“I'm so sorry, Rae. I'm so, so sorry.”
Elsie's hands shake as she signs, and I watch my baby sister crumble into herself like she's trying to disappear into the worn fabric of our thrift-store couch.
I drop my bag by the door at 11:47 PM and cross to her immediately, pulling her into my arms. Her body vibrates against me with the force of keeping her sobs quiet, a habit from years of not wanting to "burden" me with sounds I'd have to translate for her.
God, I'm going to kill our mother.
When Elsie pulls back, her fingers fly through the air, desperate to explain, to apologize, to make this somehow her fault when it's absolutely fucking not.
"She looked different," Elsie signs. "Clean. Sober. She had on real clothes, Rae. Not pajamas at three in the afternoon. Her hair was brushed. She smiled at me like—"
Her hands pause, hover in the air like broken birds.
"Like she used to sometimes when we were little," she finishes, and oh, that's my heart shattering into approximately two million pieces.
The thing about addicts that nobody tells you? They're incredible actors when they need something. Academy Award worthy.
And you want to believe.
Jeez, you want to believe so badly it becomes its own kind of addiction.
"Tell me everything," I sign back, keeping my face calm even as rage builds behind my ribs. "Start from the beginning."
Elsie wipes her face with the back of her hand, takes a shaky breath, and begins again.
"She knocked around four. Not banging like usual when she's drunk. Polite knocking. I looked through the peephole and she just... she looked like a mom, Rae. Like other kids' moms."
Fuck.
"You let her in."
Not a question. Of course she let her in. Fourteen-year-olds aren't supposed to be human metal detectors for their mother's sobriety.
"I made tea." Elsie's signs get smaller, ashamed. "I wanted to be a good host. Like you taught me. She said she'd wait in the living room, but when I came back…"
"Your room or mine?" I already know the answer.
"Yours. She had the envelope. The one from your closet, behind the winter coats." Elsie continues. "Said you knew about it, that you told her she could borrow some for an emergency."
"And you believed her?"
The words come out sharp enough to cut, and I immediately want to stuff them back in when Elsie flinches.
Great job, Rae. Traumatize her more. That'll help.
"She said she was meeting you at the restaurant to explain everything." Elsie's hands drop to her lap for a moment. "I'm fourteen, not four. I knew something was wrong the second she said it. But she was already out the door, and I couldn't stop her."
I pull her close again, pressing my lips to the top of her head.
When I lean back, I make sure she can see my face clearly, can read every word on my lips as I sign simultaneously.
"This is not your fault. Do you understand me? She is the adult. She made this choice. Not you."
"But the money—"
"I will figure it out."
"How?"
"That's not your problem, I’m the adult here. Now bed," I sign. "School tomorrow."
It takes another twenty minutes to convince Elsie to go to her room.
I wait until I hear her breathing until I'm certain she's actually asleep, before I grab my jacket and head back out into the night.
The subway at this hour carries the particular loneliness of a city that never sleeps. I count the stops to my mother's apartment in Astoria, each one ratcheting my fury higher.
I don't knock. I use the spare key I've kept for emergencies and push into the cramped studio that reeks of stale cigarettes and cheap vodka.
Margot sits at her kitchen table, a half-empty bottle in front of her, looking nothing like the put-together woman Elsie described.
"Well, shit," she slurs, not even bothering to look surprised. "That was faster than expected. Let me guess—the baby bird sang?"
"Forty-three thousand dollars." My voice comes out stranger than I expect. Calm. Deadly. "You stole forty-three fucking thousand dollars from your own daughter."
"Stole is such an ugly word." She takes another swig from the bottle. "I borrowed it. I was going to tell you, but you're always so busy with your fancy restaurant and your fancy chef friends. Never have time for your own mother."
"Where is it, Margot? Where's my money?"
She laughs, a bitter sound that scrapes against my eardrums.
"Gone, sweetheart. Poof. Disappeared into the loving arms of the very patient men I owed thirty thousand dollars to."
The room tilts around me when she stands, swaying like a tree in a hurricane.
"And a girl's got to eat, doesn't she? Five thousand went to necessities. Groceries, cigarettes, lottery tickets. You know how it is."
"I know how it is?” I hissed. “I dropped out of high school to work three jobs because you couldn't function for years after Dad’s death. I raised Elsie myself while you drowned in grief and vodka. I fought tooth and nail for custody of Elsie the day I turned eighteen because you were too drunk to remember to feed her!”
The words explode out of me, right in front of my mother who doesn’t even give a shit.
“I have worked every single day since I was sixteen to build a life out of the wreckage you left behind, and you have the audacity to stand there and tell me I know how it is?"
"Oh, here we go.” Margot's face hardens. “Saint Raegan, the martyr who saved everyone. You think I wanted this? You think I chose this? That money was sitting in a closet collecting dust. I needed it. End of story."
"That money," I say slowly, like I'm explaining physics to a goldfish, "was for Elsie's cochlear implant surgery. That money was going to let her hear her own voice. My voice telling her I love her."
Something flickers across her face—guilt maybe, or gas—before she drowns it in another swallow.
"She doesn't need to hear to know you love her."
"No, but she needs to hear to navigate a world built for hearing people. To not have kids at school call her 'deaf and dumb.' To have the same opportunities as everyone else!"
"Life's not fair, sweetheart. The sooner she learns that—"
"I will end you."
The words come out so quiet, so certain, that even Margot stops mid-platitude. She disappears into what passes for a bedroom, and returns with a wad of crumpled bills.
Throwing them at my feet like garbage.
"Eight grand. That's what's left. You want more? Too fucking bad."
I stare at the money scattered across the filthy floor, then back at the woman who gave birth to me.
I don't recognize her anymore. I haven't recognized her in years.
"Don't come near me again," I say, bending to collect every last bill. "Don't come near Elsie. You're dead to us. Do you understand? You're dead."
I don't wait for her response, just walk out and I don't look back.
The subway home feels colder than before. I count the crumpled bills three times, then four, then five.
Eight thousand dollars.
I have one hundred thousand in the bank account Margot doesn't know about—the inheritance from my grandmother on my father's side. The only thing that woman couldn't touch because I never told her it existed.
The surgery costs one hundred fifty-three thousand. I'd planned to borrow ten thousand from Scarlett, a manageable debt I could repay over a year.
Now the math refuses to work. One hundred eight thousand in hand. Forty-five thousand short. Elsie's consultation is next week, and the surgical window closes a few weeks after that.
I press my forehead against the cold subway window and try not to scream.
How am I supposed to come up with forty-five thousand dollars in one month?