Patricia Bell Read online

  I’ve known from a young age about my mother’s dealing. What else can a person expect from someone whose husband left her with a two-year-old kid, no job, and no money? I’m not proud of her choice of profession. But when you gotta put food on the table, sometimes you do things you don’t necessarily want to. Besides, it pays the bills. Or at least it did.

  I know what you’re thinking, and I have to tell ya, it’s not how it sounds. We don’t have feening druggies barging into our home at all hours of the day and night. No swollen-eyed junkies banging on our door begging for their next hit. My mother, never once conducted business from the trailer. Yes, we live in one of the many trailer parks in the Phoenix area.

  Anyway, back to my current situation. So, I’m on my way home from school like any other day. I get off the bus at my regular stop and walk the three blocks to my home. As I round the corner to our street, the first thing that grabs my attention is red and blue flashing lights flailing through the air. My heart stops beating. I stare at what, to my panicked brain, seems like a hundred police cars lining the street. Along with them are several ambulances and a fire truck.

  At first, I imagine old Mr. Holt from across the street has fallen again, but that doesn’t make sense. It wouldn’t take seven police cars, an ambulance, and a firetruck full of firemen to drag one old man off the kitchen floor.

  As I get closer, a realization hits me. EMT’s are exiting my trailer. They’re wheeling out a motionless body laid out on a stretcher. From this distance, I can’t get a good look, but although I may not be the brightest crayon in the box, I immediately realize who it is. My mother.

  It’s hard to explain the dynamics of being the daughter of an unlicensed pharmacist but I will do my best. From the time I was little, my mom continually warned me about certain dangers. Not the normal guidance like ‘Don’t play in the street.’ or, ‘Always wear clean underwear.’ No, these were hazards exclusive to a person living a life of crime.

  The first rule was always, always, always — the police are enemy number one. Everyone else… enemy number two. Karina, she’d say, if you’re ever home alone and the cops show up, DO NOT answer the door. Hide, or, if you ever come home to find a stranger at our door, run. Do not let them see you. Do not ask any questions. Just run.

  So, believe it or not, that’s what I did. I ran. At this point, I have no idea whether my mother’s dead or alive. This all happened yesterday. My plan is to go back to the trailer when the police finally clear out, but who knows how long that will take? It could be a couple of days or a week. Maybe a month for all I know. It’s possible I’ll never see the inside of my home again.

  So, my current dilemma, is whether or not to go to school today. The obvious answer would be ‘no’. Who does that? Who watches her mother being carried away, possibly dead, on a stretcher, one day, spends the night in the park in fear for her life, then goes to school the next day? But here’s my issue, I have nowhere else to go. I don’t even have a cell phone. Well, I would have, if I hadn’t forgotten it at home yesterday morning while rushing to the bus stop.

  So, as I see it, I’ve got two choices. I can spend the rest of the day sitting on this bench in the park like some kind of hobo, or I can go to school and at least get a hot meal, and a cool place to consider my next move.

  I’m not so naive as to think people won’t be asking questions about my situation. It stands to reason that when you have a street full of police cars sitting outside your home people are bound to notice. But I need help, and to find out information about my mother. Is she dead? Is she alive? Is she in trouble? What happened? Who hurt her? But more importantly, what do I do now? I’m not exactly cutout for the vagrant lifestyle.

  My mother, in all her rules, never explained what I was to do afterwards. Run, that’s all she told me to do. Hello mother, uh - how long should I run? Where do I run to? And what do I do when I get there? My best option is to go to school and let the pieces fall into place however they fall.

  A couple kids walk passed me with their backpacks and cell phones, my cue that the bus will be here any minute. I gather my belongings from off the park bench. It’s not much, my backpack, which, I found out, does not double as a comfortable pillow, a half empty water bottle and a pencil that must have fallen out in the night. Though I’m weary and would like nothing more than to crawl back up on the park bench I’ve appropriated, and take a nap, I sigh and amble my way to the bus stop. The bus is just about to pull off as pick up my speed to make it before he leaves without me. He’s been known to do that.

  As I plop down in my regular seat, I must look a mess. I’m in the same clothes I wore yesterday. Fortunately, I carry a brush in my backpack so I’m able to do something halfway decent to my hair. From now on maybe I should carry a toothbrush as well. You can never be too ready for this type of situation.

  A couple stops later, when my best friend Tara gets on and drops down next to me, she doesn’t even notice I’m wearing the same clothes I wore yesterday. She’s too busy texting. Most likely to her boyfriend.

  After a minute or two, she glances in my direction. “Hey, how’s – Whoa, what’s up with you? Run out of laundry detergent?” Not waiting for an answer, she stares back at her phone and giggles, and then rapidly shoots out another text.

  Tara’s one of the snobbiest people I know, but still, she’s my best friend.

  “Uh, I guess you haven’t heard,” I say.

  “Heard what?” Tara glances at me briefly, gives me the once over and returns to her phone. “Day old clothing is back in style?” she mumbles as her phone dings out another text message. Without a second glance, she launches out a reply.

  “Never mind.”

  This seems to get her attention because finally she looks at me. I mean, really looks at me. “What’s going on? Did something happen? You look a mess.”

  She’s not smiling anymore. She has an air of concern on her face. I’ve never seen Tara upset before. She’s not had much to worry about in her pampered life. She resides in her big house with her pedigreed dog and her perfect family. Her parents are both successful doctors, and she’s an only child. She’s been spoiled from birth. I have a feeling if she dared contemplate frowning, her mother would immediately hand her a credit card.

  “I don’t know. But it’s not good whatever it is.”

  “You’re scaring me. Why are you looking so… so… shabby?” She gives me another once over. “And why are you wearing yesterday’s clothes? What’s going on?”

  She stares at me waiting for a response.

  “Karina?”

  I don’t know what to say. My mom warned me about telling our personal business to others. “Don’t you dare say anything to anyone!” (By the way, that was rule number three – never talk to anyone about personal matters.) But I need to tell my best friend I’m in serious trouble. I cannot maintain my silence any longer.

  I sigh. Where to begin? “Yesterday, when I got off the bus, there were a bunch of police cars at my house. My mom was being carried off on a stretcher into an ambulance. I got scared and ran. I haven’t been home since.”

  “What do you mean you ran?” She tips her head to the side and with her mouth wide open, she stares at me as though I’ve just sprouted an extra head.

  “Where’s your mom?” Her phone falls to her lap, forgotten. “Is she okay? Why would you run from the police?”

  Under normal circumstances I might be tempted to laugh. But you see, here’s my other predicament. No one knows what my mother’s true profession is. You don’t exactly post a sign saying your mother brings home the bacon by peddling dope. Besides, my mom decided long ago if anyone asked about her job, I was to say she was a lawyer. A joke, right? We live in a trailer park for goodness sakes. What kind of high class lawyer lives in a three bedroom double wide? Besides, she’s the farthest thing from a lawyer. But that’s what people believe, because that’s the story she fabricated long, long ago.

  “I m
ean your mother’s a defense attorney, right?” It comes out more as a statement than a question. “She works with the police. You don’t have to be afraid of them.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.”

  I can’t bring myself to tell her the truth. Not when a lie is so much easier. Especially a lie I’ve told so many times that it almost seems like the truth to even me.

  “You’re not making any sense. Where did you stay last night? Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I slept in the park. I couldn’t call. Remember I forgot my phone yesterday?”

  “You need to go to the police.” A pout forms on her face. “And find out if your mom is okay.”

  “Yeah, okay.” I have no intention of walking into a police station to demand information on the whereabouts of my drug dealing mother.

  Satisfied the issue is now settled, Tara resumes her exhilarating text conversation without a second glance in my direction. I stare out the window and contemplate my menial existence. Life sucks!

  When we arrive at school, the two of us head our separate ways without another word.

  It may seem to the average onlooker that I’m not worried my mother could be dead or at least in the hospital, and that I’m carrying on like it’s not a big deal. The truth is I am worried. I’m truly scared. I don’t know what I’m going to do if my mom is dead. But to be perfectly honest, I’m more worried for myself than I am for her.

  She and I have never had the typical mother-daughter relationship. Biologically, yes, she’s my mother, but our family doesn’t function the way normal families do. She’s more like a guardian than a mother. She keeps a roof over my head, and I stay out of trouble, and follow the rules. I’ve never had any real type of bonding with her. I know it sounds strange, but that’s the way it is. So, when I say I’m more worried about myself than my mother, I’m not as cold and callous as I sound. On some level, I do love her. She is my flesh and blood after all. At least that’s what my birth certificate says.

  As I stroll through the halls, I imagine people staring at me. Maybe they really are. I don’t know because I refuse to look anyone in the eyes. There’s no doubt in my mind that at least a couple of students saw or at least heard about the incident. And if only one did, the entire school will know about it before lunch.

  †††

  I’m sitting in Spanish practicing dialog with the hottest guy in the class when the vice principal comes waltzing in.

  “Hola, Soy Karina Murberry. Eres de—” I stop mid-sentence and watch nervously as he strolls over to Mrs. Garcia, my Spanish teacher, and whispers in her ear. They’re about to haul me away, but what can I do? It’s not like I can run out of the classroom. I knew this could happen, and to be honest I hoped it would. Even a foster home or a group home or wherever they put parentless teenagers has to be better than sleeping on a park bench.

  Mr. Hot Guy, who by the way, is named Steve, stares at me waiting for me to finish my dialog. Instead, I watch intently for Mrs. Garcia to call my name. Sure enough, she does.

  “Karina, the principal needs to see you in his office.”

  At least half the class breaks out into whispers, cat calls, and rude comments. Some of them in Spanish. I look at Steve and shrug my shoulders as if I have no idea what this is all about.

  He smiles at me. “Adios, chica bonita.”

  Seriously? Did he just say goodbye pretty girl? Of all the luck. I’ve been trying to get this guy to notice me since the seventh grade, and now, as I’m getting hauled off to the principal’s office, he finally says something affirming to me. And I may never step foot in this classroom again.

  “Bye.” I gather my books and shove them in my backpack. I probably should have said something a bit more captivating, but I’m too nervous to come up with a catchy comeback.

  As I follow the vice principal into the office, two police officers stand on the other side of a paned glass window animatedly speaking with the principal in his private office area. My head spins at the thought of what they might tell me. What if my mother is dead? I haven’t seriously contemplated this option, because I just can’t bear to think about her cold dead body lain out on a slab of cement, but this could be a reality. I try not to think about it.

  Best case scenario, she’s still alive and I’m going to be asked a whole slew of questions I don’t want to answer. In short, I’m going to have to rat her out. It’s one thing to not have a bond with your mother, but it’s another story to say things that might get her into more trouble than she’s already in...

  As I walk into the office, I’m directed to sit at a large conference table. I’ve never been in the principal’s office before. I can’t imagine what this big table could be used for. Like, do they have that many bad kids come in at once?

  I sit and immediately one of the officers speaks.

  “Hi Karina, my name is Officer Emerson. How are you this morning?”

  How am I doing? How does this guy think I’m doing? My mother’s been injured, or dead for all I know. I spent the entire night on a park bench, came to school without showering or even brushing my teeth, the hottest guy in school finally calls me beautiful just as I get ripped out of class. Officer, I’m having a wonderful day.

  “Okay. I guess.”

  “Where’ve you been? We’ve been searching for you all night.”

  Leave it to Phoenix’s finest to search all night for me and not find me sleeping on a park bench, three blocks from my residence.

  “I stayed the night at a friend’s house. Why? What’s going on?”

  I’ve learned in this situation it’s better to lie than tell the truth. For one, I don’t want to make them feel like idiots for searching all night for a girl who was right under their noses. And for two, I don’t want to tell them I was running from the police simply because my mother told me to. Actually, I don’t care if they feel like idiots, so, scratch reason one.

  “Your mother was brought to the hospital last night. She was badly beaten. Would you happen to know anything about that?”

  “What?” I give the officer my best bewildered look. “Of course, I don’t. Is she okay? Where is she?”

  My tense body loosens a bit as I fall back into my chair. My mother is not dead.

  “She suffered a concussion and some minor injuries, but she’ll be just fine. She’s been transferred to the Phoenix correctional facility where she’ll be held until her arraignment.”

  “What do you mean? Arraignment? She’s in jail? I don’t understand.” So much for having to spill my guts. I guess they know more than I thought.

  “Evidently your mother made someone quite angry. I can’t go into the details, but you must know what she does for a living.” He stares at me, his wrinkled brow saying, you can’t seriously be that naïve.

  Yeah, I know. She must have delivered some bad stuff or something. My mother doesn’t make it. I don’t know much about the process, but I think she has someone who does all of that for her. She’s a distributer only.

  “I don’t understand. What do you mean?” I continue with my charade, but it’s obvious the guy sees right through my lies.

  Without humoring me, he continues, “So, now we need to decide what to do with you. Do you have any family in the area?”

  Family? I have no one but my mother. She’s an only child whose parents died in a car accident before I was born and I have no idea who my father is.

  “No. I don’t have any other family at all.”

  The only option left is to throw me in some kind of juvenile home with a thug named Bruno or Rocky. I can’t believe this is happening to me. As anxiety takes over, I’m thinking maybe the park bench is not such a bad place to sleep. Seriously, with a pillow and blanket, the rungs could make for a decent bed.

  As soon as the officer’s about to seal my fate, the principal, who has obviously been reading through my school file, speaks.

  “Uh, Miss Murberry.” He glares at me sternly over his g
lasses “It says here, in your file, you have an aunt who lives in Queen Creek.”

  “A what?” I stare back at him, eyes wide, and mouth fully open. “Where?”

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