CHAPTER63
It’s the middle of the night by the time I land in Chicago, and the hired driver takes me to West Englewood. The streets are badly lit, but that doesn’t conceal the grubbiness or dereliction of the area from view. Although the streets are busy with traffic, the neighborhood seems almost deserted. The aura of poverty and hardship are reflected in the brown buildings and scruffy stores, and I get that old ripple of trepidation and uneasiness moving through me. That weight of emptiness I used to feel at being here returns with a vengeance.
I’m to meet Sophie at my old home, the apartment that my mother has lived in since the day she brought me home from the hospital when I was born. My mother is stable in St Bernard Hospital, but I won’t be able to see her until morning to assess how much damage has been done.
I’m still numb with a tinge of anger even thinking about her. I know this isn’t natural; she’s my mother. I should feel concern, devastation, worry even, but I don’t. I’m cold and empty and upset. I’m enraged at her, that she just keeps following the same path in life, over and over. She’s my mother, yet all I ever learned from her was that the people who are supposed to be there for you, above everyone else, only have their own interests at heart.
I did learn one other valuable lesson from her though: the only way to get through life is to trust no one except yourself. Self-reliance is the only way to live. Never let anyone get close enough to damage you irreversibly. I learned from her that men will only look to overpower you and abuse you. She is so weak that, in her quest to find a man, she accepts any form of control they exert, any punishments they hand out.
She disgusts me. I’ll never be like her.
The car pulls up in front of a scruffy convenience store, its lights flickering in the dark, the letters peeling, paint chipped, and exterior ugly. The apartments above are brown and grubby. The windows appear dark and dirty from down here; an icy shiver courses through me and I shudder.
Home sweet home.
The driver gets out and retrieves my bags from the trunk, but I tell him I’ll take them into the apartment myself. I don’t want anyone in there, nor do I need his help. He reluctantly hands me the bags and watches me walk around to the side door, which is concealed by shrubs, and into the entrance hall of the building before he leaves. It’s narrow and stinks of rotten food and urine, causing me to wrinkle my nose in disgust. I push my way up the stairs to the top landing, straight to the scratched blue front door which met me every day of my young life. There is a light on inside shining through the transom glass indicating Sophie is here as planned. I knock on the door with a sharp rap.
Sophie opens it quickly. I guess she’s been watching for my arrival. She’s not what I expected and appears a lot younger in person than the fourteen years she told me on the phone. She’s small and wiry with long tawny hair and vibrant blue eyes. She looks exactly as I did at the same age, even the pouting lips and innocent, naive expression. It tugs at my chest, and I wonder if my mother saw me in this girl and that’s why she felt compelled to help her. The thought makes me snigger internally.
My mother was always good at seeking out those in need of help, offering her shoulder and arms, driven to be a good Samaritan. Yet she failed her own child in ways she can’t even begin to fathom and, still to this day, completely oblivious to the fact she was no mother at all. All her energy went to trying to be a better person for other people, to help them. Ironic really.
Sophie is shy and sweet. She leads me through to the living room and tells me she’s cleaned up the apartment for me, removing all traces of the attack after the police were done. She is obviously nervous.
I glance around numbly; it’s exactly how I remember it. Nothing has changed, not even the paintwork. The bohemian, almost hippy-like décor, cushions and throws, and mismatched furniture, the odd pieces of art from junk shops hung on the walls, the whole place is crammed and cluttered. The smell of bleach and incense lingers in the air, bringing back memories of so many nights locked within these walls, praying for the day I could run far, far away.
A memory of her battered and broken body by the couch when I was ten years old flits to mind, like bile in my throat, but I push it down along with the wave of emotions and anger. I’ll not allow myself to think about her until I see her tomorrow.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been staying in your old room,” Sophie blinks at me shyly, warily, but I give her a friendly smile.
“It’s fine, I won’t be here for long; couple of days at most. I’ll use my mother’s room.” I appraise her up and down again as she heads into the kitchen and makes us coffee. Watching her, I note that her childish mannerisms and obvious maturity for her age contradict one another, much like I always had been. It’s late; she should be in bed, but I’m curious about her.
“So, do you know who did this to my mother?” I ask outright, to get it over and done with, to have the talk I’ve been dreading. She flickers her lashes up warily and shakes her head abruptly. I catch the apprehension and immediately wonder if she’s lying. I used to lie for my mother on a daily basis. I know the signs.
“Does she have a new boyfriend?” I coax, although I know nothing of the men she knows nowadays.
What does it matter? Do I even really care?
“Yeah. I never met him; I don’t know his name.” She can’t look me in the eye, and I know pushing her will tell me nothing. I had the same look of determination at that age, guarding my mother’s secrets as though my life depended on it. I know she knows who he is.
“You found her? How bad is it?” I sit at the table, crossing my hands with precision; she comes over with the mugs, sliding mine before me, and sits opposite. There is something so fragile about her, yet so strong and capable that I find it hard to believe she is only fourteen, despite how she looks.
Why are her parents not looking for her? How long has she been here? She is too young and vulnerable to be alone.
“Yes. I came home from school. She wasn’t conscious at the time, but she came around when the ambulance got here. I think it looks worse than it is. Maybe a broken arm … ribs; her face is a mess.” She gazes her her hands the whole time she talks, and I note that they’re trembling. I think the girl still may be in minor shock, and I feel instant compassion for her. This is not her burden to bear.
“The man was gone, I take it?” I try a different approach.
“She was alone. I have a key, so I let myself in.” I see it fully this time, the slight waver in her lip, the darting of her eye. She’s hiding the fact that she knows who did this. She doesn’t know me, and I know from experience she will never tell me unless I gain her trust.
“Do you want to come to the hospital with me in the morning?” I ask, sipping my coffee and watching her as I remain calm and steady. She moves in her seat uneasily and nods.
“Go to bed, Sophie. I’ll get you up in the morning for breakfast.” I smile warmly at her as a look of confusion spreads across her face. I want this girl to know I only have her best interests at heart, that I’m nothing like my mother. She uses people like Sophie as a balm, a self-gratification in helping people in need.
“I normally do breakfast and get your mother up,” she says, blushing as though she has said something wrong, and my anger simmers deep down inside, sizzling with fire.
Of course, she’s living my old life, being the caretaker, the cook, the cleaner, the mature responsible one, while my mother is the eternal victim. Nothing changes.
“Not while I’m here, Sophie. You get to be the kid for a few days.” I want to ask her about her life, why she’s even here, how she ended up in the homeless shelter meeting my mother, but I know it’s late. I’ll have time to talk to this girl, to save her from a life she doesn’t need with a woman who can barely look after herself, let alone a teen. I won’t let Sophie have the childhood with my mother that I endured. That much I can promise. This ends here."
