Read Online Pieces of My Heart by Jamie Canosa - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jamie Canosa
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in the middle of the floor and no one would ever see them.
Deciding on something slightly more discreet, I tugged open the shallow drawer on my nightstand and tucked it inside, promising myself that I’d figure it out later.
***
Morning broke with a rare sense of tranquility. A stillness that made me squirm with anxiety. Rolling out of bed, I shuffled down the hall. Mom was out cold on the couch. Judging by the motorboat sound effects coming through the door, Michael was in a similar state in the bedroom. Not surprising considering how late they’d stayed out. I was up half the night just waiting for them to get back. I’d told myself to take advantage of the quiet to get some overdue rest, but it was useless. I couldn’t sleep until I knew she was home. Safe and sound.
Looking at her lying there, I didn’t feel anger, or fear, or resentment. All I felt was an overwhelming amount of guilt. And a fierce need to protect her. This hadn’t always been her life. She’d been young once. My age. Newly graduated with a world of possibilities before her. And then I’d come along. I couldn’t even imagine what having a baby at my age would be like, but it looked an awful lot like a slamming door from where I stood.
“Sweet dreams, Mom.” Tugging the throw from the back of the couch, I tucked it around her, careful to make sure her feet were covered because they always got cold, and pressed a careful kiss to her hair. “I . . . I love you.”
They weren’t words I spoke often or frivolously, but that made them all the more genuine.
I read somewhere once that loving someone allows you to see their flaws more clearly. My mother’s weren’t exactly hidden, but love meant defying the impulse to abandon that person despite those flaws. So, yes, I loved my mother. Very much.
My stomach led me into the kitchen where I rummaged through cabinets until I came up with two slices of bread. One was the end piece, but it would do. Popping them in the toaster, I leaned back against the counter and let the morning sunlight coming through the window warm my arms.
Michael roused from hibernation and shuffled into the room behind me, wearing his boxers. Wearing only his boxers. He took one glance at the deer-in-headlights look I must have been giving him and smirked. Tossing an empty can on my newly cleaned counter, he reached into the fridge for a new one. What he came back out with was two cans, one of which he held out in my direction.
“Have a drink with me.”
“Um . . .” My gaze shifted around the room, wishing the toaster would hurry the hell up and spit out my breakfast already. “No thanks.”
“It’s only beer.” He lifted the can higher, but my hands stayed glued to my sides.
“I’m only eighteen.”
His smirk grew deeper and he used his bare shoulder to rub at some of the sores on the underside of his chin. “You don’t tell, I won’t.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t really want to.”
He looked me over once more and huffed a humorless laugh. “Fine. Have it your way, Princess.”
Every little girl wants her daddy to call her a princess. But not the way Michael said it. Taking both cans with him, he stumbled his way into the living room where I heard him flip on the television and crank it to max volume, careless of the fact that my mother was trying to sleep in there.
My toast sprang up and I snatched it, burning my fingertips on the hot bread. I didn’t bother with butter or jelly, not that I knew if we actually had either. I just wanted to get the hell out of there. Throwing up the white flag, I retreated to my safety zone.
Trying not to get crumbs on my bed, I leaned forward off the mattress as I took a bite and chewed slowly. And I waited. For what? For Mom to wake up? For the inevitable fighting that would start again as soon as she did? For the fighting to end? For the next call from Caulder? For my next shift at work?
I was sitting there, in a darkened room, wishing my life away,
Deciding on something slightly more discreet, I tugged open the shallow drawer on my nightstand and tucked it inside, promising myself that I’d figure it out later.
***
Morning broke with a rare sense of tranquility. A stillness that made me squirm with anxiety. Rolling out of bed, I shuffled down the hall. Mom was out cold on the couch. Judging by the motorboat sound effects coming through the door, Michael was in a similar state in the bedroom. Not surprising considering how late they’d stayed out. I was up half the night just waiting for them to get back. I’d told myself to take advantage of the quiet to get some overdue rest, but it was useless. I couldn’t sleep until I knew she was home. Safe and sound.
Looking at her lying there, I didn’t feel anger, or fear, or resentment. All I felt was an overwhelming amount of guilt. And a fierce need to protect her. This hadn’t always been her life. She’d been young once. My age. Newly graduated with a world of possibilities before her. And then I’d come along. I couldn’t even imagine what having a baby at my age would be like, but it looked an awful lot like a slamming door from where I stood.
“Sweet dreams, Mom.” Tugging the throw from the back of the couch, I tucked it around her, careful to make sure her feet were covered because they always got cold, and pressed a careful kiss to her hair. “I . . . I love you.”
They weren’t words I spoke often or frivolously, but that made them all the more genuine.
I read somewhere once that loving someone allows you to see their flaws more clearly. My mother’s weren’t exactly hidden, but love meant defying the impulse to abandon that person despite those flaws. So, yes, I loved my mother. Very much.
My stomach led me into the kitchen where I rummaged through cabinets until I came up with two slices of bread. One was the end piece, but it would do. Popping them in the toaster, I leaned back against the counter and let the morning sunlight coming through the window warm my arms.
Michael roused from hibernation and shuffled into the room behind me, wearing his boxers. Wearing only his boxers. He took one glance at the deer-in-headlights look I must have been giving him and smirked. Tossing an empty can on my newly cleaned counter, he reached into the fridge for a new one. What he came back out with was two cans, one of which he held out in my direction.
“Have a drink with me.”
“Um . . .” My gaze shifted around the room, wishing the toaster would hurry the hell up and spit out my breakfast already. “No thanks.”
“It’s only beer.” He lifted the can higher, but my hands stayed glued to my sides.
“I’m only eighteen.”
His smirk grew deeper and he used his bare shoulder to rub at some of the sores on the underside of his chin. “You don’t tell, I won’t.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t really want to.”
He looked me over once more and huffed a humorless laugh. “Fine. Have it your way, Princess.”
Every little girl wants her daddy to call her a princess. But not the way Michael said it. Taking both cans with him, he stumbled his way into the living room where I heard him flip on the television and crank it to max volume, careless of the fact that my mother was trying to sleep in there.
My toast sprang up and I snatched it, burning my fingertips on the hot bread. I didn’t bother with butter or jelly, not that I knew if we actually had either. I just wanted to get the hell out of there. Throwing up the white flag, I retreated to my safety zone.
Trying not to get crumbs on my bed, I leaned forward off the mattress as I took a bite and chewed slowly. And I waited. For what? For Mom to wake up? For the inevitable fighting that would start again as soon as she did? For the fighting to end? For the next call from Caulder? For my next shift at work?
I was sitting there, in a darkened room, wishing my life away,
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