To not speak unless I was spoken to.
To always say 'ma'am' when I answered her.
To move the heavy, wet clothes from the washer into the dryer.
To sweep the floors.
To empty the trash bin in the kitchen. Then, when I had trouble getting the overfilled bag out and spilled some of the slimy garbage all over, she'd slapped me hard across the face, then made me clean it up. Then scrub the floor on my hands and knees.
Later, hungry and exhausted, I fell asleep on the linoleum floor under the table that night, more scared than I remembered ever being at the idea of having to live here, wishing my mom would come and pick me up, promising myself that if she did, I would be good. I wouldn't annoy her or get in her hair. I would do whatever she wanted me to do.
If she would just come and get me.
Take me home.
"What the fuck is this?" My mom's voice demanded, shocking me awake, my body trying to shoot up, but my shoulder hurt from laying on the hard floor ,and my leg was asleep, all tingling and overrun with pinpricks.
"Don't be coming in my house at seven in the morning hollering," my grandmother demanded, slapping a hand on the counter.
"You made him sleep on the floor."
"I didn't make him do anything."
"So he chose to sleep on the kitchen floor like a dog?"
"How should I know? He disappeared when my shows were on."
"Get up," my mom demanded, reaching under the table, dragging me up until I found my knees, pushing myself up, trying to ignore the churning, grumbling feeling in my empty belly. "You're a real piece of work, you know that? Piece of fucking work, Mom. The fuck am I supposed to do with you?" she asked herself out loud as she dragged me out of the house. "You know what? I can't do it anymore. I'm done. Done done done. Come on. Get your ass in the car," she demanded, ripping open the door, barely letting me climb in before slamming it shut.
We drove for a long time.
I sat silently in the back, listening to her talk to herself about things that made no sense.
One-night-stands.
Low hormone birth control not working like the original one.
Deadbeat dads.
Child support.
How she was supposed to get a man with a baby hanging on her all the time.
I didn't know what baby she was talking about.
I wasn't a baby anymore.
I had fallen asleep by the time we made it to wherever we were going.
"Get up," she demanded before climbing out, slamming her door, coming around the car to yank open mine, grabbing my arm, half dragging me down the walkway to a long, squat building with blacked out windows.
Music and voices were coming from inside, loud, loud enough that the sounds vibrated through my little body even as my mom wrenched the door open and stormed inside.
Like she'd been there before.
Maybe a lot of times.
Some heads turned.
Then some men whistled, yelled things at my mom that I didn't understand, but made me move closer to her, wanting to be further from them and their ugly sounding words.
"There you are!" my mom yelled suddenly, dragging me toward a group of men.
"Sherry? The fuck you doing here?" the man she had been looking at demanded.
I didn't know much about giants, but I was pretty sure at the time that he was a giant. To me, my mom was larger than life, always towering over me, refusing to get down on my level, making me look up at her until my neck ached. But this man made my mom crane her neck up. I wondered as we stood there if her neck hurt too.
"What am I doing here? This is what I am doing here," she declared, yanking me up off my feet under one arm, settling me on her hip. "He look familiar?"
"He looks all gangly. Like you," the giant added to a chorus of chuckles from his friends, making me think that whatever gangly was, it wasn't nice.
"He's yours, Dwayne," she told him with a flick of her neck.
"Not for nothing, Sher, but I once saw you take three dicks at once. So excuse me if I'm not sold on the paternity thing based only on your word."
"Well, you can go ahead and get him tested on your time then, because I am done. He's all yours," she declared, dropping me down onto my feet hard, making me fall back on my butt, having to blink away a couple tears that started in my eyes.
My mom didn't say sorry.
Or try to help me up.
She was too busy yelling at the giant, slapping his chest and arms.
I didn't ask for her help, getting back onto my feet by myself because I didn't want her slapping me like she was slapping him.