Read Online The Last Good Day of the Year by Jessica Warman - Free Book Online Page A

She and Gretchen went around the corner and sat on the stairs, in the dark, while they waited for him to go away. They heard the New Year’s countdown on the upstairstelevision; Darla kept it turned on at a high volume pretty much twenty-four hours a day.
    It was so black in the stairwell that all either of them saw were each other’s eyes reflecting fractals of light no larger than specks of dust. They stayed close while they waited, resting against one another, and together at that moment they felt perfectly balanced: little Abby Tickle with all her darkness, reaching up to meet Gretchen’s towering beam of light.
    â€œShe’s going straight to your front door,” Abby says to me as we watch Helen walk down our street.
    â€œSam,” Gretchen commands, “go over there and stop her.”
    â€œWhat? Why do I have to do it?”
    There’s more lightning. Hannah’s dancing has taken her nearly all the way to Abby’s house.
    â€œGo stop her. Hurry up!”
    â€œWhat am I supposed to say?”
    â€œI don’t care! Just go!”
    But I can’t move, not until Gretchen grabs my arm and shoves me into the street. At the same time, Abby says, “Her shoes!” and takes off running toward Hannah. She scoops up my little sister and tugs off her tap shoes, throwing them into the grass. It takes me a minute to realize why she does it.
    The old woman standing on our porch is much shorter than I remember. Obviously, I’ve grown, but she’s also shriveled; I guess you could say the years have not been kind to Helen. She smellsstrongly of chemicals. She tries to smile, but there is fear behind her milky gray eyes.
    â€œIs that you, Samantha?” She brings a shaky hand to her mouth. “Oh. You’ve gotten so pretty.”
    The last thing I expected was a compliment, and it catches me so off guard that for a second I forget who she is and why I’m supposed to hate her; instead she becomes a stranger, somebody’s grandma. Her skin is crinkled into a map of fine, deep lines, the bags beneath her eyes full and dark. It’s hot outside, but she wears beige polyester slacks and a long-sleeved cotton shirt. I imagine sending her flying off the porch with a flick of my finger.
    From behind the front door, my mother’s voice is full of barely controlled rage. “Samantha, come inside.”
    Helen gives me a desperate look. “I only want to speak to your mother for a minute—”
    My mother opens the door but doesn’t step outside. “Get in here, Sam!”
    I shake my head at Helen. “You have to leave right now.”
    â€œPlease. I know she doesn’t want to see me.” She holds up her clasped hands, shaking them under my nose, the chemical smell wafting around me. “I am begging you.”
    My mother rushes outside in her bare feet, slamming the door behind her and ignoring me altogether as she grabs Helen by the shoulders, forcing her to take clumsy steps backward to avoid falling over.
    â€œGet the
fuck
off my property. Get the fuck out of here now. I’m calling the police.”
    Helen puts her hands up in surrender, her stack of papers scattering onto the street. “I’m sorry, Sharon. I’m leaving now. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.”
    â€œYou didn’t mean to
upset
me?” My mother shrieks, her voice pure hatred. I wish I could say I’ve never seen her so upset, but this transformation—calm one moment, furious the next—has happened many times throughout the years. It is as if she is constantly balancing on a tightrope, a hair’s breadth away from crumbling. You’d think it would get better as more time passes, but it doesn’t, at least not by much. Every day, for her, is the worst day. Until Hannah was born, that’s what she would say. She always apologized afterward. “It’s not your fault, Samantha.” But we all know it