What She Left

chapter seven

five eleven a.m., christmas day, two thousand and sixteen
three months before

   Bailey doesn't know why she's still awake. When she was smaller, she would go to bed as early as possible and squeeze her eyes shut as if it would help her sleep faster. When she was smaller, when her whole family was alive and intact and seemed to still care.

     Now Christmas is just another day to remind her of what she doesn't have. James will come, Marianne will come, and the only person missing will be Drew because in all areas except legally, James Sr. is not a part of their family.

     She pauses the television and gets up slowly. Bailey knows she's probably not the only one in this house to not be able to sleep.

    Sure enough, Aleece is sitting on the screened-in front porch, a cigarette between her lips. It's cold but crisp in the dark, and Bailey grabs a blanket to wrap around her shoulders before joining her mother.

     Aleece is crying, and Bailey knows it even though her face is turned away. She doesn't press for Aleece to speak because she knows she will. Her mother has always been a talker.

     "I'm sorry." The words come several minutes later when her shoulders are shaking less. Aleece blows out a puff of smoke.

     Bailey picks at the homemade blanket, which is coming apart at the seams. "What for?" She knows what her mother is going to say, but better for Aleece to fill the silence than her.

     "I messed up, Bails. I know I did. When I was seventeen and pregnant with your brother, I messed up. When I married that scumbag of a man, I messed up. When I brought three more children into the world so they could suffer with him as their father, I messed up." Bailey doesn't know what to say to that; it's not what she expected. What do you say to someone who's apologizing for giving birth to you?

     "You three are the best things in my life," Aleece sniffs. "But you all deserve more, and I couldn't give you that. I'm sorry." She's drunk, Bailey realizes. Drunk Aleece is depressing Aleece.

      "It's okay, Mom," she says, because she can't think of anything else. She's not good with words, not good at comforting people. Because she can't empathize with them.

     "Oh, honey," Aleece says with a sigh, turning and draping her arms around Bailey's shoulders. "What did I do to deserve you?"

     Bailey shrugs off her mother's arms and spreads the blanket on Aleece's lap as she stands. "Must've been something pretty bad."

      eleven forty-nine, new year's eve, two thousand and sixteen
three months before

    
    Bailey can hear her mother crying from her bedroom.

      She punches the wall so hard the paint cracks off and her knuckles begin to bleed. She considers smashing the window, too, but instead shoves it open and swings her legs outside.

      Dropping onto the carpet of dead leaves, she runs.

      It's nearly midnight, nearly two thousand and seventeen, nearly a new year. A fresh start, some would say. Bailey doesn't believe in fresh starts. She's done what she's done, and no fresh start can erase the thought that won't leave her mind, the thought of that gun still sitting, gathering dust, in her father's closet.