Like a Woman Read Online Free PDF Page B

entered the living room, hollering out as loud as she could, “Hey, Mrs. Doyle, are you home? It’s me, Taylor. Can I talk to you?”
    The navy blue sheets Mrs. Doyle used for curtains were all drawn shut and the room smelled of stale Pall Malls and Wild Turkey. Taylor felt her stomach lurch at the familiar odor. The front door had closed behind her and she could hardly see without the morning light. She took a few steps toward the kitchen. “Mrs. Doyle,” she called. “Are you home?” She heard a bump in the back bedroom where Ryan was locked up in the closet. Then something moved right beside her and she jumped at the sight of Mrs. Doyle sitting silent in the center of the room.
    Inside she screamed and ran, but out loud she stayed and said, “Oh, Mrs. Doyle, you scared me. I’m sorry to bother you. I didn’t know you were sleeping. My mom asked if I could come over and maybe borrow some margarine. We’re getting ready to make some French toast. You ever made French toast? My mom said you might know how.”
    Mrs. Doyle glared past her, stood up, and slowly made her way into the kitchen, steadying herself on the back of the old grey sofa. Taylor followed behind, smelling before she actually saw them the crusty dishes and pans, the open, half-empty cans of Chef Boy-Ar-Dee and SpagettiOs littering the table and countertops. Over in the corner she saw Sean sitting on the floor with the baby, tearing off crusts of Wonderbread, making up hard little balls with the white insides, placing them carefully in patterns only his eyes could see. Sean rolled the doughy balls back and forth on the floor while Bobby patted around on the pile of discarded crusts. Mrs. Doyle handed Taylor half a stick of margarine. The girl took it, flinching slightly at the touch of Mrs. Doyle’s clammy hand, feeling how soft and warm the margarine was even though it had just come out of the refrigerator.
    Mrs. Doyle glared at her. Taylor knew she was supposed to leave, but it hadn’t been ten minutes yet. “So, do you know how to make this stuff?” Taylor asked. “I think you put the bread in eggs and then fry it up, but I’m not sure. Have you ever made French toast?”
    Mrs. Doyle walked slowly past Taylor into the living room. Taylor had never seen her like this, hollow and mute, like something out of the Night of the Living Dead . The girl knew she had to do something to keep Mrs. Doyle from walking back down the hall to the closet room. Rushing around in front of her, Taylor blocked the hallway, stopping in front of the room she knew David slept in.
    â€œIs David up yet?” Taylor asked. “Can I take him out for a walk today?” She looked into the room, swallowing the bile that rose in her throat. David was lying on a pile of old sheets, having attempted to crawl away from the corner where he had shit. Taylor grabbed his wheelchair, making as much noise as possible. “Can I help you get him dressed?” she asked.
    Mrs. Doyle sat down on the edge of the bunk bed Ryan and Sean slept on. Hunched over, she stared at her hands, as if she were trying to remember something. Taylor grabbed some dirty clothes off the floor and started dressing David, wiping the rest of his shit off onto the sheets. By the time she got him into his chair and out the door, she figured it had to have been enough time for Mike to tend to Ryan.
    Taylor wheeled David down to the park, where she knew Mike would come looking for her. Settling, Taylor leaned up against the base of her favorite tree, pressing her cheek into the warm, rough bark. She chewed on a handful of long grass she had picked up on the way. By the time Mike found her, she was holding onto the thick tree, puking.
    Mike put his hand on her shoulder. “Come on, let’s work his legs some, okay?”
    Late that night Taylor woke to the methodical sound of pumpkin blows and silent cries. She knew by the sound of creaking