Snakeroot

1. Mama's Death

Tara found Mama naked in the bathtub with her eyes wide open, staring into galaxies far beyond our reach. Her bath water had gone cold and her hands were flexed into claws. Tara yelled and hollered and cried, but Mama didn't wake up. She was gone, just like that. And there I stood in the doorway of the bathroom, scared and helpless while Tara tried to pull Mama's body out of the cold bath water.

Mama had always loved her heroin too much to leave it alone for long. I didn't understand why she couldn't just stop it, but Tara said stopping drugs was hard and that I should never ever try them. Drugs were why we had to live like we did - drugs, and whiskey, and beer, and anything else that could make Mama and Daddy forget who they were. Tara was the one that took care of us. She loved us - she told us everything single night before we all went to sleep. She  told us she loved us after she'd finished crying. And she promised us that we'd be okay, though I wasn't too worried yet. I knew Tara would take care of us. She always did.

The coroner came to load up Mama, and a few other people showed up too. And after they were all gone, a social worker came. He was a nice man and I liked him right away, but Tara hissed at us all to not tell him about Daddy's drinking or that he was mean as a snake.

"They'll take us to foster care," she whispered. "They'll take us all to different houses to live with people we don't know. Someone will adopt Tommy because he's a baby, and maybe Megan will get adopted too. But you and me, Eliza, we're too old. I'm fourteen and you're eleven. We'll be in foster care until we turn eighteen and we'll never see each other again."

I still remember how Tara's neck was always sweaty because she was hot-natured and could never keep cool. I remember how the sunset light caught her hair and blazed rich golden yellow all the way to the roots. Her hair was always a little bit frizzy and she could never seem to lose that extra twenty pounds even though we were hungry so often. But she was still beautiful, like a goddess of the Earth and flowers, and I wanted to be just like her.

She was tall with big bones and a strong structure. She had a warrior's stance that belied the fairness of her hair and the gentle nature of her hands. Her jaw was strong, her chin slightly clefted. Her denim blue eyes tilted up slightly at the outer corners, as if she was always laughing at something the rest of us couldn't see.

I loved Megan and Tommy, and I didn't want to lose them. But it was the thought of losing Tara that made my whole body cold with fear. It was that thought - that awful, helpless, creeping thought - that forced my mouth to twist around the lies I told that nice social worker. Those lies were bitter, and I think the social worker smelled them on my breath. But since the place was halfway clean for once and Daddy was still sober enough to make a decent impression, the social worker left.

After he was gone, Daddy went straight to the old yellow fridge and took his bottle of whiskey out of the freezer. He took a long drink, then glared at Tara. It was a long, burning stare, and we all knew what it meant.

"Eliza, take the kids and go get in bed," said Tara, glaring right back at Daddy just like he was glaring at her.

Megan and I both knew what it meant when Tara told us to get in bed. We were supposed to go into the tiny bedroom we all shared, turn the box fan on, and pretend we didn't hear the noise from the other room. So that's what we did. I couldn't turn the fan on fast enough to drown out Daddy's voice.

"If a social worker ever comes to this house again I'm gonna beat you and the rest of those brats into the ground," he yelled, his voice crazed, almost a scream. "You hear me? Do you hear me, you little bastard? Do you?!"

"I didn't call them!" Tara yelled back. Glass broke, and the floor shook.

Megan whimpered. I turned the fan on high.

After a little while, Tara came into the bedroom. Her lower lip was swollen and bleeding, and tears of rage and shame streamed down her face. She swatted them away angrily and sat down on the floor at the foot of our mattress, her back turned to us. Megan and I left her alone, afraid she might cry.

Eventually she turned to face us. Her face was dry.

"You two have to be careful at school," she said. "Don't tell anyone how Daddy is and don't tell anyone we all share a room. Don't let anyone come over either."

Tara didn't have to worry about me. I didn't have any friends. I had nothing to say to anyone my age. They didn't know what it was like for me at home, and I hoped they thanked their lucky stars every night that they didn't.

Tara had a couple of friends - other girls that lived sort of like we did - but they didn't come over, and she didn't visit them. They all had this mutual understanding that life was no better at anyone else's place, and Tara never said it but I think she was ashamed of how we lived. Looking back on things, I think we had it far worse than anyone else.

That day was a Saturday. Tara cried a lot. Daddy didn't cry at all. Granddaddy wheezed and coughed from his bed. And I just sat there in our bedroom on our old mattress, frozen in the heat of the day, too afraid of what the future held to shed a tear.