My mother had turned it into a game. And it was simple. Whoever found the most change in the house won. That was it.
Our one story suburban home was free range. Everything counted. You only had to make sure that you turned every single silver cent in. Pennies allowed, of course, but frowned upon. It didn’t really matter, though. Only that our wooden, chipped coffee table was covered in coins.
My mother and I didn’t start playing this game until I was 10 years old, right after my dad left. My older brother, Nicholas, wasn’t around much. Just as absent as our father. Spending most of his time at his friend’s house, unable to deal with our sadness, I think.
I didn’t notice it back then.
Especially when my mother would move the stacks of unpaid bills off the coffee table and we’d stand on either side of it. Hands in. A small prayer, praised, then we’d break.
The kitchen timer was set. We had five minutes. That was all it took to tear the house apart in search of coins.
My mother would always begin by picking up the ratted couch cushions, bending over and placing her left cheek on our living room floor, searching for dropped change. Amateur moves, if you ask me.
Because I had it figured out.
Nick’s bedroom was a hot spot.
And my mother never looked there. She’d hardly go in there anymore.
So on those nights, I’d open his bedroom door slowly, as not to make a sound. Nothing had been moved. Ever. As if he’d perished in a fire or at his own hand, when he was only a few streets down.
I’d head straight for his light wooden desk, in search for his own “treasure,” hidden in the bottom, left drawer. Consisting of three stale cigarettes, one purple condom, a Sears’ catalog and a glass bowl from our kitchen filled with quarters and dimes.
I’d dump all of his change onto our coffee table and jump up and down. Dance. High-five my mother, and laugh while we’d make our way to the driveway where my mother’s maroon minivan lived.
On these game nights, my mother would drive through skies that broadcasted stars, not skies that hid them, and we’d blast the greatest hits. The bass shaking the car and my mother’s hips, all the way to the Golden Gallon where we once saw Jesus walking barefoot through the streets. Not metaphorically, of course. He was just some guy dressed as Jesus and he prayed with us before heading into the empty fields toward Kentucky. Or wherever Jesus lives.
Once we’d arrive, I’d wait in the car and watch my mother through the windows. Her body disappearing, her light blonde hair bouncing up above the shelves as she made her way to the back of the gas station. She’d pick up a gallon of 2% milk and place it slowly on the counter, then dig in the front, worn pocket of her blue jeans and pull out the $3.73 in the silver coins we had just collected. The exact amount. No change back necessary.
My mother would then walk back toward me with her head held high, holding the milk up like a first place trophy. Smiling. Shouting. Shining. Laughing as she handed it to me in the passenger seat.
“Good game, Belle,” she’d tell me in her sweet southern accent she pulled from the bottom of some Tennessee barrel, “I am so proud of you.” Then we’d drive back home feeling satisfied.
My mother doesn’t know this, but one night after our game, I’d woken up in my parent’s old, marital bed, and discovered her missing. With my winter coat wrapped around me because we could not afford heat, I found her in my brother’s room. His window cracked. His bottom drawer opened. While she puffed on one of his expired menthols, sobbing.
I hid behind his door and listened. Listened to her pace back and forth. Listened to the sound of my brother’s bed creaking as she gave up. Listened to my mother choke on her own mucus, blow her nose and cough up slime into Nick’s comforter. Then I’d heard her pray.
After a few moments, I walked back to my parent’s bedroom, and rested on my father’s side. Then I’d repeat in my mind, like a mantra, begging God to not let me have a nightmare that evening. Until I bored myself to sleep.
Author: Isabella Roy
Email: [email protected]
Author Bio: Isabella Roy is a writer from Mount Juliet, Tennessee who was once given the superlative for Most Likely To Build A Monument To Themselves in eighth grade. She has also recently earned her B.F.A. in Writing at the Savannah College of Art and Design. Isabella refuses to leave her house without a shade of red on her lips and occasionally lets her Southern accent slip out just in case it makes her sound endearing. Oh, and she is incredibly passionate about truth, love and resistance.
