waited a few seconds. The muffled sound of the shopping channel came from inside, so Mom was home. TV. The soundtrack of her mother’s life.
Then there was the familiar shuffle, and the door opened, her father’s large build filling the doorway. Arms folded across his chest, familiar silver ring glinting on his finger. He’d been a promising footballer in his day. Two state championships. Decades later, he still got free drinks because of it.
“What?” He barked out the words before even looking at who was on the doorstep. His face filled with confusion as he looked at her. “Lacey?”
“Hey, Dad.”
Her father tipped his chin over his shoulder. “Doreen! Lacey’s here!”
“What are you talking about, you old fool?” Her mother’s voice screeched back. “You’re going blind. Put your glasses on.”
His father gestured for Lacey to come in. She slipped past him and walked down the hallway. Wallpaper peeled off the walls. Tattered scraps sat where they fell.
You knew this would happen. She tried to keep the grimace off her face as she trod over cat hair-covered carpet that hadn’t seen a vacuum in months. She had promised she would act as if it was their own, as long as they paid the rent so the mortgage and utility payments were covered. If it fell down around their ears, she’d done all she could.
“It’s me, Mom.” She stuck her head into the den, raising her voice above the blare of the TV. The only clear path in the room was from her mother’s recliner to the television. Every other square foot of the floor, every surface, was covered with the result of her mother’s addiction. Cooking appliances on top of exercise machines, clothing, makeup, even a water blaster. Some stacks looked like they defied gravity. Most were unopened, their appeal already diminished in the whole twenty-four hours it took them to arrive.
Her mother only glanced away from the screen for a second. Her grey hair was scraped back in a braid that looked like it hadn’t met shampoo in weeks. Her floral dress was threadbare, feet holding tattered slippers. The lines and crevices in her face made her appear much older than her sixty years. “Look at this umbrella. It can withstand winds up to fifty miles an hour! And the first fifty callers get a mini kids version for free.” On the screen, some made-for-TV host stood in a wind tunnel demonstrating said umbrella.
No nice-to-see-you. No attempt to get up from her chair and give Lacey a hug. No asking what had brought her back for the first time in years.
“You already have plenty of umbrellas, Mom.” From her vantage point in the doorway, she could see at least three, one of which looked identical to the one on the screen.
A wave of defeat swept over her. She’d tried. When her mother’s TV shopping habit had first gotten out of control, she’d used her leave to come back, clear the place out on eBay, and pay off the credit card debt. She’d even managed to get the bank to refuse to issue more cards.
But it hadn’t lasted. Eventually, she’d had to accept that no one could fix someone else’s addiction. Which was why the house was in her name. When the debt collectors came calling, at least they couldn’t touch that.
“What brings you here?” Her father’s voice rumbled behind her, and Lacey turned to see him scrutinizing her from the door. At least he looked like he’d seen a shower recently. His clothes were rumpled but clean.
Her parents were good people. They’d done their best. But they’d been dealt a tough hand in life. Always scrimping and saving to make ends meet. Sometimes managing, other times her dad losing the little they had to some pyramid scheme. When she’d left, she’d sworn she was leaving it all behind. No one ever mentioned that poverty seeps into your veins in a way that even years of never going without can’t obliterate.
“I need a gun.”
The ghost of a smile threatened his face. “That’s my girl.” He ambled down the hallway toward the spare room where he kept his gun safe. She followed. He’d added a ponytail since she last saw him, the crime against style trailing down his neck like a grey slug. “What do you need?” Pulling a ring of keys from his pocket, he opened the large metal vault, revealing a vast array of weapons.
“Good grief, Dad. Are you planning on arming a militia?”