When Never Comes

by Barbara Davis

Christy-Lynn is still trying to think of something to say when she realizes the apartment door is ajar. She nudges it open with her knee and peers in. The curtains are drawn, the TV off. Nothing out of place. She breathes a sigh of relief. Not a break-in then. Just her mother, running late as usual and not paying attention when she left for work. Christy-Lynn holds the door open as Linda steps across the threshold. She’s never brought anyone home, and suddenly she wishes she hadn’t today. The apartment is shabby and small, and the greasy scent of tater tots and fried onions lingers in the air from last night’s supper. She wonders briefly as she lets her book bag slide to the floor what Linda’s house smells like. Fried chicken, probably, or pork chops. Biscuits and gravy. Green beans with ham hocks and red velvet cake. Linda is still clutching her book bag, eyes round in the gloom as she slowly takes in her surroundings, and Christy-Lynn is struck by how it must look to a stranger seeing it for the first time. The dingy shag carpet, worn to the jute in places. The rump-sprung couch left by the previous tenants, the battered coffee table that has seen too many moves. The lamp with the dented shade her mother had salvaged from the dumpster after their last eviction. Thank God, at least, the curtains were closed. It’ll be better once they get to her room, she tells herself. Not that her room is great, but it’s not as shabby as the living room. There are her Beanie Babies—the o...