Page 15
Well, if my dad can check out and leave, what’s stopping me from doing the same?
To hell with this place. To hell with this house. To hell with all of Fairhope.
And just like my father did not five minutes ago, I bolt through the front door, ready to leave all this misery behind. But the moment the cold October air kisses my tear-streaked cheeks, reality crashes into me.
I don’t have anywhere else to go. No relatives waiting to take me in. No one wondering where I am. No one who gives a damn what happens to me. I only have my dad. And what’s worse, he only has me. That’s it. That’s the whole of the Morgans.
Besides, even if I did have somewhere to go, who would take care of him? He’s barely hanging together as it is. If I left… The thought alone is enough to make my shoulders sag.
I kick at the loose pebbles lining our front yard before lowering myself onto the curb, hugging my knees to my chest. My nose scrunches as I take in all the spooky season decorations lining both sides of the street. Between carved pumpkins, jack-o’-lanterns, and neon skeletons, it looks like Halloween just exploded all over Maple Road.
Not that it matters. Although it’s Halloween night, there’s no risk of any trick-or-treaters showing up on our doorstep asking for candy. The whole town knows that, even on our good days, we weren’t that kind of family.
And on our bad days? Well, it was best to keep your distance. Whatever bad moon the Morgans were born under might rub off on you too.
Still, it’s not the tacky decorations lining the street that have my attention. It’s the robin’s-egg-blue house right across the road—the Fletcher home.
The house is bustling with people tonight, which on any other holiday wouldn’t be surprising. Unlike us Morgans, the Fletchers love to socialize and throw parties every chance they get, whether it’s Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, or, of course, their favorite holiday, the Fourth of July, seeing as it’s also the birthday of the pride and joy of the Fletcher family—Milo.
Tonight, their house is full of people too. Only none of them are dressed in ghoulish or funny costumes. They’re all dressed in black. Some stand on the porch, talking quietly, while others carry trays of food through the front door, their somber expressions leaving no doubt as to why they’re all gathered here. They’re holding Mrs. Fletcher’s wake
What are the fucking odds?
The universe has one sick sense of humor, forcing me to watch the entire town show up for Lucia Fletcher when not a single one of them came over to pay their respects after my mother died.
Then again… Mrs. Fletcher and my mom had nothing in common.
Mrs. Fletcher was a pediatric nurse.
My mother had been unemployed ever since the old Crowley paper mill shut down.
Mrs. Fletcher always looked put together, her hair perfectly styled and her makeup flawlessly applied.
My mother wore nu-metal band T-shirts, tiny miniskirts, and bright red lipstick.
Mrs. Fletcher died of ovarian cancer.
My mother died with a needle in her arm.
Even in death, they found one last way to prove how different they were from each other.
Not that I didn’t like Mrs. Fletcher. She was always nice and smiled whenever she saw me. She had that kind of smile that lit up a person’s whole face and made everyone around them feel a little warmer.
Still, I liked my mother’s smile too. I just can’t remember the last time she gave me one.
Why can’t I remember? Was it on my birthday?
No. We fought that day after she stole every dollar I’d saved to buy myself the ice cream cake I’d been dreaming about for the occasion.
Was it Christmas?
No. She wasn’t even home. Dad found her two days after New Year’s, passed out by the lake. Who knows where she’d been all that time.
Think, Max. Think. When was the last time Mom smiled at you? Said something kind? Wrapped you in one of her hugs?
I honestly can’t remember. Not because it never happened, but because it was so long ago that whenever I try to pull the memory up, it’s all blurry and wrong. Like it’s so distant that the second I try to grab hold of it, it frays between my fingertips.
A child shouldn’t have to rack their brain to remember that kind of motherly affection. Then again, no one expects their mother to stop loving them. Not until she does.
