Home at Last

Chapter 1

The bus comes to a screeching halt, as my forehead moves even deeper into the navy blue-plastic seat in front of me. With the push of my head, the horrendous smell of sweat escapes the seat. I sit up, throw my head against the cold glass window and drift back to sleep. 

"Montgomery! Montgomery! Ms. Montgomery!" keeps coming repeatedly from the front of the bus. I slowly open my eyes, and look out the window, to take in the view of my ran down house. I slowly pull myself out of the bus seat, and mope my way down the aisle, stumbling all the way down the bus steps into the drive way. 

I drop my backpack, still holding onto the straps, onto the once gravel driveway. I pull my backpack along beside me up the driveway attempting to find the sidewalk. The blue siding of the house barley escapes through the tall stocks of brown-dead grass. I jerk up my bag to swim through the sea of grass, all the way to the porch that's falling in. I gently step onto each step going up the porch. Avoiding each loose board, I reach the screen door that's hanging on by a single henge. I pull open the screen door, opening the bulky wooden door behind the screen. I kick the boxes of trash out of my way, and shove my way inside. The smell of cigarettes flood my nostrils, as the door behind me slams. 

I keep struggling to make it into the actual house, by dodging and twisting around boxes and bags. 

"Belle is that you?" The scratchy voice of my mother comes from the living room. I drop my bag onto the hardwood floor and crawl into the living room. My mother lays on the brown, ripped leather couch, with her hair still in curlers, wearing the same night gown she had on before my brother and I left for school. There's an ash tray on the yellow coffee table in the living room. The ash tray has been over turned, leaving a trail of cigarette buds all the way onto the floor. Mom has a cigarette lit already in her hand and is beginning to reach for her cigarette case and lighter. 

"Don't just stand there go get me a beer from the fridge!" She yells dropping the lit cigarette onto the floor. I run over stomping it out trying to keep it from catching the floor on fire. 

"Mom, how many beers have you had?" I ask as I sit down on the edge of the couch, picking her cold feet up to place them in my lap. 

She throws her hand into the air, scattering hot ashes onto the couch, and smoke travels in the air. "That wasn't part of the request! Go get me a beer before Frank gets home!" Her boney feet get smashed into the side of my thigh. I get up and go to the fridge, and dig for a semi-cold beer.

Frank is my father. Here recently she's been referring to my father as Frank, rather than saying your father, like she used to. My father and mother have been married since they graduated high school. My mother filed for divorce for three years, until she fell pregnant with my brother Trevor. My mother tried so very hard to keep the pregnancy away from my father, until one night she tried to run to our grandmothers house in Boston. Our father was pulling into the driveway the same time, our mother tried to flee with the lawnmower. My father approached my mother in the driveway, question whom she was going to have a fling with, my mother failed to answer and broke down crying, exclaiming that she was pregnant with their first child. 

Our neighbor Mr. Mickey  told me this story plenty of times before he died of leukemia. Mr. Mickey he could hear my father screaming asking if my mother had fixed him supper, never once mentioning the fact my mother was carrying his son. He always told me while he was telling the story, that I was too young to be told what my father did to my mother in the driveway that night. I know exactly what happened. I've seen this very act happen several times since I was old enough to remember. Except this time she has the scars on her wrist that explain everything that happened. 

After my bother Trevor was born, two and a half years later my mother became pregnant with me. My brother won't tell me what happened before I was born, but I don't imagine it was good. 

Growing up my father was always a nice man, or to me and my brother at least. He'd read us Bible stories and take us to church with him whenever he decided to go. I grew up sitting in the garage watching him work on various small engines, just so he'd have some tithe money. He always told us, "If you give God what he asks for, and show him respect, he'll return the favor. Just keep your eyes on the Lord, keep your nose on the grindstone, and stay out of the pills." I've never quite figured out what that phrase means, but it's always stuck with me.

 The older I got the more I noticed my parents would fight. Trevor would bring me into his room on school nights and make me a pallet of blankets and pillows on the floor in his closet. He'd sit in there at night, holding me close ensuring me I was okay, and I needed rest. Trevor kept telling me to sleep, so I could get an education and be the productive one in the family. 

My father has recently started working late, and quite often at that. My mother has turned to nicotine and alcohol to cope with her pain. She claims she loves us and him too much to leave. Trevor received a job at the auto shop in town, so he could pay bills, but most of all so he could get away and clear his mind. I don't blame him...I just wish he was home more to keep me safe.

I grab the beer from the back of the fridge, then wipe the top. I snatch a trash bag off the counter and I bring it into the living room with me. I place the beer on a coaster, so a ring doesn't form on the table from the sweat.  I start scrounging up the cans that have developed into a pile while I was at school. I grab the ash tray and throw it into the bag. 

My mom sits up and wraps the blanket around her, keeping a firm grip on both the cigarette and the beer can. "Frank texted me saying he's going to Chicago, for a few weeks. I'm not sure how long a few weeks is in his book." She starts coughing and falls back onto the couch. 

"Would you like me to fix supper?" I sit down on the edge of dads recliner, placing the trash bag in front of me.

"There's TV dinners in the deep freezer on the back porch. You'll have to move the boxes off the top of it." She tries to catch her breath. Struggling to grasp wind. I reach over and hand her, her inhaler off the small TV stand. 

"Mom, you need food. Specifically, real food. You look like you haven't ate in weeks."

"What's wrong with TV dinners? Your father and I raised you and your brother on TV dinners. Where's your brother anyhow?" She takes a big puff of her cigarette, then a bigger puff from the inhaler. 

"It's fine Mom. I'll go pick us up something from the Dairy Mart. You want some ice cream, maybe a burger?" I lean over and place my hand on her cold calf, that hold a blue tint from her veins, showing through her thin skin. Her cold hand reaches mine, and she makes direct eye contact with me smiling. 

"You've always been my girl, Belle. I've always loved you." Her hand slips away as she falls back to sleep. 

"I love you too," I whisper before moving my hand away. I sit up off the recliner and go outside, bringing the trash bag full of cans with me to drop it off in the trash can. I head over to the garage and grab my bike. I board my bike and raise the kickstand, then venture down the driveway.