Lost Girl

Chapter Five: The Mother

Eve walked into the kitchen and hoped she wouldn't see what she always did: the thing that called itself her mother.

But of course, Sylvia Darlene was where she always was when she was upright and conscious – in the kitchen, sitting at the single chair they owned with a newspaper in one hand and a beer in the other. There were two empty bottles next to her "breakfast" – a small pile of Wheat Thins – which meant that she'd either started drinking early today... or never stopped last night.

Sylvia barely looked up from her paper when Eve walked in. The paper itself was a mystery, since Eve knew for a fact they didn't have the money to subscribe to anything more expensive than the free Apartment Guide at the nearby gas station. Still, Sylvia had one every morning. Wheat Thins and beer and a newspaper to read.

Occasionally Eve suspected that Sylvia – she refused to call the woman Mom, since that was a title that Eve believed a person had to earn – probably bought the paper from someone with the only "coin" the woman still had at her disposal. A horrifying thought. So Eve just did her best to keep her mind as far from the whole issue as possible.

Eve looked at the beer. For some reason the sight of it irritated her more than usual. She knew it was stupid, knew it was foolish to engage her mother in conversation, but she couldn't help it. "Seriously?" she said.

Her mother turned a page. "Don't judge," she said. Her voice was deep and throaty, surprising from someone that probably weighed in at slightly less than the average supermodel. Eve knew that a lot of people found that kind of voice attractive; sexy. But it never failed to grate on her. And today it was worse than usual, like a combination of nails on a chalkboard, babies crying, and cats humping on top of a bed of broken glass.

She turned away. Moved to the fridge and opened the door. Hopefully her mother wouldn't say anything more and they could be done chatting for the day.

Again, not to be. "What's your name today?" asked Sylvia.

Eve sighed. She rolled her eyes – somewhat wasted since she had her back turned – and sighed. It was the classic "can't we please just let this drop just this once?" sigh that she used with her mother at least ten times a day. But it didn't seem to register this time. Or ever.

"Well?" said her mother.

"It's Eve, Sylvia," she said. She grabbed a green apple – what her mom used to call SweeTart apples before she quit eating fruits and vegetables in favor of hops and Nabisco products – and turned back around. The fridge swung shut behind her but didn't seal until Eve kicked back and slammed it into place with the bottom of her boot. "Same as yesterday."

Slvia shook her head and made tsk-ing sounds. "That's not your real name."

Eve rolled her eyes, and this time she made sure to do it broadly enough that her mother would have to see it, even with only peripheral vision. "My real name sucks."

Sylvia winced. Eve didn't understand that: why her mother would be so attached to something so old fashioned, and to that particular thing, out of everything else that was wrong about their lives together. Eve fought with her mother regularly and could never tell what would get her angry, what would simply be ignored. But this whole name thing riled her mother instantly, every time.

"It's a good name," Sylvia said.

Eve crossed her arms across her chest. She was wearing her favorite jacket, which was fake leather that almost looked real and had enough buckles to outfit a pilgrim parade. Her arms jangled. "Tell me why," she said. "Why is it a good name?"

Sylvia stared at her for a long time before looking back at her newspaper. But Eve didn't even have the satisfaction of winning the staring contest with her mom – Sylvia hadn't been blanching, she had been dismissing her.

"Don't forget to visit Gramma today."

Eve didn't say anything for a moment. She scowled, and took a bite of the apple. It was extra sour, pulling her cheeks into a grimace that somehow made everything go from bad to worse in her mind.

"What if I don't want to?"

The response was instantaneous: "You will if you don't want your ass handed to you."

Eve crossed her arms again. She spoke, and was horrified at the words that came out of her mouth. Horrified, but at the same moment they felt delicious on her tongue. Like they were absolutely the right thing to say, like they were the only thing to say. "Were you this bitchy when Dad was still around?"

Sylvia didn't move. No one did. The small kitchen was absolutely still, save only for the clunking hum of the fridge as it struggled to run for another day. Eve almost wondered if her mother had heard what she just said. But of course she had. She must have.

Another sound joined that of the rust-spattered fridge. It was dry, crackling like the sound of a rodent being pulverized between a cat's jaws. Eve couldn't pinpoint the source of it for a moment, then realized that it was coming from the newspaper. Sylvia's knuckles were whitening and tightening around the newspaper, which was crumpling quietly as she crushed it.

Then Sylvia's fingers spasmed open and the newspaper tumbled down, glancing off the table before flapping to the cheap linoleum flooring below. Before the pages had completely settled, Sylvia's fingers were wrapped around the neck of one of the beer bottles. Not the one she'd been drinking from, not the one that still held any liquid. An empty.

"What did you say?" she said. Her voice was no longer alluring. It was dry and low as a razor being sharpened on a whetstone.

Eve tried to think of what to say – of what she could say that would provide some shelter from the impending storm of rage. But nothing was coming.

"Answer me," said Sylvia. She started tapping on the table with the bottle. Tap... tap... tap....

Eve saidnothing. There was nothing to say.