Working Girl (11 page)

Her words are so perfect, so beautifully thought out, and just what I need. I wrap my arms tightly around her petite waist and squeeze. “I love you, Momma,” I choke out the words because the emotions and guilt I am feeling are overwhelming me.

Everyone has a story. Everyone has a reason for living their life how they see fit. No one ever makes a choice to make others unhappy. My Momma is a perfect example. She’s doing the only thing she’s ever known. It doesn’t make it right. It doesn’t make it wrong. And to think that I’ve spent years hating her for bringing me into this life . . .

“I’m so sorry.” With my face tucked into the side of her neck, I feel her nod. Nothing else needs to be said. We both know what I mean.

She kisses me on the forehead, before letting me go and standing up. “I’m so proud of you, baby. And I love you more than anything in the world.”

With my lips pressed into a hard line, I fight the tears threatening to escape from my eyes. This moment with Momma is transparent. She’s coming clean with me for a reason. She knows what’s coming, and it scares me. She forces a smile and turns to walk towards her room, closing the door and locking it behind her. Once I’m alone, I break down, allowing my emotions to overtake me.

I cry for her. I cry for me. But mostly I cry for all the damage that has been done. However, unlike my Momma, I still have a chance to reach for the life I so crave. I can let people in, allow them to see me—the real me.

But am I strong enough?

SUNLIGHT STREAMS THROUGH THE
only window in the living room, and I squint. I’d apparently passed out on the couch, the emotions from the previous night exhausting me beyond belief. I yawn and stretch before finally sitting upright, glancing across the room at the clock on the DVD player. It’s lunchtime and it’s unusually quiet. Having most of the girls living at the brothel makes living at the Mansion a little more bearable. I like slow times like this. I could definitely get used to it.

I look over my shoulder into the kitchen and see the empty coffee pot. Not one person is around this morning.

That’s strange.

Standing up, I look down the hallway to see Momma’s door still closed. She must have been as exhausted as me. Not only did she emotionally exhaust herself, sharing all the ugly details of her childhood, but she had the disadvantage of having HIV wreaking havoc on her system.

With it being the end of the semester, I’m looking forward to a day of just me and my books. It’s time for me to catch up on the pleasure reading that I’ve been so desperately missing.

I pick up the book I was reading last night and immediately lose myself in the story. It’s about a woman living in New York with her best friends, who happen to be all guys. It’s a cute, easy read, and it makes me giggle here and there, listening to all of their shenanigans. It stays quiet as I read, and I lose track of time. Before I know it I’m closing my book, having finished the adorable story about Shane and Emma. I’m sad to have finished, I usually am. I hate endings. They’re so . . .
final
.

Gazing over at the clock again, I realize two more hours have passed. Yet there’s still no sound coming from Momma’s room. I decide it’s time for me to go check on her and I slowly move towards her door. I knock lightly at first, but when there is no answer I call out to her. “Momma? You awake?”

No answer.

I reach down to turn her doorknob only to remember that she locked it. Knocking again, this time a little louder, I call, “Momma! Open the door!” Panic sets in as I jiggle the locked doorknob, even though I know it won’t do any good.

Chrissy steps into the hallway, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Unlike us, she had to work last night. “Presley, you okay?”

“No!” I cry out. “It’s Momma. She won’t open the door!”

Springing to life, Chrissy hurries to join me in front of Momma’s door, banging her fists against the chipped paint and calling out to her. It’s no good. The door remains closed. The room behind it silent.

“We’ve got to break the door down.”

I nod as Chrissy grabs my hand and backs us away from the door. “On three,” she commands. “One . . . two . . .
three!
”

Chrissy and I launch ourselves at the door, but it doesn’t move. Undeterred, we throw our bodies at the wood again and again until the frame cracks under the pressure, the door falling inward.

My eyes immediately find Momma, curled up on her mattress, her hands tucked under her cheek. She looks like a porcelain doll, lying on the bed, motionless. Her hair covers the pillowcase and I can see the lace trim of the satin pajamas she always wears to bed peeking out from under the covers. The air feels strange. It hasn’t rained recently, yet there is a musty smell that assaults my senses, clogging up my nose and leaving a metallic taste in my too-dry mouth.

I look again at Momma, taking in all the small details that I missed at first glance. Her skin is waxy, and her neck is at an awkward angle. Her chest isn’t rising and falling as a sleeping person’s should.

Because she isn’t sleeping.

I fall to my knees, Chrissy catching me under my arms, softening the fall by wrapping her arms around my waist and sliding down to the floor with me. A tortured scream reverberates through the house, and it takes me a second to realize that the sound is coming from me. Chrissy pushes my head into the crook of her neck, rocking me back and forth, her hand clamped to the back of my head.

“No!” I scream.

Chrissy attempts to console me but I continue to cry. I’m trying to speak, but my sobs overtake my words and eventually I just give up, letting the sadness overtake me. We stay clutching each other for what seems like hours before I’m able to get my breath back.

“I don’t understand,” I whisper. “It wasn’t terminal yet. HIV doesn’t kill someone over night!”

Chrissy doesn’t answer. She just clutches me closer, and I begin to cry again. This goes on for hours before my head clears enough to move.

Standing up, I walk toward her and pull the covers back from her body and press my hand to her chest, hoping to feel a heartbeat, desperately wanting to be wrong. But instead, I feel nothing. Disheartened, my eyes fall away from her lifeless body and see the bottles of booze and pills that surround her. I sit next to her on the bed, wiping my tear stained face as I take in the scene. “She killed herself,” I whisper to the room.

Chrissy places her hand on my shoulder and gives me a reassuring squeeze. “I’m so sorry, Pres.”

Suddenly calm, I speak very frankly. “Don’t be.”

“Babe, don’t talk like that.”

“No, I’m serious,” I say confidently. “Don’t be sorry. Because at least now Momma is in a better place. She’s someplace where Big Earl can’t force her to suck a dick. She’s not hurting. She won’t have to ever worry again.”

Chrissy sniffles next to me.

“Hell,” I scoff. “I think I might even be a little jealous of her.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Chrissy scowls.

“It’s true. I’m so tired, Chrissy. Aren’t you? Tired of worrying. Of trying. All of it sucks. I’m just plain old tired.”

Chrissy doesn’t say anything because she knows there’s nothing she
can
say. It’s true. We’ve had to be grown-ups for far too long, and this is proof of just that.

My thoughts shift from relief and jealousy to anger in a flash. Momma was a coward. How dare she leave me here to take care of her mess. Alone. It wasn’t fair of her to come clean to me, professing her undying love in the process, only to take it all away from me. “What the hell am I gonna do, Chrissy?”

She squeezes my hand. “We’ll figure it out, just like we always do.”

“It’s not fair. She gets to be carefree, yet again. And here I am worrying. Just like always.”

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my cell phone and dial 911. The operator answers. “911. What’s your emergency?”

A single tear runs down the length of my face. “My momma. She’s dead.”

And I have no idea what I’m going to do.

Momma had no savings.

No life insurance.

Nothing.

AT FIRST I HAD NO
idea how I was going to lay Momma to rest, but after many lonely tears I finally confided in Chrissy. Since she was an amazing friend, she pooled her resources the best way she knew how; more shifts, which translated into more dates. I hated that it was the only way she was able to help, but she didn’t mind. Watching her do everything she could to help me, I came to understand that Chrissy loved her job, despite the heartache it brought to all of us. And with her doing it all so I could give Momma a decent send-off, who was I to judge?

With her extra dates and the money I had been able to set aside from extra bookkeeping shifts, I was able to get Momma cremated. Picking her up from the crematorium was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. They handed over the urn and I couldn’t believe that that was all I had left of her.

Once the initial stress sparked by her death died down, we decided to travel out to the Grand Canyon to spread her ashes because, for all her faults, she deserved a beautiful resting place. Her life had been ugly, her afterlife needed to be beautiful. Even though she hadn’t done much for me, she was still Momma, and it was the least I could do.

So Chrissy and I are standing there, overlooking the gorgeous display of natural beauty, in absolute silence; me clutching the urn to my chest, Chrissy shifting nervously next to me, constantly looking over her shoulder. Her unease is palpable, and is starting to wear on me. “You’re making me nervous,” I grumble, without ever taking my eyes off the canyon.

She straightens up and apologizes, immediately stopping her shifting, and allowing me to continue with my silent brooding and contemplation. We invited a bunch of the girls, and Big Earl, and are waiting for some of them to show, but the time I gave them has come and gone and I realize that they are not going to show.

Sadness tangles itself around my heart. Not for me and my grief, but for Momma. She died just like she lived.

Alone.

With a sigh of defeat, I start to prepare myself to say goodbye. It’s probably easier without an audience. Much more peaceful with it being just me and Chrissy.

“Am I too late?”

I spin around, my mouth slightly agape with shock as I recognize the voice, to find Emerson standing a few feet behind us. He’s dressed in a well-fitting, dark gray suit—he’s even donned a silver tie to match. The sunlight bounces off his patent shoes. He looks so out of place, especially when I catch sight of the bouquet of white roses in his arms. Momma loved white roses. How did he know?