2. Happy Birthday, Mom

Happy Birthday, Mom

Sinclair

"Jam or butter, Ma?" I call over my shoulder, my arm draped over the open fridge door.

"Butter," my grandmother responds, her voice like steel wool in the morning.

I grab the butter dish, then toss two slices of bread from the toaster onto chipped plates. I set one down in front of my grandmother while she toys with the tea bag in her mug. Wiry strands of her coarse, gray hair poke out of the braid she slept in. She brushes one out of her face when I sit across from her at our small two-person dining table-slash-desk-slash-puzzle table-slash-anything you need a flat surface for in our cramped apartment.

"You remember what today is?" she asks before taking a crunchy bite of admittedly over-toasted bread.

"Celia's birthday." I pick at my cuticles, still unsure how to feel after all these years.

"Your mother's birthday," she corrects. She hates when I call my mom by her first name. But why wouldn't I? Celia has never been a mother to me.

Instead, I look across the table at the woman who raised me and twist the ring on my middle finger then trace all the scratches and water rings in the ancient dining table with my eyes.

I try to hide the bitterness in my tone for her sake when I say, "Well, happy birthday, Mom." The corner of my grandmother's eyes crinkle with a soft smile. "Wherever you are," I mutter to myself.

A ruckus of pounding footsteps and men shouting blares outside our apartment, making both of our heads whip toward the door. Loud noises and confrontations are no strangers to these hallways, but rarely at this hour. We look at each other, sharing a silent, What the fuck is that?

It sounds like half an army is storming the stairs. We have an elevator, but when it broke, the super decided to use the car for extra storage rather than fix it. I was going to leave rotting food from the dumpster among his things until he agreed to handle it. My grandmother talked me out of it and told me she's more than capable of walking the three flights herself. Her mind isn't as sharp as it used to be, and I think she's clinging to her physical ability while it lasts.

I rise from my chair when the chaos doesn't move past our floor. In fact, it's coming closer. I grab a lamp off the entryway table as I creep to the door. It makes a decent club, seeing as we thrifted it without a shade and never got around to getting one. My fingers tighten, and I dare a peek through the peephole.

I watch my neighbor across the hall open her door in curiosity, her toddler daughter on her hip. Her mouth falls open on a frightened, silent scream as men dressed in all-black combat gear turn their automatic rifles on her. She frantically slams the door closed.

My brain is still swimming to process what's happening when the men sharply spin, and their piercing eyes seem to slice through the door to lock with mine.

I feel like an animal suddenly finding itself staring down a hunter's crosshairs.

"Sinclair, who is it?" I look over my shoulder at my grandmother's question and my throat feels too dry to answer. Instead, I try to silently usher her into one of the backrooms, pleadingly waving my hand. She refuses.

"Who—" She's cut off by a knock that shakes the entire door.

"Sinclair Ash!" The sound of my name shouted from the other side takes all the air out of my lungs. My grip is sweaty around the bronze lampstand. "You are being lawfully seized as filial payment for the unpaid debt of Celia Ash. We are prepared to forcibly enter if you do not willingly surrender."

I hear my grandmother gasp behind me. The voice shouting demands outside blurs like radio static as my blood roars in my ears.

The next thing I know, I am flying back on my ass as the door splinters and busts open with a battering ram. Four men storm the apartment. Two of them swiftly pick me up by the arms, and my knees wobble when one aims his weapon at my grandmother.

"Get that fucking thing away from her!" I thrash in the holds of my captors.

One of them laughs from behind his balaclava as if amused. "Oh, you're going to be a fun one."

The other one darkly chuckles in agreement. "Yeah, to break."

I hardly give their words much thought. My heart races impossibly fast, and all my attention is on the gun with its barrel inches from the temple of the most important person in my world.

There's one man dressed in a dark business suit. He clears his throat as he nonchalantly brushes off a wood shaving and straightens his shiny tie clip. When he fixes his cold gaze on me, a chill ripples down my spine.

"Now that all that unpleasantness is over." I recognize his voice as the man who spoke in the hall. "Shall we get on with it, then?" He steps aside with a heartless smile and outstretched arm toward the door as if politely saying, After you.

So thrown by all this, I can't help but tilt my head in confusion to the side and ask, "Are you daft? I'm not going anywhere with you—"

I almost feel the sting before I see the slap. My cheek throbs, burning from his palm.

My ears are ringing, but I hear my grandmother yell at them to stop and my heart immediately jumps into my throat as I wait for the sound of someone's palm against her cheek. I exhale heartedly when it doesn't come.

The man runs a hand over his perfectly-styled hair as if making sure the effort of hitting me didn't mess it up. He must finally realize I have no idea what's going on and explains, "You are required by law to fulfill your mother's unpaid debt."

I scoff. "I haven't seen that woman in ten years. Go find her and make her pay it."

"She can't. She's dead." It's my grandmother who speaks, lowering herself back into her seat, her gaze unseeing as somber realization dawns on her face.

Before I have time to question her, the man says, "Correct. Now." He huffs. "Shall we?" he asks, but we all know it's not a request.

"Wait—" She springs up, and my stomach drops at the sickening sound of a gun cocking. "Take me instead."

All four of the men laugh, and my grandma lifts her chin defiantly. The man in the suit sighs as if recovering from a laughing fit and says haughtily, "Sorry, granny, but no one's going to pay to hump your old bones."

It's at this comment that everything begins to click. Bits and pieces of information and suspicions I've gathered over the years fall like Tetris into place.

I swallow past the barbs in my throat and will the tears that are forming back down. A heavy knot of defeat settles in my chest. "I'll go. Just let me say goodbye first."