Free Sadie's Mountain by Shelby Rebecca Page A

believe
    It’s not like I haven’t tried—Californians aren’t much on waiting ‘til you’re married—but the crying is always a turn off. At some point, the guy will do something, say something, make a noise, or move a certain way and I’m there again in that shed. No one has been able to get past the crying—especially me.
    Well, there was the one guy, Longhaired Seth from the Berkley Library, who I made out with after we ate lukewarm pizza together out of soggy boxes. I started crying when he kissed my neck—I have neck issues. He asked me to tell him everything as he looked at me like he really cared.
    I explained the story in short form enough to let him know I was a girl with a past. He said maybe I just needed to cry through it one time. He was willing to try, no doubt more for his own pleasure than mine. But after the crying came Numb Girl. I just got stiff and unresponsive and he decided he liked his criers a bit more sentient. “It feels like I’m trying to rape you,” he said, before he scooted out the door.

    I’d better get up and do something with those goldenseal roots for Momma. It’s still dark outside. My internal clock is all wrong. I would still be sleeping at two a.m. if I were still in California. Here it’s five a.m., but I can’t force my eyes shut. Sleep likes to play hide and seek when I’m nervous. Right now it’s hiding and I’m not seeking.
    I put on some faded jean shorts from my old closet and a fitted white t-shirt that smells like my least used sheets in the linen closet in my new house. I give up on my hair. I shouldn’t have slept with it wet, so I just pull it back in a ponytail. At this hour, I don’t even worry about a scarf for my scars. No one will be up for ages.
    I pad along the wooden floor and find the roots in the refrigerator. It’s still the same old refrigerator I remember being here when I was a kid. I run my fingers over the dent from when I accidentally slammed daddy’s hammer into it. That was a bad whooping I got for that one.
     I busy myself with taking some of the root and boiling it in a sauce pan to make a tea with it. This will be perfect for Momma to use as a mouthwash for her sores—I guess cancer gives people mouth sores.
    The other root I put in the spice bowl and with the masher I smash it to smithereens until my upper lip is sweaty from exertion. In the pantry I find some coconut oil and in the yellow mixing bowl of my youth, I combine the coconut oil and the mashed up yellow root to create a nice smooth paste. I put that in a large mason jar and seal it up with the lid.
    The last root I wrap in cheesecloth and tie it with string. I hang it from a nail in the pantry to dry it so I can make a powder out of it in a week or so. Doing this for Momma reminds me of her teaching me how. I try to reconcile the sickly woman up there in her room with the dark-haired strong woman of my youth. It feels like a loss I can’t fathom. I realize that I’d put Momma a certain way in my mind kind of like filing her away in a mental cabinet of memories. I just don’t want to add this to the file.
    It’s almost light outside; the sun is just a little haze over the hills. I’m sure everyone will be up soon—probably another hour or so. I think about making coffee but I don’t know how to use the percolator on the stove. I decide to go sit with Momma while she sleeps. I’ll take the goldenseal paste and rub it on her skin.
    As I’m creaking up the steps, someone taps lightly on the front door. For a moment I consider ignoring it, but they tap again. Resolved to get rid of them, I pad my way over to the door and open it. It’s not just the breeze that knocks my hair back.
    Dillon stands there looking sophisticated in the door frame. He’s wearing dark fitted jeans, a brown linen button up shirt, and some grey canvas high-top TOMS Botas.  My heartbeat accelerates. My eyelashes flutter. Stop that , I tell myself. What? Do I think I’m immune?
    He