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“Of course,” he says, handing me a landline. My hands shake as I dial the number, each beep echoing in my head like a death toll.
“Mechanicsburg Funeral Home, how can we assist you?” a woman’s voice answers, too cheerful for the situation.
“Yeah, um, I need to arrange a cremation,” I stammer, trying to keep my voice steady. “My mom . . . she’s gone.”
“All right, sir. Can I have her name and some details?” she asks gently.
“Maria Thomas,” I say, swallowing hard. “Look, I don’t got a lot of money. How much is this gonna cost?”
“Let me check,” she replies, and I hear the clacking of keys on a keyboard. Every second stretches into an eternity. “We can offer a basic cremation package for around $1,500.”
“Fuck,” I whisper, thinking about the stash of cash I’ve got hidden in my room. It’s not enough. “Okay, I’ll figure something out.”
“Would you like us to handle the transportation from the hospital?” she asks.
“Yeah, please. Just . . . just get her there,” I respond, hanging up before she can ask more questions. I can’t take it. This is all too much right now.
“Everything all right?” the doctor asks.
I nod, even though nothing is okay right now. “Yeah, just trying to get everything sorted out. Thanks for letting me use your phone.”
The doctor offers me a sympathetic smile. “Of course. If there’s anything else I can do, please let me know.”
As I walk out of the hospital, the weight of what just happened hits me like a freight train.
Where the fuck is my father?
The drunk bastard is usually home, but he wasn’t when I was there earlier. Fuck!
I get on my bike and ride like a bat out of hell back to the trailer. I swear to God, if the man is home, he’s going to hear some shit from me.
When I arrive, I slam the door the second I’m in the house.
His old Chevelle is in the driveway.
The old bastard’s gotta be here somewhere. “Where are you, you piece of shit?” My voice echoes off the thin walls covered in yellowed wallpaper.
I kick open the bedroom door, but it’s empty, just a mess of dirty clothes and beer cans.
“Come on, come out!” I shout again, pushing through the small hallway, checking every corner, every crevice.
The smell of stale cigarettes and booze is thick, making me gag. God, I hate coming home and smelling this shit.
There’s no sign of him. Just more evidence of his pathetic existence.
“Fuck!” I punch the wall, plaster crumbling under my knuckles. Where the hell could he be?
My mind races with possibilities—a bar, strip club, at that crackwhore’s house he loves to step out on my mom with so much.
I sit down on the armchair and flick off the lights, waiting for his ass to come home.
The lights are off, but the flicker of the TV casts ghostly shadows across the room.
I don’t know how much time passes as I stare at the doorway, but it finally comes open.
“Where the fuck is she?” his voice slurs from the doorway, venomous and lazy.
A bottle of Jack Daniels is clutched in his hand like it’s a lifeline as he flicks on the light switch.
