Page 18 of Penance (Rising From the Ashes #2)

Lily

O ne of my most vivid memories from my childhood is the gnawing pain of going hungry.

By the time I was sixteen, I knew that feeling well. My mom had become a full-time alcoholic by then, and alcoholism doesn’t pay the bills. My dad was still in and out of our life, but never with money—and by that time, I’d learned to hate him anyway.

But the thing about going hungry is that you always remember the ones who fed you.

For me, that was my high school math teacher, Ms. Whitmore.

She was a middle-aged, single woman who truly was in the educational field for her students.

She loved every kid that sat in her classroom and treated them with the same compassion, no matter who they were.

It wasn’t until much later in life that I realized how deeply lonely she was.

Her students were her family, and in a way, she was mine, too—at least in the sense of how I imagined family should have been for me.

There was this one day when I hadn’t eaten in several days. My mom was on a binger, and I was too busy taking care of her to take care of myself.

I went to school that day with pain eating the lining of my stomach and low blood sugar, making my head spin.

I should have stayed home, but school was my outlet, my one chance to get a break from the responsibilities that had become mine at home.

I made it to sixth hour that day before everything fell apart .

Ms. Whitmore was standing at the front of the class, teaching polynomials, when the world began to swim. I fought against it for as long as I could, but eventually, the darkness at the edges of my vision won, pulling me under.

When I came to, Ms. Whitmore stood over me in the nurse’s office, a look of worry creasing her brows.

“Lily dear,” she said, “You gave me quite the fright. Are you okay?”

My head was still woozy, but I had enough wits about me to know I needed to lie. If the school found out about how things were for me at home, they would have put me in foster care, and there would be no one there to take care of my mom. She’d needed me.

“I’m fine,” I said, slowly sitting up. “I just—uh—I think I must be catching the flu or something.”

It was a flimsy excuse, but it was all I had.

“We should probably call your mom to come get you.” I hadn’t noticed the school nurse at her desk in the corner until she spoke.

“No.” Panic squeezed at my chest, and both the nurse and Ms. Whitmore turned to look at me, giving me curious stares. “I mean—she’s in meetings this week and won’t be able to answer.”

The nurse sighed. “Very well. You can stay here and rest for the day. I’ll go get you a glass of water.”

She stood up to leave, and I sighed in relief, watching her walk out. Only my relief came too soon because when I turned my attention back to Ms. Whitemore, she was still watching me—and she looked at me like she could see through my lies.

“Lily, I hope you know you can confide in me,” she said, and the way she looked at me with so much love shining back in her eyes made me want to.

My mom loved me—I, at least, knew that—but her type of love was selfish.

The way Ms. Whitmore loved me was selfless.

She was willing to face down my problems with me if I would have let her, and I wish I had been brave enough to let her.

Maybe things could have been different then.

“I’m fine,” I said, dropping my eyes to avoid her gaze. She made me want to tell her the truth, which was dangerous.

Part of what made Ms. Whitmore so special was that she didn’t push. She let you come to her, so she let me get away with my lie, offering comfort with a squeeze of my arm.

“Okay, Lily. I believe you.”

My eyes stung with tears because I didn’t want her to believe me. I wanted someone to protect me, even if I couldn’t say that.

“Thanks, Ms. Whitmore.”

“Of course, dear, but while we wait, I was wondering if you might help me.”

My brows pulled together. “Help you?”

“Well, yes, you see, the teachers had a carry-in today, and I forgot about it and brought my lunch. I really don’t want it to go to waste. Would you mind eating it for me? I noticed you didn’t eat lunch today.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks.

“I wasn’t very hungry.” I lied.

“I can understand that, dear, but eating will help stave off that flu you’re coming down with. So how about it? Will you help me out?”

Hesitating, I lifted my gaze and finally looked at her. There was nothing but sincerity in her eyes.

“Okay.”

______________________

I went home that day with two things—a partially full stomach and food for my mom. I only ate half the meal Ms. Whitmore offered me, hiding the rest in my bag. As much as I wanted to eat all of it, I couldn’t let my mom go hungry.

The bus dropped me off at the front corner of our trailer park, and I walked to where ours sat in the back.

I hated walking that path alone, even in the daytime.

A lot of bad people lived around us, and I knew enough to keep my head down as I walked.

It never stopped my heart from beating through my chest, wondering if that would be the day I got jumped .

Luckily, I always made it safely to my house without incident. Once inside, I slammed the door behind me and locked it. I didn’t bother turning on the light. It wouldn’t have worked anyway. It’d been weeks since our electricity had been on, and I wasn’t counting on it coming back on anytime soon.

Pulling my backpack off my shoulder, I unzipped it and grabbed the food I’d carefully tucked inside.

“Mom,” I yelled, watching as she appeared in the hallway.

“Hi, baby. You’re home.” She smiled at me, but there was something wrong about it. Maybe it was because I rarely saw her smile anymore, but I didn’t think that was it. I studied her closer, searching for what was different.

Her hair was a mess of curls, falling around her shoulders, and even in the dimness of the room, I could see the flush in her cheeks. She looked—free. I think that was the best way to explain it.

She took another step closer, and then I understood. The smell hit me, overpowering all my other senses and burning my eyes.

“Mom,” I cried. “Have you been smoking weed?”

She giggled, holding her thumb and forefinger inches apart. “Only a little.”

Up until that day, her chosen vice was alcohol. I never did find out what made her seek out a joint that day, but it was another step toward her downfall.

Her eyes zeroed in on the food in my hand, and a loopy grin lit up her face. “Is that for me?”

I sighed, taking her hand and leading her to the couch. “Yeah, Mom. It’s for you.”

She didn’t wait for all the words to leave my mouth before she pulled it out of my hands and stuffed it in her mouth as if it might disappear.

“Eat slow,” I said, brushing her hair back from her face. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

Pulling the sandwich down from her mouth, she held it in her lap and turned to look at me.

“You’re a good kid,” she said, and for a second, I imagined that we were different—that she was different.

I imagined she was the adult and I was the kid, and she was taking care of me.

For a second, I imagined she loved me enough to be that, but reality always has a way of slapping you in the face when you dare to imagine.

My stomach growled, and I turned my face away from her. “Thanks, Mom.”