Forgotten: Seventeen and Homeless by Melody Carlson Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Melody Carlson
opportunities."
"I've had opportunities?" I shriek at her. "Like working and going to school while you lie around feeling sorry for yourself all the time? Like putting up with a lazy mom who has no idea how to be a mom and is so selfish that it usually feels like she's the child? Like I'm the one who has to be responsible and act like the adult? Opportunities like that?"
My mom is speechless and looks slightly hurt. And I know I should back down. I should apologize and do something to make everything better. the problem is that I'm just fresh out of solutions. And my patience is worn so thin that it's like I'm standing on a paper-thin layer of ice and I don't even care if it breaks and I go down into the freezing waters and drown. I'm so over this.
"That's the thanks I get . . ." She lets out a sob and waves her hand. "For getting us into this place ... your school ... your fancy new clothes. That's the thanks I get?"
I place my hands on the granite countertop, bracing myself and keeping myself from picking up something and throwing it. "You might've gotten us here, Mom, but then you blew it up. Just like you always do. You ruin everything."
"You sound like you wish I were dead." She looks at me with steely blue eyes. "Is that what you're saying, Adele?"
Okay, this is the last straw and I know it. I take in a long, deep breath. Be calm. Do not react. Then I look evenly at her. "No, Mom, I don't wish you were dead. I just wish you'd grow up. And if you can't grow up, I just wish you'd go away and leave me alone. Because, seriously, you wear me out. I can't take the drama."
I look down at my hands, and tears slide down my hot cheeks. And I really hate to cry. It feels so weak. I know it was wrong to say all that to my mom, but for the most part, it was the truth. I do feel worn out. I want the drama to end.
So I look up and am about to tell her I'm sorry but that something has to change, and she's not even in the room. I can hear their voices in my mom's room, and I suspect she's telling him about what an ungrateful child I am and how I don't respect her. I don't even care anymore. It's like I'm emotionally drained. The only feeling I'm really cognizant of is that I'm hungry.
I go into my room, get dressed, and put my hair into a tidy ponytail. I put on my coat and get my bag, making sure my old address book is in there because I still have all the phone numbers of the places I worked, and then I head out. I am going to get a job today. My sights are set on the twenty-four-hour restaurant, but since I have to pass by the nursing home, I decide to stop in there as well. River Woods Care Center looks nice enough from the outside. A long, low brick building, neatly kept grounds, lots of windows. It might not be such a bad place to work. Plus it's only a few blocks from Westwood Heights.
"Do you have a resume?" the middle-aged woman at the reception desk asks me after I explain why I'm here.
"I don't have one, but I can make one if you-"
"No, that's okay." She smiles and bends over to look in a drawer. "Let's see, I know the applications are here somewhere. I don't usually work at this desk, but our regular gal is sick today."
I wait as she pokes around below the desk, then finally pops her head up with an application in hand. "You can fill it out here if you like. There's a dayroom around the corner with tables and chairs."
I thank her and take the application over to what looks like an oversized living room. About half a dozen elderly people are sitting there. Some in wheelchairs, some on the other furnishings, but all sitting separately. As if they don't really know each other. Or maybe they don't want to. There's a big TV going with some kind of sports show on, but no one seems interested. I sit on a molded plastic chair, fish a pen from my bag, and, using my best penmanship, carefully fill out the application.
"What are you doing?" A frail-looking white-haired woman pushes her walker over to the table where I'm
"I've had opportunities?" I shriek at her. "Like working and going to school while you lie around feeling sorry for yourself all the time? Like putting up with a lazy mom who has no idea how to be a mom and is so selfish that it usually feels like she's the child? Like I'm the one who has to be responsible and act like the adult? Opportunities like that?"
My mom is speechless and looks slightly hurt. And I know I should back down. I should apologize and do something to make everything better. the problem is that I'm just fresh out of solutions. And my patience is worn so thin that it's like I'm standing on a paper-thin layer of ice and I don't even care if it breaks and I go down into the freezing waters and drown. I'm so over this.
"That's the thanks I get . . ." She lets out a sob and waves her hand. "For getting us into this place ... your school ... your fancy new clothes. That's the thanks I get?"
I place my hands on the granite countertop, bracing myself and keeping myself from picking up something and throwing it. "You might've gotten us here, Mom, but then you blew it up. Just like you always do. You ruin everything."
"You sound like you wish I were dead." She looks at me with steely blue eyes. "Is that what you're saying, Adele?"
Okay, this is the last straw and I know it. I take in a long, deep breath. Be calm. Do not react. Then I look evenly at her. "No, Mom, I don't wish you were dead. I just wish you'd grow up. And if you can't grow up, I just wish you'd go away and leave me alone. Because, seriously, you wear me out. I can't take the drama."
I look down at my hands, and tears slide down my hot cheeks. And I really hate to cry. It feels so weak. I know it was wrong to say all that to my mom, but for the most part, it was the truth. I do feel worn out. I want the drama to end.
So I look up and am about to tell her I'm sorry but that something has to change, and she's not even in the room. I can hear their voices in my mom's room, and I suspect she's telling him about what an ungrateful child I am and how I don't respect her. I don't even care anymore. It's like I'm emotionally drained. The only feeling I'm really cognizant of is that I'm hungry.
I go into my room, get dressed, and put my hair into a tidy ponytail. I put on my coat and get my bag, making sure my old address book is in there because I still have all the phone numbers of the places I worked, and then I head out. I am going to get a job today. My sights are set on the twenty-four-hour restaurant, but since I have to pass by the nursing home, I decide to stop in there as well. River Woods Care Center looks nice enough from the outside. A long, low brick building, neatly kept grounds, lots of windows. It might not be such a bad place to work. Plus it's only a few blocks from Westwood Heights.
"Do you have a resume?" the middle-aged woman at the reception desk asks me after I explain why I'm here.
"I don't have one, but I can make one if you-"
"No, that's okay." She smiles and bends over to look in a drawer. "Let's see, I know the applications are here somewhere. I don't usually work at this desk, but our regular gal is sick today."
I wait as she pokes around below the desk, then finally pops her head up with an application in hand. "You can fill it out here if you like. There's a dayroom around the corner with tables and chairs."
I thank her and take the application over to what looks like an oversized living room. About half a dozen elderly people are sitting there. Some in wheelchairs, some on the other furnishings, but all sitting separately. As if they don't really know each other. Or maybe they don't want to. There's a big TV going with some kind of sports show on, but no one seems interested. I sit on a molded plastic chair, fish a pen from my bag, and, using my best penmanship, carefully fill out the application.
"What are you doing?" A frail-looking white-haired woman pushes her walker over to the table where I'm
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