She traced by her past. A straight line here. An arc there. A hint of something forgotten. A subtle bite at the edge of memory.
Something flitted past the edge of her vision, but in the
instant it took her to turn her head, whatever it was disappeared.
Kara recalled her mother stating that, “Growing old wasn’t
for sissies.” Although the comment was usually accompanied by a wry smile, the
reality was incontrovertible. Mother had fought age with each strand of her
dyed black hair and a determination worthy of an Olympic athlete. When she died
last year, at the age of 65, it was with a roar. But mother had always lived
life to the hilt. Maybe that’s why Kara had done the same.
Kara turned five the year Mother turned 30. They celebrated
with a single candle perched atop a cupcake. Mother’s friends were all there,
filling ashtrays with soot, glasses with gin and the air with laughter and
expletives. It was a helluva celebration. The next morning, Kara had her own
private celebration. The fresh five-year-old was up at 8:00 and while her
mother slept, Kara collected the cups, guzzling any remains before stacking
them by the sink. She was woozy by 8:30 and looking for more by 10:00. Mother
slept until noon.
From there, life rolled on. By eight she was filching
cigarettes from ash trays and warm beer from the ever-present case on the
porch. At 11 she smoked her first joint, shared with her by her mother’s
boyfriend of the moment. By 13 she was popping uppers. From there it was a
short trip to harder and harder drugs until she woke up at 24, a worn-out bag
of bones, selling what flesh she had left to finance her next high. And
pregnant. This time, too far along for an abortion. She gave the baby to social
services and walked away. But she couldn’t forget.
She thought often of the girl she’d sweated to birth. Tiny
and wrinkled and carted away as she squalled, too soon to see her eyes. It was
for the best. She knew it, but she wondered if that tiny girl grew into a good
life. A healthy person. She hoped so.
Kara took a last drag on her cigarette. The tidy breeze snagged
the smoke and dispersed it in the atmosphere. Rehab hadn’t been easy, but she
was determined to make it this time, or die trying, roaring and kicking and
spitting.
She stood and walked into the building, followed by the
shadow of who she’d been, her soul pricked by the memory.
