Dear Hearts Read Online Free PDF

shouldn't talk this way to her
period.  But she has these doe eyes, this simple way of opening them up
like she wants to know the truth.  Lord knows no one else does.
    "She
can be mean sometimes," Wren says.  And that hurts my heart, like
"knock it hard with a hammer and watch it crumble" hurt.
    "Everyone
can be mean sometimes, Wren, but not everyone can be
good.  Not like you."  And I smile at her again.  But I
really don't feel like smiling.
    We
coast down Pyle drive after I snatch at the lone fry that fell to the
floorboard in the passenger side and plop it and the rest of our trash in the
outdoor trash bin.  I coat my hands in hand sanitizer and do the same to
Wren's because greasy hands roughly the size of half dollars are one of my
triggers.  I don't want another bleach day.  
    We
sail down through a green light, pass Fox Funeral Home and that's when I see
it.  A1 Storage.   I hook a right and land
next to a banana yellow station wagon with a bumper sticker that reads,
"American By Birth, Southern By the Grace of
God."
    My
TV has a new home.
    ~
    They
were running a special, so the first month’s rent is only a buck.  The
manager, Lara according to her name tag, helped me lug it to the unit, and I
have a feeling she doesn’t do that for all the girls.  Just
the pretty ones.
    She
gave me her card, all business of course, but kept nodding her graying shaved
head at me like everything I said was coming from God himself.
    “Where’s
your toilet?” must have sounded like “Want to run away with me forever?” to her
pink tinged ears because she walked us there herself.
    “I
don’t have to go,” Wren said when went into Lara’s “personal” throne.
    “I
know, but Dr. Mailer said to make sure we go every couple of hours.” 
There’s that “we” again.  It’s something my mother use to do that would
royally piss me off, as if me being the only one of her kids who shared her
mutual anatomy meant we were the same damn person.  “We would like a Dr.
Pepper.”  “We want to go see Aunt Earlene.” “We just got our
period!”    
     “But
I don’t-”
     “Just
fucking go , please?   Please?”  I hiss
it and the finger drills into my head again.  She looks up at me and the
worst part is that she doesn’t cry.  She’s not even shocked anymore
because this is her mother.  The nightly drunk who’s generous with her
“we’s” and has a knack for taking a shit on the whole damn day.
    “I’m
sorry.”
    “I
know,” she says.
    She
finishes up and I flush while she lets a sorry trickle of water clean her
hands.  I scrub mine too with the rose scented soap Lara has filled with
water to stretch a dime.  I use my nails, always use my nails, and when
I'm finished my hands are streaked with angry stripes, and I try not to notice
that Wren's are, too.
    Outside
the bathroom, Lara is stacking up empty box in the front window display. 
She's rolled up her sleeves to show off a thick layer of fat that I'm sure she
hopes I confuse for muscle.
    "Thanks,"
I say.
    "Any
time, be sure to call if-" but the door swings shut behind us before I let
her finish.  There's still a couple of hours to
pack tight with "activities."  That's another thing they say
online about kids, that they always have to be doing something so that their
brains work right.  And sometimes I have to laugh at crap like that
because my mother put Coke in my bottle when I wouldn't take the formula, and I
turned out fine.
    But
I can't laugh at it because there Wren is, strapped in her booster chair in the
back and her face is expectant-like, waiting for me to make the call. 
That's another thing about kids.  It doesn't matter if you have a headache
or you can't get pregnant again or that all you want to do is recount the years
in your aching head and pinpoint the exact moment life's sweater began to
unravel.  You're still in charge.  You still have to play the game
even if you don't feel like it.
    "Park,"
I say.