SHEOL

2

My mother had a very intricate plan when it came to “erasing herself”. She had come to California when she was 18 years old, not knowing more than a few short phrases in English. Since then, she had become practically fluent, as well as a master at cheating the system.

It wasn't a lie that my mother had more than a handful of mental illnesses. That, I could prove. She was very paranoid most of the time and would always lock herself in her room, scared that the government would send people to find her. She lived in constant fear, but that was her own fault.

When she was first diagnosed with this abundance of mental problems, I was only three years old. We lived in the beautiful San Francisco Bay area, surrounded by lovely people and beautiful scenery. I don't remember very much of what happened, but the story goes that my mother was complaining to her friend about persistent pain and loss of weight for no known reason. Her friend recommended that she saw a doctor, and boom. Depression. Ever since that diagnosis, she had been shipped from one psychiatrist to another, being forced to take medications that in the end would just make her problems worse.

She knew from the start that she couldn't afford one prescription, let alone six with a shitload of therapy sessions. Her insurance wouldn't cover it, so she ended up doing what any insane person would do: She kept getting doses of the medicines, but sold them to junkies at a very hefty price. She'd then pay the doctors but kept the profit, rarely using the prescriptions for her own health benefits. She would also sell other illegal drugs on the side to make even more money.

Living with a drug dealer is not very safe, especially if you're only three and your mother is the biggest supplier in the East Bay.

The apartment was filled to the brim with illegal substances. Marijuana and poppy plants grew on the balcony, surrounded by marigolds and chrysanthemums to hide them from the streets. The kitchen was divided completely in half; the left side was used for preparing food and the right was for cooking meth. One of the bathrooms was filled with different poisons and substances labeled with masking tape and thick Sharpie letters. The bathtub was full of withered scarlet poppy flowers and razor blades that were used to cut the creamy sap from the ripe pods. Even then, she kept jars of her bodily rejections on shelves throughout the apartment. To this day, I still don't know how she could tell her black mucus and the opium gum apart.

There was always an abundance of shady-looking people coming through our doors. Most of them paid no attention to me, but some would crouch down and say “Hey, kid”, or pat down my head and smile. A lot of them dressed in the latest style of clothing, but even more would hide their face from my mother and I. I never understood why they did that, I just assumed that was how people greeted one another.

Usually, the 'deals' were rather short, just some small talk, an exchange, and they were on their way. Nobody wanted to stay and visit. Sometimes, my mother would even drive to places and do business. She usually went to abandoned alleys or clear parking lots. I was forced to come with her, because I couldn't be trusted to stay home alone with all of her chemicals and poisons.

I had never seen her do any of the drugs that she created, though. I knew that she smoked cigarettes, but that was it. The first time I had seen her get high was on that rainy night in mid August.

Our life was relatively safe back in San Francisco. My mother had always kept a pistol handy in case a customer got rowdy, but she never used it. So many junkies came through our door each day that she quit her job in retail entirely. It wasn't like she made very much there anyway. I liked having the company, even though I was commanded to keep quiet and out of the way. Life wasn't that bad, until the police were tipped of her whereabouts.

I don't remember the exact date, but my mother had received a call from one of her clients while she was out making a deal. They told her that the police had infiltrated our apartment, and she was wanted at all costs. I remember the look of terror on her face as we were driving away from the abandoned parking lot.

“Momma?” I asked, rather concerned. “What's wrong?”

She slowly shifted her face towards me, her eyes like cue balls in her little, bony head. “Well, October,” she finally answered as she took a sharp turn onto the Bay Bridge and Highway 80. “We can't go back home.”

This upset me. I clung to my stuffed penguin, which was the only possession that I had besides the clothes on my back. “Why can't we go home?”

She kept her eyes on the road and started talking, half to herself and half to me. “Goddammit, I knew this was bound to happen. At least we weren't home when they came...”

“Who came?” I interrupted.

She snapped out of it. “The police, October. Momma did something bad and now the government is after me. We can't go back because then the cops would take me away from you.” Her voice was hoarse.

I was very confused. From all of the cartoons that I had watched in my three years of existence, it seemed that only villains were wanted by the police. Momma wasn't a villain, she was the only friend I'd ever had.

“That's stupid, Momma.” I finally said breaking the silence. “Why would they want you? You didn't do anything wrong.”

She looked behind at me and smiled before gazing back onto the open road. “Oh, honey.” She said. She never called me 'honey'. “I've done more wrong than you'll ever know.”

Nothing else was said until we arrived at our first stop.