Chapter 8: : Chapter 8

By the time I get to the apartment, I actually feel halfway good about my decision.

Sure, it won’t be easy not knowing when my next paycheck will be, but I have one last life raft left that I’m hoping will hold us over until I find another job.

It’s gonna be okay, Emma. It’s gonna be—

Then I open the door to an apartment that can’t possibly be mine. Because this place is an absolute mess. This can’t be mine—I just cleaned it top to bottom literally a day ago. Did I walk into the neighbor’s place by accident?

But then—

“Auntie Em!”

My heart drops, but I plaster a fake smile on my face and spread my arms as Reagan and Caroline beeline straight for me.

“Hey, you little monsters.” I catch them both, a kid under each arm, and squeeze hard, lifting them off the floor a few feet. Reagan squeals, Caroline giggles, and I try desperately not to burst into tears.

You’re fine. It’s just the stress talking.

The living room is a disaster. The toys I boxed are out of the crate once more, clothes and books are everywhere, and there’s a trail of chip dust covering the floor. From the bright orange stain on the carpet, I’m guessing Cheetos are the culprit here.

“So who wants to tell me what happened here, guys?” I ask when I’ve released them.

Reagan looks around the living room proudly. “Josh had to finish homework, so we played Twister.”

“Twister?”

Reagan’s head bobs up and down. “Yeah, Aunt Phoebe said they have those in Oak-loma.”

“Remind me to thank Aunt Phoebe for that. Where’s your dad?”

“He has a headache.” Caroline pouts. “So he’s resting.”

Right. “Headache.” Another one of Ben’s code words. “Headache” means “hangover,” just like “job fair” means “happy hour” and “doctor’s appointment” means “I ran out of beer, so I went to the bodega to get more.”

“For God’s sake,” I mutter under my breath, “it’s not even six o’clock.”

“Aunt Emma! Can we play Twister with you?”

“How about we play Post-Apocalyptic Clean-up Crew instead?”

Reagan starts booing me, though I’m pretty sure she has no idea what “post-apocalyptic” means, and Caroline starts jumping on the couch, singing a steady stream of “no’s.

My head spins as I retreat to the kitchen. “Oh God, what’s that smell?”

I follow my nose to the stove, where I find my favorite Betty Crocker pan covered in a thick layer of burnt sludge. I couldn’t decipher what it was if my life depended on it. I probably should be grateful the smoke alarm didn’t go off because the landlady always raises a fuss when that happens, but all I can think is, There’s fifty bucks down the drain.

“Did you guys try cooking by yourselves?” I ask the girls when they follow me into the kitchen.

“We said we were hungry, so Dad made us some food,” Caroline explains.

I should’ve known. This has Ben’s fingerprints written all over it.

“Yeah, but it tasted yucky,” Reagan adds, scrunching her button nose up so tight it practically disappears. “So we threw it away.”

“You guys haven’t eaten anything at all?”

Caroline balances herself against the table and kicks her legs up behind her. “Josh made us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

“But that was aaaaages ago,” Reagan complains. “I’m hungry again.”

I grab the pan and fill it with water and leave it in the sink to soak. Maybe there’s some hope of salvaging it. “Let’s see what’s in the fridge for dinner, shall we?”

I notice that the grocery list I’d made last week is still tacked up on the fridge. Goodness gracious, the hits just keep coming. “Um, did your dad go to the grocery store today?”

Both girls shake their heads in unison. “He said he was busy,” Caroline offers with a shrug.

Gritting my teeth, I open the fridge and look inside. There’s nothing there but stale leftovers that I’ve neglected to throw out.

And beer. Lots and lots of beer.

If Social Services comes around today, I’m screwed.

I can feel my sanity slipping away slowly. “Okay, you know what? We’re gonna have pizza today.”

I leave them cheering in the kitchen and walk back into the living room to retrieve my purse. My AmEx credit card is connected to my life raft account, and if ever I needed a life raft, it’s today.

I dig through my wallet, but the slot where I usually keep it is empty. “Hm. Where could that possibly have gone…?”

“Aunt Em?”

When I look up, Josh is standing at the entrance to the living room in a t-shirt that’s far too tight for him. When was the last time I took them shopping for new clothes?

“Hey, bud. Have you seen my silver credit card anywhere?”

He frowns. “It’s always in your wallet.”

“I know.” I rack my brain, trying to remember what I last used the card for. Did I just forget to put it back in my wallet? Then it hits me: back-to-school shopping for the spring semester. The kids all needed new binders. I have a vague memory of sitting at the kitchen table on the phone with Social Services to ask when the stipend was getting sent out when…

“Ben walked in.”

Josh looks confused. “Huh? What about Dad?”

I turn my back on him and race towards Ben’s room, my heart rate rising rapidly. Ben jerks upright when the door flies open, dried drool leaving a trail from one corner of his mouth down to his chin.

“Where is it?” I practically shriek.

He blinks at me, his eyes rolling sleepily. “Huh? What?”

“My credit card, Ben. Where is it?”

A spark of recognition flits across his eyes. That’s all it takes to confirm my suspicion: he took it.

I open my mouth to unleash holy hell on him, but before I can, Reagan’s pitiful little voice floats up from behind me. Her body is half-hidden behind the door frame and she’s looking at me with those big, beautiful eyes.

“Are you mad at Daddy?”

Caroline is standing behind Josh, looking just as upset as her sister. Keep it together, Emma. For the kids.

But before I can say anything, Josh steps in. “Auntie Em’s not angry. She just needs to talk to Dad. Come on; let’s go play Hide-and-Seek in my room.”

If I had the money, I’d buy that kid every pair of shoes in the store. I wait until Josh ushers his sisters away before I close the door and turn to glare at Ben.

“Where is it, you… you… you asshole?”

His eyes pop open. I’m usually not one for name-calling. But there are just some people who kick the Good Samaritan inside you until there’s no goodness left. He’s one of them.

“Relax. You barely use that card—”

“Because it’s for emergencies,” I snap. “Hand it over. Now.”

He stumbles to his feet. His belly seems to have doubled in size in the last few months. The rest of us are withering away, but Ben just keeps oozing in every direction.

“Goddammit, Ben, you reek!” I exclaim, stepping to the side as he bumbles past me to the floating shelves opposite his single bed. “Is that what you spent the grocery money on? More booze?”

“What’re you, the fuckin’ alcohol police? It was a rough night, okay?” He slides his hand over the topmost shelf and produces the card.

“Thank God.” I snatch it off him. “Please tell me you didn’t use it to buy more alcohol.”

“‘Course not.” I’m in the middle of a relieved exhale when he hits me with, “I needed it for Knicks tickets.”

I freeze. “I’m sorry—did you just say Knicks tickets?”

He grins as wide as I’ve seen him do in months. “Season tickets, baby. Courtside.”

My stomach plummets. Every organ in my body feels like it’s been jolted out of place.

There goes my life raft.

“Ben… How. Much. Did. You. Spend?”

His forehead pinches together. “I mean, they’re primo tickets, Emma. They weren’t cheap.”

I take a step towards him. “How much? I want a number.”

“Twenty grand.”

My jaw falls open. My eyes bug out. My first and only thought is, Kill him.

Some murders are justified, right?

“Twenty thousand dollars on basketball,” I gasp. “Ben, you idiot. That was it. That was all my money. All my savings. All our savings.”

He shrugs, his bloodshot eyes wavering. “Don’t be a drama queen. You’ve got a fancy-ass job. Bane Corp., right? That company pays their employees a boatload.”

“Except that even a boatload isn’t enough when your expenses are a… a… ship load!” I turn towards the door. “I’m calling and getting those tickets refunded!”

“Uh…”

I circle around to face him, eyes narrowing with fear. “Don’t say it. Don’t you dare say what I think you’re about to say.”

“They’re nonrefundable.”

I can only stare at my brother-in-law, wondering what kind of man, what kind of father, he might have been if Sienna was still alive. I want to believe that he’d have stepped up. I want to believe it’s the grief that robbed him of his sense of duty, his patience, his love for his children.

But there were signs even before Sienna died.

Ben was useless when he got back home after work. He’d sit on the couch with his shirt unbuttoned and a beer in his hand while Sienna ran around, getting dinner ready, taking care of the kids, tidying up the house. I’m tired, babe. I worked a long damn day. It never seemed to occur to him that she worked, too.

It’s funny, though—those things seemed so petty and minor in the moment. It’s only in retrospect that the warning signs are blaring red.

The one good thing I can say about Ben: he loved my sister. And for that, I’ve spent the last three-and-a-half years picking up the slack for his shortcomings.

“Don’t be so fuckin’ selfish, Em.”

“Me?!” I gape at him. I know I shouldn’t let myself get sucked in, but my nerves are strung out and so is my patience.

“You had that fucking money just sitting there!”

“That’s the whole damn point! It was meant to sit there until we really needed it. Which we do!”

He rolls his eyes. “Convenient that you need that money right when I need basketball tickets.”

“No!” I snap. “You don’t need basketball tickets; you want them. There’s a huge, huge difference. Josh needs a new pair of shoes, but now, thanks to you, he’s not gonna get them. I get that you don’t give a shit about me—but what about your kids, Ben. Huh? What about them?”

His eyes flit around the room and his face screws up like he’s almost regretful. Then, just when I think he’s going to say something remotely helpful…

He burps.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Okay,” I breathe, peeling them back open reluctantly. “This is what’s going to happen. You are gonna get a job. You’re gonna start helping me around the house and with the kids. You’re gonna start pulling your weight.”

He turns around and bends over, giving me an unwelcome eyeful of his hairy ass crack. Then he straightens back up with a beer in hand.

“Oh, great.” I applaud sarcastically. “Another beer. Glad you’ve got your priorities in order.”

He pops the cap and takes a sip.

“Ben! Did you hear me?”

He takes a long drag of his beer before looking me right in the eye. “No.”

My eyes bug out. “No? No to which part?”

“No to all of it. I don’t see the point anymore.” His lip wobbles when he speaks, but I’m long past the point of sympathy. I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel here.

“Your three children are the point, Ben.”

He shrugs. “They have you.”

“Ben—”

“And I know you’re gonna do everything in your power to keep those kids.”

Why does that feel like a threat?

“So I’m going out.”

He pushes past me, taking his beer can with him. A few seconds later, I hear the door slam. Now that Ben’s taken the overpowering scent of booze with him, I smell dirty socks and moldy carpet instead.

I back out of his room, but I misjudge where the door is and hit the wall instead. I let it take me down to the ground, sliding into a knees-to-chest puddle on the floor. It smells worse at this height, but the smell is the least of my problems.

Suddenly, the contract in my purse doesn’t seem quite as radical an idea as I first thought. In fact, it’s starting to feel very much like a replacement life raft.

I’d be able to provide for the kids. And I’d get a little something for myself, too.

Maybe this is not a desperate choice.

Maybe it’s not a choice at all.

It might just be the only option I have left.