A Season for Fireflies Read Free

lying around, but today she left at four, so there are two. There’s a bottle of white in the sinkthat’s empty, and one on the counter that’s half-finished. Mom’s not going anywhere tonight.
    Maybe I can drive myself. I only have my permit, but our town is small and if I drive carefully, I should be fine. I can’t ask Wes to come pick me up. He can’t see Mom like this. Sure, he’s seen her glassy-eyed, but Mom’s always been dressed up in her pearls and hiding her sadness behind designer clothes. It’s when the doors are closed, the events are over, and the house is empty that a dark room is her favorite place to be. Since she’s been fired, that’s the new normal.
    When I’m at the kitchen table, zipping up my bag, my cell goes off a few more times: May, Panda, and Taft, asking where I am. The last is a text from Wes.
    WES: Should I get u?
    I look around at the empty kitchen, the quiet house. Mom must be up in her room. Maybe if Wes comes to get me there’s a chance he won’t see her. My fingers hover over the phone, but then Mom comes into the room, holding her cell phone and a wineglass. That’s the same blouse and pants she was wearing yesterday. Third time this week that she hasn’t changed clothes.
    â€œMom?” I say. “Are you okay?”
    She hip checks the island and places the phone and glass down, messily, so the base of the wineglass rocks back and forth. I reach out to keep it from falling to the floor. I could tell Wes he can’t come in, that I’ll meet him outside. That would be awkward too and he would want to know why.
    Mom moves to grab the second bottle. It glugs as she pours a big glass.
    â€œAre you sure you want more?” I ask. I try to choose my words really carefully. No judgment.
    â€œI’ll decide when I’ve—” she starts, and rests her hand on the island but slips on a puddle of wine on the counter. I run to help her, but she catches herself on her elbow with a smack. Her eyes are heavy, but open. I should call Bettie. I can’t leave her like this and go to rehearsal. She can’t be alone.
    Mom tries to stand. She reaches for the wine bottle and glass, but I move them out of her way. “Mom, stop it. You can barely walk.”
    â€œI’m fine!” She snatches the bottle.
    â€œNo, you’re not!” I cry, and grab for it. Her fingers let go easily. She doesn’t fight me on it, just takes the glass she just poured, which I didn’t think to grab in time.
    She makes her way out of the kitchen with the glass in her hand, and what sucks is that I have to let her. If I don’t, she could get all the way upstairs, realize she wants some wine, and try to come back downstairs—and she is not in good enough shape for that . I fight the urge to help her, because she seems so intent on doing it herself. She’s moving too fast, her shoulder hits the doorframe, her head ricochets, and it all seems to happen before I can react. There’s a hard thud and she falls, smacking the back of her head on the floor. The glass clatters and rolls away, the wine spilling everywhere. At least the glass doesn’t shatter.
    â€œAw,” she moans. “Ow . . .”
    I pick up my cell to call Bettie, but see May’s name on the screen calling me instead.
    â€œPenny. Where are you?” May hisses. “What’s going on? Is ityour mom? Penny, is it?”
    Mom drools on herself a little, so some white syrup spit-up dribbles onto her blouse. I pull her up from the floor by her elbow. “I’ll be there soon, May. I’m sorry. Tell Taft.”
    I hang up and dial Bettie’s number. I wish Dad were here. Mom isn’t as bad when Dad is home.
    â€œCome on, Mom,” I say, and try to help her stand as the phone rings on the other end. She does stand a little, relieving her body weight from my arms. “You can do it.”
    Mom’s legs slip,