Resurface

The stench of smoke radiating from the carpeted floor hits me before my mother's scream could. I hate going home. I hate the stale smell of our living room. I hate the cigarette burns on the only couch that we have. I hate the looming crippling pain that comes with this house and I hate my Mom. She's everything that I never wanted to be -- an alcoholic irresponsible mother. "Did you get paid today?" She asked me before I even put my book bag on the ground. Her eyes were dilated, her breath stinks of cigarette and gin, but her smile was radiating of desperation and excitement. I know that smile, it's trouble. "I didn't, Sarah said we'll get paid by the end of March." I lied, her smile fell to a thin line. "That b***h, she's had you working for 10 f*****g hours today, on a f*****g school night. It's 4 in the morning Heart." She screamed at me. "She's an old lady who needs my help" i said through gritted teeth. "An old f*****g fart who only use you." She screamed more louder, her spit spraying on my defenceless face. "She's a nice lady and she pays well" I said calmly, I don't want our neighbours to complain about us, we're already late for this month’s rent, I don't want to add up more liabilities and end up homeless by the end of march. "Then where is the money!" She screamed louder. The veins on her forehead throbbing, her hand ready to slap me. Then I felt the snap of her skin connecting to mine. "I'll give you money when she pays me. So please calm down." I calmly said to her. The last time I raised my voice I had a cracked rib and fat lip. I like school and my work, and I can't fully function with a cracked rib and I don't have enough cash to go to a hospital. Tough luck for people like me. "Honey, get that face iced. You're looking a little red." She walked away and sat down at the living room. We didn't have ice. I walked out of our apartment to our landlord’s apartment, praying that my Mom wouldn't sniff the money through my bra. "Where are you going?" My mom asked unfazed. "To get ice" I muttered. Praying that she won't have a fit. She didn't even give me  a glance, I quietly closed the door and went to 2 floors down to the landlords apartment. "Rita?" I knocked on her door. "Hey kiddo, what happened to your face? You look like a c***k whore." "It's a new look, everyone’s at school has been racking blush on their faces for no reason"  I humoured her, Rita knew my situation and she knew when to ask and when not to ask -- humour has been our way of communicating whenever it gets bad for me. The last time I came over to pay our rent I had a c***k rib and bloodied lip, the shock on her face unfazed me but then she asked if I had my lips done like the Kardashian's. It was an unspoken connection, she's been through s**t and she was helping me cope. "Here's last month's rent and this months’ rent. If Gina asked if I paid rent, you know what to say." I gave her the money and went to her kitchen to get ice on the fridge. "Yeah, yeah kiddo. You didn't paid rent and you're a month away from getting evicted, I know the story."  Her jersey accent shining through. Her eyes followed me through the island as I put ice on the wash clothe and wrapped it up to put on my cheek. "I got something for yah here, I saw a letter coming from Vermont and took it from the mailman before you're Ma sees it."  She passed me the letter. Flipping the envelop in my hand, running my fingers through scribbled handwriting addressing my name. "You've been getting a lot of mails, you're lucky you got me to cover your ass or Gina would go all Jackie Chan on your ass and the next thing I knew you'll be in the ER" I winced, Rita was right I should tell Lance to write me at Rita's address. It'll be safer that way for me, at least. “I’ll tell Lance to mail it to your address. Thank you Rita for covering for me." “when will your daddy get your ass out of here anyways?"  She asked all of a sudden. “I don't know, but I don't want to go back to the foster home." I went to her couch ice in hand and flipped through her TV. She gave me a pat in the back and I just looked at her, thankful that I had someone who's looking out for me. I wouldn't know what I would do if I hadn't had Rita. "You'll be fine kid. Stay here until you Ma's asleep; Tony dropped off a tray lasagna this afternoon get a slice while we watch Dynasty." I hugged her side and squealed like a 5 year old. "There's lasagna? Oh, Rita I love you!"  She pushed me off oh her, smacking my shoulder repeatedly. "No meat?" I asked "Eh, it is. Eggplant Lasagna. I couldn't even eat it. Enjoy Kiddo" I grinned from ear to ear, and hugged her tightly. “Yeah kid , I'm a Saint whatever. Now go get your ass off of that couch." She pry of my hands off of her. "Yes, Ma'am" I happily ate the lasagna and watched Empire with Rita. When Rita was snoring at the end of the couch I opened the letter that Lance wrote me, the envelop held a credit card with my name and a letter attached to it. Dear Heart, I'm sorry I hadn't written in a while, I've been busy with the business and went to China to visit some factories. Business is okay but, I know you've been weary. With the last letter I left off a bit rudely, I'm sorry again. I got your DNA result -- it's a match, you truly are my daughter. I guess I didn't really imagine getting Gina pregnant. You might not know this but she was a bit too over bearing back in the days I wouldn't go into details, but I guess she hasn't changed. Again, I'm sorry. I have a lot of catching up to do and I know money is not enough but right now I hope it is for the time being. Get yourself anything you want, I don't care how expensive it is. I want you to be comfortable and safe. I don’t know how to be a Dad, Heart. But I do know that I have to keep you safe, and I don't know what is happening with you and Gina at your home but I know that you wouldn't write to me unless you are in a bad situation. I'll be in New York this march 15 and I want to see you. Get a phone with that credit card and call me or text me. Behind this letter is my personal number and e-mail. I'll answer no matter what. Love, Dad