The Cruelest Kind of Hate (Riverside Reapers Book 3)

CALISTA

I’ve come to the conclusion that even with the help of time-telling devices, the world just loves to see me suffer. My hair is a rat’s nest of tangles and grease, my patience is practically nonexistent, and I’m somehow juggling both Teague’s hockey bag and my mother’s medication.

My mother, Ingrid, was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in her early forties, around the time I was seventeen. And now I’m her primary caretaker. She’s pretty much bedridden, and the disease has resulted in muscle weakness, a lack of coordination, and chronic fatigue. My mother started to get bad around my junior year of high school, but her flare-ups spiked my sophomore year of college. After finding out how sick she’d gotten, I dropped out to take care of her. And due to her being indisposed, I became Teague’s guardian when he was only in kindergarten.

It breaks my heart to see her wasting away in bed, constantly fighting pain, never knowing when she’ll succumb to the sickness. There are days where I’m out of the house for extended periods of time, and I get this terrible feeling that I’ll come home to find her dead. Or worse—Teague will find her before I do.

Not only do I feel responsible for my mother because she’s, well, my mom, but she was my primary caretaker when we were struggling in an impoverished household. My father disappeared around my junior year of high school—when my mother’s condition became too much for him to deal with—and I haven’t seen him since. I don’t know where he ran off to or if he’s even still alive. Not that I care. He stopped being my dad the day he walked out on us.

My father was a good-for-nothing lowlife who leeched off this family and contributed nothing to our finances. So to remedy a single-income household, my mom sacrificed her entire life for me and Teague to have a somewhat normal upbringing. We lived in a two-bedroom apartment with an open-layout kitchen, a small bathroom, and barely enough square footage to constitute a living room.

Since my mother worked back-to-back shifts at the diner, she never had any time to clean the apartment. It was a mess: peeling carpet, roach carapaces melded to glue traps, traces of mold discoloring the walls of the bathroom, dirty dishes piled high in the sink, and toys and bills alike cluttered on every flat surface. My mother barely made enough money for weekly groceries, much less rent and utility bills. We were always behind on payments, and I began to realize how much money insecurity affected us when I got my first job my sophomore year of high school.

It was full-time at a local fast-food restaurant, which wasn’t terrible for my first work experience but definitely interfered with the quality of my education. I went from an A student to a C student within a semester. But it’s not like I could spend extra time studying and doing schoolwork when I had to assist my mother. So I traded school for the relief of carrying some of my mother’s stress and providing for my family.

I forfeited my dreams of finishing college and becoming a professional dancer. I forfeited my social life and love life. I forfeited…everything. There are some days I wish my life hadn’t turned out the way it did, but if I had to choose between my dreams and my family, my family would always come first—even at the expense of my happiness. It doesn’t feel like much of a loss, though, when my life had barely begun. And maybe it’s better this way: to kill something before it has the chance to grow.

Now I’ve become a permanent provider, leaving behind the typical twenty-something’s world of carefree living.

“Teague, you better be ready in the next three minutes!” I shout, schlepping his bag by the door as I make a detour to the kitchen. As much as I wish it was for a quick bite, I don’t have time.

I grab a glass from the cabinet, fill it with water, then bring my mother her beta interferons to help reduce inflammation. Thankfully, we don’t live in that cursed two-bedroom apartment anymore. Teaching ten back-to-back dance classes a day, five days a week, I saved up enough money to help us afford a better apartment. It also helped that disability and social security covered a lot of my mother’s medical expenses.

My mother’s bedroom is the furthest down the hall, shadowed by darkness and a foreboding feeling that swathes the stale air like overcast clouds. There’s this inexplicable cold that leeches to the nerves leading up my spine, and my heart always seems to hammer heavier at her door’s threshold.

Cautiously, I creak the partition open, revealing the sight of her bed basking in a single square of moonlight, her hair strewn over her pillow and covering the sharp edges of her face. The musty smell of unwashed clothes assaults my nostrils, having festered in an air-sealed pocket for the majority of the day. It reminds me that I’ll have to help her bathe when I get back from dance—if she’s even awake.

“Mom, it’s time to take your meds,” I whisper softly, slowly inching across the unvarnished floorboards to the side of her bed.

She emerges from that cotton-fitted fortress, a thin spiderwebbing of blood vessels in her eyes and her hair a mussed state of uncombed tresses. Her bony hand feels blindly across her mattress, skeletal fingers turning upward to catch the little white pills promising reprieve.

I let them plunk into her palm, and then I set her glass of water on the nightstand. It usually takes her muscles a few minutes to cooperate, but I have to make sure she’s actually ingesting her medicine.

I love my mother, I do. But being in that freezing room with her, practically hearing the Grim Reaper’s scythe knocking on her bedside window, rips my body apart and scatters every piece of my soul beyond rescue. I know she’d get better treatment in a hospital, but we don’t have a quarter of the money it would cost for such an expensive bill. Plus, if she were to stay in a hospital, her time there would be indefinite.

“Thank you, Calista,” she replies with a painful-sounding rasp, taking a sip from her drink before setting it back on the nightstand. I bend down to kiss the crown of her head, trying to latch on to any remaining remnants of her signature rose scent before she got sick, but that version of her is long gone.

“I love you,” I tell her, though I’m not sure if it’s intended for her ears or my guilty conscience.

“I love you too. Have a good class tonight.” Her diluted smile is equal parts gracious and pained, and while I retreat toward the door, I watch as she hides herself away again, practically disappearing into her queen-sized bed.

Some days, my mother doesn’t even show herself. Some days, she won’t come out from under the covers or even look at me. As dismal as the situation is, I’m lucky she was feeling strong enough to take her medicine today. I don’t know how to make any of this better for her. I don’t know how to mitigate the years of pain that have built up—the years of pain that she’d be quick to carry herself if I was the one in her situation.

When I make my way back into the hallway, Teague is waiting for me by the door, geared up in tons of hockey padding and looking like the Michelin Man. A frown is plastered to his lips, an indecipherable expression souring his features.

Running late isn’t a rare occurrence in this household. This pretty much happens every morning before school and before hockey practice. With how busy my schedule is, I’m surprised I’m even able to take him instead of our neighbors, who step in when I’m too caught up in work.

“Come on, Squirt. We have to hurry.”

Keys jangling on my index finger, I swing my dance bag haphazardly onto my arm. But when I go to open the door, Teague doesn’t move toward the exit. He doesn’t bend down to pick up his hockey bag. He stares at me, the hard line of his brow and his matching pout both making his cherubic cheeks puff out.

A groan and a sigh merge in the tight cavity of my chest. “Teague, I don’t have time for this. We have to go. Now.”

“I don’t want to go,” he murmurs, bowing his head.

He doesn’t want to go? Are you kidding me right now?

I drop my bag to the floor, close the door, and grind my teeth hard enough to loosen a filling. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t want to go to practice today.”

“Since when?” I growl, digging the heel of my palm into my forehead like it’ll magically cure the headache solidifying behind my eyes. We’re ten minutes late. If I entertain this, it’ll put my entire schedule thirty minutes behind.

Hey, God. It’s me, Calista. I’m not sure what you’re doing up there—if you’re throwing your swanky Jesus sandals up on your cloud coffee table—but I really need you to listen. Please give me a break. I’m not asking for much. A small break. Something that’ll keep my blood pressure in check. I’ll literally do whatever you want. You want my unborn child? You got it. You want me to harvest the blood of virgins and sacrifice goats under the full moon? Sure thing, buddy.

“Cali, please,” Teague whines, moisture pushing against the dam in his eyes, seconds away from breaking through the crack and rushing out in snot and sobs galore.

I tame my temper, suck in a breath, and then kneel down to his height. “What’s going on, Squirt?”

Teague’s never acted like this before. He loves going to hockey practice.

“I just…can I please stay home? Or can I go with you to dance class?”

The sad, puppy dog look on his face is currently beating my heart in with a spike-studded bat. I hate it when Teague’s upset. And I hate it even more when I can’t fix whatever’s bothering him.

“You know I can’t leave you alone, bud. And I can’t bring you with me,” I admit regretfully, tucking a wily curl of hair behind his ear. “Please just tell me what’s going on.”

His entire face turns a muted red, and he shrinks under his layers of gear, refusing to look me in the eye. “Some of the kids…they…”

I nod at him to continue, the pad of my finger soaking up a rogue tear that’s made a great escape down his cheek. On the outside, I’m as cool as a cucumber. On the inside, tiny versions of me are running around in circles in my head and screaming as fire engulfs every inch of my brain.

“They what?”

His lower lip quivers, and that’s enough warning before he collapses into a crying fit and flings his arms around my neck. “They make fun of me,” he bawls into my shoulder, scrunching my crop top up in his little fists.

Shock sparks my stomach, and then flammable barrels of rage light inside of me. “What?”

He’s getting bullied at practice? Why didn’t he tell me sooner? Why didn’t I realize it sooner? I’m going to confront those eight-year-old pieces of shit and demand that they apologize to him. Can I punch a child? Is that legal? Or…ethical? Fuck it. I don’t care.

He pulls away from me, his skin slathered in wetness, his eyes red and puffy, and his nose bubbling. “I’m…so b-bad at hockey…and they…p-pick on m-me!”

“Oh, Squirt,” I console, bringing him back into an embrace, fully accepting that my shirt will be decorated in stains by the time I get to class. His small frame shakes as he wails, awakening that mama bear instinct within me as I stroke his hair and simultaneously plot total-world destruction.

“I’m so sorry that’s happening, Teague. But you have to know that you’re an amazing hockey player.”

“You’re just saying that!”

He’s right. A part of me is just saying that. I’ve never really seen Teague play before. I’ve just been so busy—so absent.

“I…” My voice dies on a crack.

“Please don’t make me go, Cali. I don’t want to see them. Please, please, please,” he begs, stomping his foot while more tears stream out of his eyes, splotching the ring of his jersey’s neckline.

Guilt corkscrews deep into the flesh of my heart, and my apology doesn’t need to be written out in big, bold letters for him to understand the tug-of-war position he has me in. “If I could bring you to my class with me, I would in a heartbeat. But it’s not appropriate. I’m sorry, kiddo.”

The shallow bursts of breath from his mouth descend into somewhat controlled sniffles. “I-I understand…”

I rub my hands up and down his arms. “Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do. All I ask is that you go for today’s practice, and then we can talk about the next steps. Can you do that for me? Can you be brave today, Teague?” I ask.

“I think I can,” he replies, and although uncertainty colors his tone, he puts on the bravest face he can muster.

His agreement dissolves my fleeting panic, but I know he can only keep the anxiety at bay for so long. “I promise I’ll fix this.”

I will fix this. I’ll do right by my brother. I have to. I have to be better. A better sister, a better daughter, a better…everything.

So, now running the estimated thirty minutes behind, I get Teague buckled into the car, and I drive as fast as I can to the rink, glancing back every minute or so to see if the nervous twist of his face has straightened out.

I feel like I’m walking my brother to the goddamn gallows. Each intersection we fly through, each building we pass, each number that changes on the digital clock—they all contribute to the growing distress hatching marks on every inch of my body.

And when I pull up to the mouth of the rink, I watch helplessly as Teague straggles his way to practice, every atom of life drained from his once-happy spirit.