SOMETHING LIKE NORMAL (Something Like Normal #1)

Three

“Daddy, I don’t want to go with him. He’s scary.”

My father, Thomas Lee, is a tall man with black hair and blue eyes. I’ve watched my dad go from a healthy man to a skinny, sick man. And I know it’s got to do with the white powder my daddy smokes, or sometimes, I see him put it up his nose.

Daddy crouches down and rests on one knee, looking me in the eyes.

“You be a good girl and go with Phil, okay, baby? He won’t hurt you.”

“But I don’t like him,” I reply, looking over his shoulder at Big Phil.

Big, fat Phil.

He looks scary, standing with his arms crossed. And even though he’s wearing dark sunglasses, I know he’s looking at me and making an angry face. His big, round belly sticks out like Santa Claus, but Santa doesn’t look as mean as Phil does. And I don’t think he’s as fat.

Looking back at my father, I see his jaw moving back and forth quickly, and he shivers like he’s cold. I wonder what’s wrong with him.

“Daddy, are you sick?”

Daddy shivers once again and softly grabs my upper arms. “Yes, Mia, I’m sick. You have to go with Phil to make Daddy better.”

I bite my lip and look over his shoulder once more. Phil takes off his sunglasses and gives me a small smile. My arms get funny bumps on them. I don’t like him smiling at me.

“Okay, Daddy, I’ll go,” I say, nodding, and am happy when I see him smile at me.

“Good girl, Mia. You’re my princess; you remember that. That’s why you’re called Mia,” he says. “You’ll always be mine.”

Daddy told me that my name means “mine” in Italian. I like knowing that I’ll always belong to my daddy.

“Okay, Mia, take this bag,” he says, slipping my pink Tinker Bell backpack onto my shoulders. “Phil will take you to lots of different places, and all you have to do is give the little bags to the people who need them. Can you do that for Daddy?”

I nod. “Yes. But what’s inside? Why can’t he do it?”

Daddy closes his eyes and lets out a big breath. “It’s candy for grown-ups. Once you give the candy to the grown-ups, Daddy can have his. Go now, Mia. I’ll see you later.”

I’m a big girl now. I’m eight years old, and big girls don’t cry.

“Okay, I love you.”

I give Daddy a big hug, and he feels sweaty and shaky. I have to do this for him because I want my daddy to play catch with me again and make me food like he used to do before he got sick.

With my heart pounding, I take a step toward Phil, who has walked over to his white van.

“Mia!” Daddy calls out to me.

“What, Daddy?” I ask quickly, running over to him.

Maybe he’s changed his mind, and I don’t have to go with Phil.

“I promise, baby, it’ll only be this one time. Daddy will get better.”

“Okay. Bye, Daddy,” I say, looking into his sleepy red eyes.

I walk toward Phil, and with every step I take, I look over my shoulder, hoping my daddy will stop me.

But he doesn’t.

And that day I realized…my daddy was a liar.

Jolting awake, I attempt to catch my breath.

As my eyes take in my surroundings, my heart rate begins to slow to a semi-normal pace. I can see through the thin, frilly curtains that it’s still dark out.

Holy s**t, I hate dreaming.

I always wake this way, and it takes me several minutes to think straight. I know from experience that I have no hope of getting back to sleep, especially after having that particular dream. It was the day my faith in my father diminished. It was the day my father traded me to Big Phil for drugs.

It was the day I became a drug peddler.

Mia Lee, drug dealer at age eight.

No longer able to sleep, I decide to get an early start on the day.

I spend twenty minutes coloring my skin to a bright red while standing under the shower spray. Only then do I stop shivering.

I hate that my dad still has this effect on me. Whenever I think about my father, I hate that I transform into that scared little eight-year-old—the eight-year-old who became Big Phil’s number one drug dealer.

I had the pleasure of being Big Phil’s top employee for eleven years. In eleven f*****g years, I’ve seen things that would make the toughest motherfucker cower in fear.

I’ve seen mothers get high and ignore their crying babies, too strung out to notice their child is dirty and starving. I’ve seen junkies pry needles from the arms of their fellow junkies to shoot up, desperate to get their next fix. I’ve seen kids no older than me addicted to their drug of choice and do anything, and I mean anything, to get a hit.

And I stood by and watched. No, I stood by and helped these individuals destroy their lives with every hit they took. I’m as much to blame as Big Phil. And my dad.

Big Phil is the biggest drug dealer in Los Angeles. Whatever you wanted, Big Phil could get. He dealt in coke, h****n, weed, meth, speed, prescription pills, and everything in between.

But Big Phil never got his hands dirty as he hid behind the ruse of being a hippie herbalist. He owned a small shop front downtown and was the perfect social chameleon. His business, Happy Herbs, sold remedies to “cure” everything from the common cold to cancer.

It was all bullshit, of course.

His “remedies” were cheap imports and usually only cured people who wanted to believe in a miracle cure. He was a fraud on all accounts and couldn’t care less when his miracle remedies fell short of achieving what they claimed to do.

But somehow, he evaded the police and continued his illegal dealings, making a name for himself among the lowlife scumbags of LA. But looking at Phil, you would never pick him out for what he is—a parasite. He blended into society in his nice suits and fake smiles, and you wouldn’t look twice if you walked past him on the street.

On the outside, he’s your average American with nothing special or memorable about him. But on the inside, he’s a ruthless murderer with greed fueling his every emotion. And that’s what makes him a dangerous predator. He’ll attack when one least expects it, blindsiding his victims and catching them unaware.

The fear he induces in people makes him untouchable. This fact alone fuels his sadistic ways, making him feel invincible and unstoppable.

So how did I get involved in all these illegal dealings?

It all comes down to one man, of course.

My father.

When my mother left for Canada, she took a piece of my father with her. I don’t know why she left, because we were happy. Well, I thought we were.

My dad worked for a successful manufacturing company and had just been promoted to shift manager. My mother was an art teacher at the local high school, and her art was on display at a gallery downtown, which was her dream come true.

But then one day, my father picked me up from kindergarten, and he told me my mother was gone and never coming back. I remember that day clearer than any that have passed since. I had drawn her a picture of an off-center butterfly, its wings streaked with bright greens and pinks and blues. I was so proud of my picture because it was similar to the one I had seen her submit to her art show.

I remember crying like I had never cried before when my father told me she had left us, and it was only him and me from now on.

I held that picture tightly to my chest because it was the last thing I would ever draw for her.

My father saw me gripping that piece of paper like it was my lifeline, and he angrily asked what it was. When I told him I had drawn it for my mother, my father flew into a fit of rage and tore the picture from my tiny fingers, tossing it out the open window.

The scream that ripped from my throat left my voice raspy for three days. I recall seeing my artwork fly into the wind like a balloon, and I closed my eyes tight, wishing it was all a bad dream.

But when I reopened them, sadly, it was real.

My childhood ended that day, and I was forced to become an adult quickly because my dad started dabbling in drugs soon after. But it wasn’t until I got to age eight that his drug use got out of control.

I never understood why my dad became agitated and angry because he was usually such a placid, happy man. Now I know my father was a drug addict. Well, more specifically, he was a meth addict. He would abuse the drug over and over, and now I know this misuse is called a “run.” He would inject the drug every few hours until he ran out of his stash or just got so f****d up he couldn’t continue.

It started about a year after my mother left and escalated as time passed. Soon, my dad raked up a drug debt so big, he couldn’t afford to pay it, so that’s when I started “working” for Big Phil to pay for my dad’s drug habit.

My dad lost his job and burned through his savings quicker than expected because his habit was getting out of control. Any help from the government was blown on his addiction, and it still wasn’t enough to pay for his habit. So that’s where I became useful to my dad and to Big Phil.

My dad and Phil came to an agreement. I would work for Big Phil whenever he needed me to deliver drugs, as no one questions an eight-year-old roaming the streets with a Tinker Bell backpack who appears to be on her way to school. And that’s because no one could fathom that her backpack would be filled with drugs.

Big Phil used to fill my bag with a cocktail of drugs, and I would deliver his goods and collect his money, no questions asked. In return, he would give my dad cheap drugs; the cheaper the drugs, the bigger the addiction. Therefore, I ended up working for Big Phil full-time.

As I got older, I knew what was happening, but I was still that scared little eight-year-old whenever my father begged me to help him, promising it was the last time.

It never was. And that’s how I ended up in the situation I’m in now.

I don’t know if anyone has discovered his body because he had no friends or family. It was just us. Big Phil was supposedly coming over, but what if he never did? Is my dad lying dead and undiscovered? That thought turns my blood cold.

So why did I shoot my dad?

I ended his miserable life because he deserved it. I shot him because being a drug dealer wasn’t good enough anymore.

I hate myself for ruining so many people’s lives, but in the end, they had a choice. No one held a gun to their head to get high.

On the other hand, I did have a gun pointed at my head—literally.

The day my father pointed a gun at me and threatened to end my life if I didn’t become a “w**********l” for Phil to pay for his increasing drug debt was the day I had enough.

As I said, it was either him or me.

I just regret I didn’t do it sooner.

“Holy f**k!” I screech as a beetle the size of a small child crawls out of room 9.

I scamper out of the way as the lazy bug is none the wiser that it has just scared the bejesus out of me.

This is the third room I’ve cleaned that has had some bug out of Arachnophobia creeping out, ready to attack me.

Pathetic, I know. After all the s**t I’ve seen in my life, you wouldn’t think a tiny bug would give me the creeps—but they do, as they’re one of the only things I fear.

There’s a reason for my phobia, and that reason can be found in my shitty childhood.

“Paige, you’ve done a wonderful job,” Hank says with a smile while looking into the room.

Today, he looks the perfect Grandpa part in his gray trousers held up by navy suspenders. He has on a loose white T-shirt with a coffee stain on the front, and to the left of that stain is something that looks like jelly.

“Thanks,” I reply, wiping my hands on my white apron as I rearrange the cleaning products on my silver cart.

“What are the plans for today?” he asks as we stroll down the walkway to the office.

I shrug because I haven’t given it much thought. After the crappy sleep I had, I was hoping to catch some shut-eye. Apart from that, I have no other plans.

“Oh, c’mon. After all the hard work you’ve just done, you should go out and explore.”

Raising my eyebrow at him and pursing my lips, I’m about to tell him I don’t plan on staying here for longer than a month, but he gives me a lopsided grin, reading my thoughts.

“Yes, I know, you’re not here to stay, but you’re young. Go out and have some fun.”

Fun? I don’t see how I can have fun in a town like South Boston. I looked up the population in the little welcome brochure in my bedside dresser, and it’s pretty measly. Pulling in at just over eight thousand one hundred people, I’m pretty certain no fun will be found in the city streets.

“I don’t even know my way around. I’ll get lost,” I reply as we reach the office.

Grandpa unlocks the door, and I wait as he shuffles inside.

“I’ll tell ya what. I don’t need my truck today. How ’bout ya take the Old Girl for a spin? My neighbor gave me her old GP something or other, and God knows I have no use for it. All these modern gadgets are too complicated for my old brain,” he says, reaching behind the counter and handing me a set of keys hanging off an old Dodge key ring.

I peer down at the keys like they’re from outer space. Is he really lending me his truck? For the first time in forever, I’m shocked.

“I…can’t take your truck,” I say, shaking my head.

Grandpa lets out a warm laugh. “You’re not taking it. You’re borrowing it. There’s a big difference. Go on.”

I don’t know what to do, as this is a circumstance where someone is being nice to me without wanting anything in return.

As I continue to hesitate, Grandpa reaches for my hand and places the keys into my palm. His hand clasps over mine, and when I would normally flinch or pull away, I involuntarily squeeze his hand in gratitude.

“Thank you, I…thank you,” I stammer, looking into his gray eyes.

Grandpa removes his hand from mine and waves it off like it’s nothing, but little does he know how his kindness has touched me.