Dead is the New Black Read Online Free PDF Page B

mom
never was politically correct. She often burst forth with
cleave-to-the-bone remarks whenever she felt so inclined. Which was
whenever she was awake. She had opinions on everything, and voiced
them loudly, especially on topics most people tend to avoid in
polite conversation: politics, religion, gun control, and whether
Snooki or Kim Kardashian would win the
thickest-layer-of-sticky-lipstick contest. Mom’s biases swirled
around her like debris from a tornado. She would occasionally fling
a cow or car from the tempest, inflicting wounds on the innocent.
She didn’t intend to hurt; she just didn’t know how not to.
    I love my mom, but she could be a gigantic
pain in the ass. Still is, only now the pain has crept up into my
heart.
    “Where are your kids?” she demanded as I
hurriedly tossed all her meds into an open suitcase on the bed.
From her wheelchair by the window, she looked around the room as
though I’d somehow misplaced her grandchildren.
    “They’re at school, Mom.” Telling her Kimmie
and Jace didn’t live with us anymore would have no meaning. She
wouldn’t remember anyway. “Now, don’t change the subject. What do
you think about going to live with a vampire?”
    “Who’s going to go live with a vampire?” She
blinked at me several times, and then narrowed her once-clever
brown eyes in thought. Those eyes had kept me on the straight and
narrow all my life, but in the last few years, they’d dimmed, milky
with confusion.
    Scanning the room again, she growled, “What
have you done with my grandchildren?” then redirected her gaze at
me. “You know what you need? A man . You’re
no spring chicken, you know.” Mumbling under her breath, she turned
away from me once more to look out the window.
    She sat hunched over in her wheelchair like a
she-wolf guarding its kill. The persimmon polyester pantsuit she
wore needed to be laundered, but it was her favorite outfit and I’d
had a tough time trying to get it away from her long enough to wash
it. Her head bowed, she muttered, “I need a cigarette.”
    “You quit smoking thirty years ago, Mom.”
    Her gray brows lifted. “I did?” which was
quickly followed by an angry, “What in the hell are you doing with
my bottles? Those are my bottles. They’re special . Don’t you hurt my bottles, Lady.”
    My mom always calls me Lady when she can’t
remember who I am. At first, it hurt. Now, years in, the pain has
sharpened to anguish.
    “I won’t, Mom,” I said gently. “There are a
couple of men with a van coming soon who will help move us to our
new, uh, place. I want to make sure we don’t forget any of your
prescriptions.”
    “A van? What van? Why am I getting in a van?
Where in the hell is this van gonna take me?” Peering up at me like
a little girl trying to fathom why she was being punished, she
whimpered, “Lady? Do I like to ride in a van?”
    My heart squeezed.
    “Just our belongings will go in the van.” I
spoke slowly, hoping she would understand, all the while knowing
she would not. “I’ll drive you in my car.” I tried very hard to
smile and said cheerily, “You’ll have fun today. A new place, new
room, new friends. It’ll be great and I’ll be there with you all
the time.”
    She crossed her arms and turned her attention
out the window again, watching as two sparrows hopped and splashed
about in the garden birdbath. A ray of noontime sun pierced the
treetops to cast dappled shadows across the thin layer of snow
blanketing the lawn. The maple tree in the corner by the fence
blazed reds and golds. Autumn, glorious with its dazzling,
ever-changing display.
    Abruptly, my mom uncrossed her arms and
slapped her knees with open palms. “Where in the hell is my
daughter? Where’s Sally?” Lifting her brows, she glared at me.
“Well? Speak up, Lady.”
    My name’s Stephanie,
Mom.
    Not Sally. There is no
Sally; never has been.
    Dear God, I’m
tired.
    Before I could form some kind of response,
the doorbell chimed.