Dream Smashers (17 page)

Jacinda looks up into the gray morning sky.
“Couldn’t you at least give me a fuckin’ break with the weather?
This is a huge step I’m taking. You could help me out by stopping
the God damn rain.” Slivers pound her face. “Of course not. Thanks!
Thanks for jack shit.”

She marches on through the downpour and
shoves her hands into a denim jacket. She could easily just say,
“Fuck it,” and go back to the shelter, but nothing worth anything
comes easy she’s told.

Her brat ain’t gonna have anything to do with
her, but she has to try, has to ask her for forgiveness for all the
years that things got messed up. Eventually, Autumn will understand
that it wasn’t Jacinda’s fault and accept her. It’s not like
Jacinda made her sleep on the streets or nothing. Jacinda’s the one
that had to do that. The brat got to sleep warm and sound in Ma’s
house. At least she had that, right?

The Road Church is one of those supposedly
non-denominational churches, or so says some fuck-up at rehab. Ma
says Autumn’s at the church now with her friends. What in the hell
she’s doing at a church, Jacinda has no clue.

Not a single visible soul around to notice
Jacinda’s sorry-ass standing, waiting, freezing in the rain at the
bottom of the church steps. Stupid steps obviously aren’t meant for
her because they go up. Her steps most likely will go down. She
laughs and wonders if she’ll be hit by lightning when she takes a
step up.

The time on the clock tower across the street
reads ten o’clock when Autumn exits the front doors. Jacinda hides
behind a lamp post to watch and wait for the perfect moment to talk
to her.

She holds her breath and futilely wipes the
rain from her brow. Autumn’s rejected her hundreds of times. If she
rejects her again, it won’t be nothing new. What’s new is that
Jacinda’s sober. What’s new is that this time her rejection might
sting. It’s Jacinda asking Autumn, and not the other way
around.

Some kid, a good-looking guy, holds Autumn’s
hand. They walk down the stairs. Jacinda waits. Autumn looks up
into the sky and smiles, as if she has so much to be happy for—a
kid at Disneyland that just exited Cinderella’s castle. What the
fuck? Disneyland ain’t nowhere near this church in this fucked up
town and in the rain no less. There ain’t nothing here to be so
joyful for. Nothing but dead-end relationships and souls looking
for their own Disneyland through drugs and shit. This prolly’s the
perfect time to talk with her. While this state of delirium covers
her reality.

Jacinda steps from her hiding place just as
they reach the bottom of the stairs. Autumn doesn’t seem to notice
her. The shower suddenly stops. Cold air blows through Jacinda’s
soaked clothes, chilling her to the bone. Fuck me. A beam of
sunshine penetrates the carpet of clouds above, shining on Autumn’s
child-like face.

Jacinda moves forward, head down, on a
mission that could cost her life, or so it feels. This must be how
a killer stalks his prey just before he reaches the poor sucker.
Does he have the balls to do it? Or does he just pass and loath
himself for being such a chicken shit later?

Her ears ring, her mind floods with
emptiness. If she’s gonna do this, she needs to say something
now.

Just a few feet away.

Autumn talks to her guy-friend, oblivious to
Jacinda, laughing at the weird weather or something. And then, she
passes. Shit! Shit, shit, shit. Chicken shit.

Jacinda turns, out of shear frustration, to
look at their backsides. And, without a clue of what the fuck she’s
going to say, and out of a need to fulfill her mission, she blurts,
“Autumn! Wait!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

I turn my head, but it’s not necessary to see
for me to know who’s calling for me.

Evan stops and says in my ear, “It’s your
mom.”

I guess I’m not allowed to have a good day.
She looks different, wet for one. One of her drug-friends probably
submerged her in the river. She’s shaking, blue almost. Not as thin
as last time. Good. It’s important to have meat on your bones.
Better for the cannibals and probably even for health and strength
and stuff like that. Her eyes find the ground before she steps
forward.

Oh God, I hope nothing’s happened to
Grams.

“So, hey,” she forces out.

If Grams was hurt, she’d be tripping out or
something. Well, she usually trips out over anything. But today her
calmness makes her seem almost normal.

“So, I was wonderin’ if you want to have
lunch or something with me some time.”

Eating lunch with my mom could be a
nightmare. I can picture it now: Jacinda’s chowing on a burger and
then I say something that doesn’t sit right with her. Something
ridiculous like, “How ‘bout the weather we’re having?” She flips
out and starts swearing at anyone and everyone in the restaurant
for no apparent reason. Her fangs pop out of her decayed mouth and
then she starts biting people and crap.

“Well, you don’t have to if you don’t want
to.” She tries, or so it seems, to be nice. I don’t recall a time
when she was nice without wanting something in return. But this
time her niceness isn’t all gobbley-gooed with fake-niceties. She
seems. Sober.

I try to speak, but my words spill onto the
ground.

She shoves her hands into wet denim jacket
pockets, probably out of insecurity because those pockets shouldn’t
be warm unless she has electric heater pockets or something. “Okay,
well, that’s okay. Maybe another time?” She turns to walk away.

“Wait,” I say.

She turns back, a hopeful glimmer in her
eyes—jumbo size black olives.

“Yes,” I say. And that’s all I say too. No
other words appear in my mouth.

“Really? You’ll have lunch with me?” She
sounds like I just told her a miracle or something. That she won
the lottery, but not the gazillion dollar one, the thousand dollar
one or that I found a cure for cancer, even though she doesn’t have
cancer.

“Yeah. Sure.” I shrug.

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s school,” I say.

She frowns.

“But, if you want, I can leave early.” Here I
go again, trying to be a pleaser.

Her forehead scrunches in thought. “I forgot
about school. You probably shouldn’t miss, huh?” She’s not really
talking to me, but to the worms squirming in the puddles, or to the
puddle itself for all I know. “I guess leaving early won’t hurt.”
Now, she talks to me. “Okay. I don’t have a car, but can ride the
bus to the house. Say, around noon?”

“Sure.”

“Great.” She looks behind me and smiles at
air.

“Oh yeah...” I’m with others. “This is Evan.”
I twist to face Angel and introduce her, too.

Jacinda waves. “Hi.” A sincere smile forms on
her face. She looks like Jacinda, but I’m suspecting that a
body-thief snatched her body and has used it for good deeds. But
out of all the bodies in the world, I don’t know why a body-thief
would choose a rancid one like Jacinda’s.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Yep. See ya.” I half-wave.

“It was nice to meet you Ms. Winters,” Evan
says. I look up at him and roll my eyes to his extra-cheerful grin.
Mr. Goody-goody.

Jacinda stops mid-turn, and with a grateful
smile, she nods her head.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Monday, November 16
^th

Awkward and silent as a blind date, we walk,
two complete strangers strolling down the sidewalk. We approach
Matt’s Cafe, a gray building in desperate need of a paint job. An
old guy with a yellow-stained beard and a Sherlock Holmes pipe in
his mouth holds the door open for us. We enter a wall of nicotine
stale air.

“Maybe this ain’t such a great idea, eating
here,” Jacinda says. “You know all the smoke in the air can’t be
good. Isn’t second-hand smoke bad for kids or something?”

“Ha!” It’s a little late to fill the role of
concerned mother. She must be kidding. Expecting to find humor in
her face, I only find a conflicted expression. “You’re serious,
aren’t you?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. You tell me. I’m
new to this.”

“Yeah. You’re serious.” I laugh under my
breath. This has got to be the weirdest forced concern I’ve ever
seen. “Don’t you fret. I live with a smokestack, remember? Thanks
though. I appreciate the concern.”

We sit at a table in the center of the retro
tainted café. The geriatric rush must have already left because we
are the only patrons sitting at a table. Bar stools near the
kitchen hold the weight of two hairy toads hacking up their lungs.
But outside of them, the café is empty. I’m pretty sure the reason
Matt hasn’t replaced the faux wood walls and outdated décor is
because it disguises the inch of smoke residue that covers
everything.

A feather-feel tickles the bottom of my right
foot. I tap it on the ground, but with my Converse on, the itch
doesn’t go away.

“So what’s this all about? We’ve never gone
out for food,” I say, hoping the intensity of a conversation might
douse the now yearning-to-be-itched skin trapped inside rubber and
canvas.

“Well—”

“Sorry.” Unable to ignore it any longer, I
shove a butter knife down my shoe—back and forth, up and down. It
reaches the spot giving me instant relief. A shiver of satisfaction
passes over me.

Her mouth relaxes while she watches me push
the utensil into my shoe. The leathery pale skin on her face
doubles her age, maybe even triples it. At least the inflamed
rashes and sores are gone, but the scars will probably be there
forever.

“I’ll use this one,” I say and pull the knife
out. “Sorry. It totally drives me bonkers when I get an itch.”

Her lips close and turn into a forced
half-grin. “So, is that boy you were with yesterday your
boyfriend?”

“Yep.” I twirl the butter knife in my
fingers. “He really gets me.”

Jacinda’s face surrenders all color.

“You know,” she whispers. “I’ve really missed
a lot. You, I mean.” Her thin, no-longer-cracked lips shiver. Color
finds its way back into her face, rosy cheeks and nose to match her
eyes.

I stare. How can she possibly miss me when
she’s never known me?

“What can I get you two?” A twenty something
plump Plain Jane wearing a dirty white shirt and apron hovers over
the table, smiling down at me. She must be new.

“Um.” I clear my voice. My stomach feels
icky-like, vomit-like, I just ate a thousand Twinkies-like. “Can I
just get a root beer and an order of fries?”

She scribbles on her handy pad. “And you?”
It’s Jacinda’s turn to receive a smile from the waitress.

Without taking her eyes off of me, Jacinda
says, “A cheeseburger and Coke.”

“Okay then. I’ll be back in a jiffy with
those sodas.” The waitress turns to waddle away.

“What do you mean? When did you miss me?” My
voice booms at the end.

Jacinda tenses, looks around the café and
then back at me—jerky, tweaky. “Shhh! Jeez, Autumn. All the
time.”

“Then why don’t you ever come around?” She
never missed me. She’s lying.

Plain Jane plops two sodas on the table and
drops two straws. “Your food will be up in a jiffy.”

“Thanks,” I say, not taking my attention off
the biological mother who has never wanted anything to do with me
until now.

“I went straight to rehab after the hospital.
I’m clean now.” She unravels the paper on her straw and sticks it
in her soda. “There came a point when I was, like, ‘Man, I’ve
really shit all over my own daughter. I should at least hang out
with her or live with her.’ It was the worst fucked-up feeling I’d
ever had in my entire life.”

Really! Really? The worst ever? What about
the time she abandoned me in a dirty creepy alley when I was a kid?
The time that she held a knife to me and threatened to kill me? The
gazillion times she stole money from Grams and Gramps? What about
the time that she thrashed Grams’ house and stole her spoons to
sell for her stupid drugs? The time she screwed my biological
father—a married pastor, no less—and found out she was pregnant?
I’m sure she had to have felt pretty bad then. So, this feeling is
worse than all that. Huh, I guess I’ve been right this entire time
thinking she’s as numb as a paralyzed dog.

Questions, thoughts, feelings, but no words.
It’s not even possible to express to her my feelings without
yelling, let alone to make her understand. Her brain is probably
the size of a walnut now. I read that meth kills the brain. Now,
after sixteen years, she expects me to pretend that none of that
happened?

“What?” She says defensively, like I should
tell her what I’m thinking, and takes a sip of Coke.

“You—”

Plain Jane smacks two steamy plates onto the
Formica along with a bottle of Heinz Fancy Ketchup. “Is that all I
can get ya?”

“Yep,” Jacinda says.

“I’ll just leave your check here. Holler if
you want anything else.” She turns to serve the two truckers that
just sat on the remaining bar stools next to the hairy toads. One
hairy toad on the far left lifts his butt cheek to dig into his
crack. Gross.

Jacinda dumps a gob of ketchup on her plate.
“What were ya gonna say?”

“Nothing.” There is no point saying anything
to her. She won’t get it. I sprinkle Matt’s Fry Seasoning onto my
greasy lunch.

Suddenly, I have an instant change of heart,
or a burst of adrenaline, or a brain-fart, whatever you want to
call it. “So, you’re clean?” As if I care.

“Yep. Since October
13
^th
—thirty-three days. And I ain’t goin back either.”
She leans in to take a chomp out of her burger, exposing her
rotting teeth, an ever reminder of a lifetime lived only
thirty-three days ago.

“How do you know?”

She chews with caution. “Because I say so,
that’s how.”

I pick at the wedges of crispy flavor. They
don’t seem so flavorful at the moment. “But, you’ve tried to be
clean before. Right?”