Free Space by Emily Sue Harvey

Faith. Faith is Poopsie’s Alfa.

    Poopsie adores Dan, who is Poopsie’s Ultra-Alfa.
    Poopie is wild about Priss and yelps so fiercely in celebration of my sister’s arrival that I’m almost moved to tears.
    Me? I’m at the bottom of the heap, but Poopsie is fond of me. I feed her.
    Priss and Faith began to load Faith’s overnight gear into the Honda. Faith called over her shoulder, “Mom, would you mind running upstairs and getting my cell phone? I’m sweating like crazy.” She wiped her face with her hand to demonstrate.
    I paused, counted to ten and reminded myself that she’d just recently been hospitalized with a malady as yet undiagnosed. One that had sporadically caused high fever and sweating. Actually, the thermometer registered 104.3 degrees when EMS had arrived at our house and hauled her off to the hospital as she convulsed with fever and pain. In the ER, they managed to bring down her fever by putting her on antibiotic IV for several hours before releasing her with medication.
    The blood test results had not yet been tracked down.
    The symptoms hinted at meningitis. But tests were negative.
    The ER doctor on duty suggested it was maybe a rare, tick-bite related fever-ailment. Exotic and long-lasting. Like Faith.
    Too, I revisited my resentment of her long love affair with street drugs, one that had played havoc with her health. Her once beautiful, perfect white teeth were quickly deteriorating. I had, just last week, paid eight hundred dollars for a root canal and crown for her. Her thick, naturally wavy auburn sun-streaked hair, so like Dan’s, had long ago lost its luster.

    However, even on her good days, Faith’s sense of entitlement waxed boldly.
    Grinding my teeth again, I trudged up the stairs, found the plug-in phone charger and delivered it to Faith, not even looking at her.
    â€œThanks, Mom,” she muttered and watched Poopsie rush to the open car door and jump into the front seat. Faith yelled, “She’s wanting her ride around the block, Aunt Priss.”
    Aunt Priss’ once-around-the-block with Poopsie was a tradition so she climbed in and cheerfully cranked up, allowing Poopsie to stand in her lap, prop paws on ledge and peer out the window, black button eyes aglow and tiny tongue lolling out of her mouth, anticipating the cruise.
    â€œI’ll wait here and smoke a cigarette,” Faith decided and returned to a rocker and lit up again. Feeling again that bothersome concern-jolt, I stood and went into the house, just now being air-conditioning cooled in early spring’s fluctuating heat.
    And I knew in my heart of hearts that my concern for Faith’s health wasn’t a controlling thing with me.
    It was overload. I simply wanted the best in life for my daughter.
    I wanted her to heal.
    I wanted her to live.
    Plain and simple, I loved her.

    â€œWhat do you think, honey?” Dave asked me, as uncertain as I’d ever seen him.
    I poured milk and Stevia sweetener into my decaf coffee and stirred, watching black turn creamy brown and
thinking on his suggestion. “Buying Faith a car will get her out of the house and into civilization again. It will also solve another problem. I won’t have to chauffer her all over creation. I’ll get more work done.”
    Last night, I’d shared with Dan about Faith’s suicidal thoughts. He, too, was apprehensive about her mental stability.
    â€œBut do you think she’ll be responsible?” he asked. “She hasn’t done too well in the past. We’ve already had to junk three cars after she drove them. And how will we know she won’t go straight to druggies … I don’t know.”
    He drained his cup of black coffee and then looked across the kitchen table at me, his generous green eyes appealing. “Help me out here.”
    I sighed deeply, feeling the weight of stress. “She’s going to have to start making her own decisions