Page 7 of A River of Crows

Sloan knocked on the warped screen door. It seemed silly to knock on the door she’d barged in and out of for nineteen years, but this wasn’t her home anymore. She didn’t have a home anymore.

Sloan held her breath as the door scraped open. And just like that, she was face-to-face with the woman she hadn’t faced in thirteen years.

Her mom held the door open, the other hand on her hip. Well, aren’t you going to come in?” There was no hint of emotion in Caroline Radel’s voice.

“Hi, Mom,” Sloan said, stepping through the threshold. It looked even smaller inside than she remembered. Growing up, Sloan had always been a little embarrassed by their home. Her friend Jenny lived in a nice house in town. It wasn’t a mansion, but it had an entryway, two bathrooms, a dining room with a table that sat eight, and a never-ending hallway to summersault down.

Three steps into Sloan’s home, and you were already in the middle of the living room. A few more, and you’d find yourself in the kitchen, so crowded that one side of the four-seater table had to be pressed against the wall when not being used. A glance to the left before entering that tiny kitchen would reveal a compact hallway crammed with two bedrooms and a single bathroom. It was the kind of house where the back door was visible from the front—the kind of house not built for summersaults. It was a marvel that any of them could keep secrets in a house this small.

At least it looked better on the inside than on the outside. A pungent smell of lemon polish and window cleaner permeated the stuffy air. Sloan opened the window by the front door.

“Did Walt and Doreen clean the place up?” Sloan noticed a few unfamiliar paintings hung on the walls and a framed photo of Sloan and Caroline on the mantle next to a ceramic collection of owls. “And decorate?”

“Well, somebody had to.”

Sloan looked at her mom. Like the house, Caroline had seen better days. Dark bags settled under her eyes, with deep-set wrinkles around her mouth, and her once silky, almost white-blonde hair was coarse, ash-gray. Both Sloan’s parents once had beautiful blonde hair. Sloan’s was always a darker blonde, the color of dirty dishwater. Nothing about her physical appearance had been quite up to par with her beautiful parents. She was like the copies that came out of the ancient photocopier in the teacher’s lounge at her school. You could sort of make out the original, but it was mostly a grainy mess.

“I certainly haven’t been able to clean, seeing as how I just broke myself out of the nuthouse. The one you locked me in and never even visited.”

“Considering you hardly ever even took my calls, I didn’t figure a visit would go over well,” Sloan said.

“What did you expect? That I could just forgive you for abandoning me? Not a chance.”

Sloan threw up her hands. “Yet I’m supposed to forgive you?”

Caroline rolled her eyes. “I was always there when you were growing up.”

“Physically, maybe, but—” Sloan rubbed her forehead. “Whatever. It doesn’t even matter. All that matters is now. What’s the plan?” she snapped. “How will you survive? Pay for your meds?” It was a mistake to try to reason with Caroline, but Sloan wouldn’t take the blame for this. She’d worked her ass off to assure her mom got the best care possible. All it took was her mom’s signature to throw it all away.

“I don’t need meds, Sloan. I never did. Two days clean, and I’ve never been better,” she said, lighting a cigarette.

Sloan rubbed her face, refusing to engage further. She looked into the void of her mom’s eyes and tried to remember who she’d once been. The woman who had put her children’s shirts in the dryer every winter morning so they’d be warm, the woman who sat through hours of Chutes and Ladders, the woman who had loved Sloan so well. “Okay, Mom. We’ll figure it out.”

Caroline flicked cigarette ash on the floor. “Walt and Doreen will help me. And their boy . . . what’s his name?” She smirked.

Sloan stomped on the ash. “You know his name. He brings you Whataburger every Sunday.”

“Not every Sunday.” Caroline took another puff of the cigarette. “He’s married. To one of the Sullivan girls. The real pretty one.”

Sloan stiffened. “Vickie. Yeah, I heard.”

“The one that got away, eh?” Caroline punched Sloan’s shoulder.

“No, Mom. Not the one that got away. The one that grew up and made a life, just like I did.”

Caroline grabbed a blue Solo cup to tap ash into. “That’s right. You got married too. Or so a little birdie told me. I certainly wasn’t there to zip up your gown.”

“We didn’t have a wedding,” Sloan said. “Eloped in Vegas.”

“Vegas. Trashy, trashy.”

“Well, when your dad’s not available to walk you down the aisle, you might as well let Elvis do it.”

Caroline’s eyes roamed down to Sloan’s hand. “Are you getting your ring cleaned?”

Sloan jerked her hand back. She’d only quit wearing the ring a few weeks ago, her empty finger a constant reminder of everything in her life that was missing. “It didn’t work out.”

Sloan’s mother blew out a breath. “Well, hell. I tried to tell you, girl. You can’t trust a man. Not any of them, not ever. I figured growing up with that sonofabitch Jay Hadfield as your daddy might’ve taught you that. But you’re like your momma—gotta learn the hard way.”

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