Girl in Pieces

In Albuquerque, Tanner takes the backseat, falls asleep. Linus shoves the bag of pork rinds in my direction. I pour some into the palm of my hand.

“Linus,” I say softly. “Why are you helping me? You don’t even know me, and I’ve been so selfish. Like, I’ve never even asked you anything about yourself. And I’m sorry. That was shitty.” I take a breath. It’s what I wanted to say.

Her cheek is fat with food, like a squirrel’s. She swallows. “I drank my kids away from me. All those years I spent trying to get sober, they stayed with their dad and they didn’t want to see me, and rightly so. I did some truly horrible things that still make me want to puke with shame when I think about them.”

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Life without a mom is pretty shitty. They’re mad. They’re coming around, but real slow. They’re good kids, though, which makes me think they had some kindness along the way, little kick starts of help and love. So that’s what I’m doing. That’s why I’m helping you. I don’t know the story of your mom, but I have to believe she’s hoping somebody is looking out for you.”

I crush the rinds in my hand, lick the pebbles from my palm. “My mother doesn’t think like that.”

Linus is quiet for a long time before she answers.

“Yes. She does. Someday? If you decide to have kids, you’ll know what I mean. And it’ll knock you damn flat on your ass.”