talk for a
few minutes. Ok?” he said sweetly. l nodded my head, already taking a huge bite
out of my sandwich.
    I don't know how long they stayed in the
back room talking, but when they came back out, Mom had