My Sister's Keeper

Chapter 7

7

BUMBLING TO MY FEET, I stumbled into the house, groped the medicine cabinet for ibuprofen, swallowed three capsules, and downed a full glass of water. Weaving my way to the den, I flopped onto the couch and passed out again. My sleep interfused with images of Ashleigh. Ashleigh straddling me laughing and flirting, her beads pressing against my neck. Ashleigh in white thigh-high stockings with snakes crawling all over her naked body. Ashleigh's lips against mine. Ashleigh biting a hole in my cheek.

At 6:30 a.m., I awoke trembling. My clothes were still wet and every inch of my body ached. The last thing I could remember was passing out on Ashleigh's bed. God, what must she think of me?

I tripped up the stairs, toppled into the shower, and stripped away my clothes. There were scratches on the back of my right hand. I wondered how I'd gotten them, how I'd gotten home, and if I'd made a fool of myself doing it. I turned the water on and lay under it for twenty minutes waiting for it to wash away the cobwebs and strange images, then cranked it up as hot as I could stand it and cleaned up.

Dressing for work, I noticed the deep gash stretching along my left jaw from ear to chin. Upon closer examination I found a second, smaller cut above my right eye. I poured antiseptic into the cuts and shaved. Descending the stairs, I found the note reminding me to stop by Mom's on the way to work.

MY PARENTS' TWO-STORY ROW HOUSE had been gloomy and forsaken back when I grew up in it and it appeared no differently now. The back door was unlocked and Dad sat at the dinette table reading The Morning Star in a faded plaid housecoat. His thin gray hair was combed straight back and lay flat against his head. His eyebrows were thick and grew together in a single line that made him appear to be in a constant state of disapproval.

He and I had never seen eye to eye on anything. Nothing. Not ever. I gave up trying to win his affirmation a long time ago. I just tried to stay out of his way and not give him any excuse to come down on me. Mom set out a fresh cup of coffee for me as I came in.

"Thanks, Mom." I kissed her cheek.

She took my jaw in her hand and twisted it to the side squinting those Bette Davis eyes at me. "What happened to your face?"

"Scratched it in the bushes last night," I sighed throwing a leg over a chair and sitting across from Dad.

"Where you been?" he grumbled without even looking around the newspaper. "I thought you were coming early this morning."

Mom flashed me her "Don't Say Anything" look and pursed her lips. I reached for the sugar. "I said I'd come by on my way to work. I'm on my way to work."

He popped the paper to straighten it. "I just don't understand how come a boy who ain't even got a job is always running late."

Mom sighed. "Now don't go starting in on Richie, Gus. He came by to help you with that bed. Now let him be."

"Why is that, boy?" he asked.

I lifted a spoon and stirred my coffee. "I'm self-employed, Dad."

He rattled his paper again. "That's why you ain't got no wife. A woman wants to see a paycheck every week. Somethin' she can count on."

"For Heaven's sake, Dad. Are you ever going to get over the fact that I work for myself?"

"You kids today don't know what work is. I was on that car lot at seven o'clock every morning. The early bird catches the worm, I tell you. Thomas Jefferson said that. People's known it for a long time."

I lifted the coffee cup. "I think it was Ben Franklin, Dad."

The paper jerked away and his open hand smacked the side of my face with a loud crack. My coffee cup bowled across the table spewing its hot contents over the table and me. "Always the smart-ass, ain't cha?" he glared.