What about the Rain?

It was misting again. It felt like it was always misting, making everything constantly damp and unpleasant while weighing the air down. The young woman quietly pulled out a cigarette and lit it, feeling guilty and rebellious at the same time. She knew smoking was bad, but she didn’t care. It gave her an excuse to get five minutes to herself and get out to experience the weather, regardless of the conditions. Sunny days or cold and wet nights, if she got those five minutes, life didn’t seem quite as crushing.

“Mali? Mali get in here!” she heard a sadly familiar voice bellow. Mali sighed and put out her cigarette.

“At least she doesn’t smoke menthols,” she murmured, resigned. Her mother was complaining about something as she went inside. Mali brushed her mother’s words aside as she went into the kitchen to do what she always did, every day. They did not matter because there was nothing constructive about anything she had to say. Mali washed her hands as her mom, clearly drunk, was still complaining. Mali didn’t care. She started gathering things to make for dinner. It was the end of the month, and there wasn’t much to make, but she was able to pull out enough ingredients to make something. Sparse or not, she would make sure everyone got fed.

“Are you even listening to me?” her mom hollered, and a second later something hit the back of her head. Mali looked down to see her mom had thrown a paperback at her again. Mali glanced at the title to see latest self-help book her mom had published, and suppressed another sigh. While she knew her mom needed help, the books she occasionally picked up to “fix” herself weren’t things that really applied. This one was on how to handle out of control kids.

“I’m making dinner,” she said automatically, feeling herself pull away as she distanced herself from the book on the floor.

“It’s about time,” her mom shouted. Mali ignored the rest, and started prepping for the one meal they were guaranteed. Her mom would be passed out by the time it was ready, and wouldn’t remember any of this, but her efforts had always been more about her younger sisters than anything else.

As Mali started cooking, her thoughts turned to her sisters. They were 11, about to be 12, but she had been taking care of them their whole lives. Mali wanted freedom she didn’t get growing up, freedom denied her so she could pick up the slack. She had been waiting to leave until she was sure they could handle themselves. She knew she couldn’t guarantee anything, but she had done everything she could to support them. Mali felt selfish wanting to leave, but she also didn’t want to stay and play caretaker forever either.

After dinner, she put first her mom to bed, and then went to talk to her sisters as they got ready for bed. She hadn’t said much about where she was going, but they knew she was leaving. Her mom might not have earned any loyalty, but she was the closest to a mother figure her sisters had. It made her feel guilty, but Mali had her own life to live.

“Will you be back?” they asked, as she slipped into their room to say goodbye. Mali felt herself choke a little.

“If she lets me,” she said, sighing heavily. “I’ll make sure you guys know where I am, though, and that you can contact me if you need anything.”

Her sisters both nodded, tearing up, but they knew why she was leaving. “I’ll message you when I get to where I’m going. You know who to contact if I’m not available, right?” They nodded again.

Mali felt herself tearing up, so she went and hugged them each tightly, feeling afraid. She couldn’t stay anymore though; this life was killing her. “I’ll come back for you,” she whispered, as she turned away.

She went into her bedroom and grabbed her bags; they had her favorite clothes, her laptop that she had saved up for and hidden from her mom, the few photographs she owned of her and her siblings, and some pieces of jewelry her grandmother had given her that she had hidden. It was only what she couldn’t live without. As much as she wanted to come back someday for the rest, she knew she couldn’t count on it still being there. With a heavy sigh, she lifted the bags to her shoulder, and checked one last time to make sure her mom was indeed passed out. Sneaking out of the house, she walked down the road a ways to where a car was waiting.

“What took so long?” asked the young man seated in the driver’s seat as she got in.

“Mom was late passing out,” Mali grumbled as he took off down the road. “I think she knew.”

“That’s not your problem anymore,” he said. Mali looked at him, bright green mohawk brushing the seat in an erratic rhythm as he looked around before driving off. Mali was rearranging the bags at her feet when the phone rang. It was her mom. Mali’s throat tightened, but she knew she had done the right thing in leaving. With a thick feeling in her throat, Mali turned off the phone and slipped it into her purse.

She turned to look at her boyfriend, who glanced at her and smiled, reaching over to briefly grasp her hand and squeeze. Mali no longer had to wonder if she would have to hand over her entire paycheck again, she no longer had to worry about mouths to feed other than her own.

She no longer had to worry about cleaning up after someone who obviously didn’t care. She only
had to worry about herself now. She almost laughed at that, because it wasn’t true. She would worry about them all the time now. The sense of freedom, if that’s what it was, overwhelmed her.
They were her responsibility. They would die without her. No. Mali knew that was just her mom’s voice in her head and tried to blot it out.

“Everything okay, Mali?”

She turned to her boyfriend and smiled, though she knew it was wilted and without the bounce he loved about it. “Yeah.”