Page 7 of Hateful Lies

Chapter 3

Astrid

I open the door to the apartment I share with my mom, Evelyn, and it’s still the filthy mess it was this morning when I left. The television is on in another room, no doubt in Mom’s bedroom. It’s the only television that works in our home. I prop my bicycle up against the wall, not caring if it leaves another dark mark on the yellow wall. The only food I smell is the odor that clings to my uniform. I walk into the cold kitchen, greeted by a larger pile of dirty dishes in the sink. I spent the day loading and unloading the dishwasher at work and scraping leftover food into the bin. I’m not touching another dirty plate. I know Mom’s back is terrible, but this is bullshit.

“Astrid.” Her voice sounds weak, and I swallow my constant displeasure at the way we choose to live. I’ll have to clean later, but I’m too tired after working at Stonehaven, plus I fight tonight. Mom only knows about Stonehaven. I’ll never mention the Pit, though I’ve noticed her staring at the bruises on my face. Makeup doesn’t cover everything.

I walk into her bedroom, and she’s lying in bed on wrinkled sheets that should be changed. The room has a musty odor of BO, and I go to the window to let the place air out.

“Don’t touch the window,” she says. “You’ll let the heat in.”

Mom watches reality TV where ordinary people fuck up their lives to entertain the rest of us. I guess it makes her feel better. We’re not doing much better at the game of life, but we keep it to ourselves. What am I going to do when I turn forty? Keep fighting at the Pit? I sit on the bed, lean back against the headboard, and decide to order Chinese tonight. Gary lets the staff take the leftovers at the end of the workday, but I don’t want to admit that we need them.

Mom stares intently at the screen while I study her profile. My mom and I look like twins aged twenty years apart, except her dark hair rests on her shoulders, and her blue eyes look dim and old. She aged overnight after the accident at her job in the warehouse. Ironically, they closed the place down a few months later. Lucky breaks avoid us like the plague. I sit down on the edge of the bed and lean against the headboard beside her.

“Where are you hiding the cigarettes?” I ask her.

“I gave them up,” she replies softly.

“I can smell them, Mom. You should’ve opened the window.”

“I wasn’t smoking.”

“Don’t lie,” I reply.

Pressing her lips together, she doesn’t respond, and folding my arms over my chest, I don’t push it. Restless, I glance over at her bedside table at the collection of pills on the old microwave tray—amber bottles of all sizes filled with pills of different colors. I grab a bottle and shake it, judging how many are left. Not many. I read the label—oxycodone.

“Put it down, Astrid.”

“I don’t use, Mom.”

“I know,” she replies, shutting off the TV with her remote,” but I need them more than your friends.”

I want to suck my teeth, but I’ll get a smack in the mouth. Mom’s back is fucked up, but push her too far, and she’s quick with the hand. Evelyn doesn’t tolerate disrespect. I put them down, making sure they make a loud tap as they hit the tray. At the Pit, a few pills would pay our September rent.

“I need to talk to you,” she says, placing the remote down on the covers. It’s going to get lost in all these covers. I keep my eyes on the piece of slim plastic.

“What about?” I ask.

Her hand grips the remote, and her fingers touch the keys nervously, but the screen stays off. “Your father came by to see me today.”

My gaze flies to her face, but Mom refuses to look at me. Her fingers keep rubbing the buttons on the remote.

“I thought he was dead,” I snipe.

“I never told you that.” She’s on the defensive as her voice turns cold. Mom keeps forgetting I didn’t just show up on her doorstep in a basket wrapped in blankets. Being here isn’t my fault.

“Well, he’s never been around,” I explain, “So what other reason does he have for not being here?”

“Astrid.” Her voice is warning me that I’m heading over the safety line. “It’s not my fault he didn’t stick around.”

“Then whose fault was it?” I ask softly. “Mine. Men split when a kid appears.”

Her hand lets go of the remote, and carefully, she places it on my knee. I stare at her weathered hand as if it’s a large furry spider crawling along my leg. It isn’t her fault because nothing is her fault. Mom just lets life take a swipe at her every time it wants a whipping boy. I brush her hand away.

“Why did he show up?” I ask, “Looks like he didn’t want to stick around to see me.”

“Astrid.” Mom’s tone is no longer soft or patient. It’s laced with pain as she raises it. “Stop taking his desertion out on me.”

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