A Shot of Gin by Phoebe Wagner

Author:Phoebe Wagner [Wagner, Phoebe]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781956136555
Publisher: The Parliament House

19

My mom lived in Yerington, about forty minutes outside of Reno. She’d moved after separating from my dad—shit, adoptive dad—for the tenth time. It wasn’t abusive or anything—well, physically abusive. My dad believed in Jesus Christ to a worrying degree. Mom was Catholic, and therefore, “of the devil.” I don’t know why they got married.

After dark, we pulled into the driveway of a double-wide trailer I barely remembered. I’d helped her move in right after I quit college. Rather than remembering the move to the trailer, I remembered the shame of lying about classes and grades and all the friends I’d made.

The car Clarisse stole after we walked from the desert ticked as it cooled.

Clarisse drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “So, we going in or what?”

“Wait here.” I swung out of the car and slammed the door.

The cool valley air felt good on my skin. I took a deep breath as the porch light flicked on. Dogs barked. Huh, Mom hadn’t been much of a dog person.

I stepped onto the porch just as the door opened, and three pit bulls burst onto the small deck, spilling a cat litter bucket full of crunched PBR cans.

They circled me, slobbering. I offered my hand, and they licked me. “Hi, fellas.” I smiled.

My mom stepped onto the porch, kicking aside cans. “Long time, no see. Who’s your friend?”

“My friend?” I asked just as Clarisse threw her arm around my shoulders.

“Girlfriend. Good to meet you, Mrs. Straid! I’ve heard so much about you.”

My mom pressed a fist to her mouth. I turned on Clarisse, ready to shout about how my mom had lived in rural Nevada for way too long to just out me as a bisexual.

My mom hugged me, sending the pit bulls into a barking fit. “I’m so glad you are finally acknowledging who you are!”

My arms hung limp at my sides. “What?” This continued to be the weirdest week of my life—and I had a long list of weird experiences. I eased my arms around my mom. At least it wasn’t all bad.

After wrangling us and the dogs into the double-wide, my mom insisted on feeding us and put a Papa Murphy’s pizza in the oven. Two long-haired cats, black and tiger, lounged on the table, glaring at Clarisse. Mom shooed them every few minutes, but they leaped up as soon as she turned to check the oven. The house had a lived-in feeling—and a second carpet of pet hair—since the last time I’d visited. Pictures of me hung in the halls beside thrift store finds of forest glens or tumbled-down barns that seemed at odds with a fancy-framed “Home Means Nevada” lyric print.

I scratched the black cat’s chin while the other head-butted my shoulder. “When did you become such an animal person?”

“Always was.” She propped her hip against the counter. “Your father was the allergic one.”

The pit bulls sat around me, their wide tongues lolling. A black one refused to leave Clarisse’s feet, and she rubbed its belly with her foot.

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