by Trista Hurley-Waxali

My parents offered their trailer as a graduation gift. My loan had gone into collections; they started garnishing from my part-time job. Even with the employee discount, I had to leave the city.

I found a discounted grocery store on the other side of town. Mom and dad left the dirt road sprinkled flop houses for a fresh start. They wanted an environment that encouraged their sobriety. Mom would send pictures of them at the beach, each time asking me to visit. Sometimes they’d have to detox in that state, with promises of never coming back to this one.

All they had in the gas station fridge was a domestic 6-pack. The car had enough to drive me there, to fill up, as dad promised. Normally, I’d double check on an insurance slip but I still trusted him. I heard a car slow down to pull into the driveway. I used the empty bottle to shield the sun to make out the face.

“Hey you!” she said. “Nice choice.” Her coarse hair held by a headband was no different than the ones she wore next to my locker.

“What brings you over?” I said, handing her an open bottle. We tapped them and listened to the clink. “At least this hasn’t changed.” We watched how the evening then casted a shadow over dirt- pebbles without the love to catch growth.

“I saw your post about looking for work.” She drank her beer like one of the boys we used to watch.

“Yeah, but everyone just had questions about my folks instead of my experience,”

“To them, that is your experience.” She said, “I have a job that came up, a mat-leave. Although she might move away after the baby’s born.”

“Want my resume?”

“No, I’ll vouch for you. Just come on Monday.”

“Thanks, I needed this.”

“What are you doing this weekend?” She looked around the porch. “More of this?” I nodded. “Come over to my place. I’m having a small party. You could meet some of the cool locals, people who’ve passed through and stayed for their own reasons.”

“Yeah, I will.” I took her empty as she stood. “Should I bring my bathing suit for the pool?” I remembered her mother’s disdain for the blue lining.

“No girl, that shit dried up years ago.”

I had a black button up and dark jeans that aged me. I put on an expired lipstick from a giveaway and wondered if she was still dating that guy from her profile picture. I logged on to check his name but the photo’d been updated. Not recently but since last time I looked. He must not be in her life anymore. I’m not surprised, she has an infectious hope that most people can’t handle.

Sarah opened the door. She leaned in and reminded me that I was her guest of honor. I walked into the living room and smiled as a line of names called out. Each had an air of security which meant knowing they could pay a light bill. One asked me if I left broken hearts at school.

“Yeah, but not as many as Sarah,” I said, returning the gesture, but everyone averted their eyes.

“Hey, come try my gyozas.” Sarah took me into the kitchen. There was a feast with various serving dishes.

“Should I have brought something?”

She shook her head. “Next time.” She angled a stuffed minced pork in my mouth. It was good. “Don’t worry about them, they’re just protective. My ex died from an overdose.” I apologized. She waved. “I didn’t know he was that bad. I really didn’t want to see the signs.” I put my arm around her shoulders and soothed. Another girl walked in and suggested I try her cookies, they’re great even if you’re on a diet.

No one here wanted to step outside. These folks planned out their weekends around moments like Sunday dinner. Maybe they’d head out to Emily’s Ranch to get a pie and an apple fritter. They’d take the treat by the pond and watch the fattened up koi surface in their shadows.

That’s when we heard the scream. It was Sarah.

She had dropped her drink from shock, the cranberry vodka seeping into the lawn. I followed her gaze to a woman in a negligee cutting up sunflowers.

“How could you, mom!” Sarah yelled. I barely recognized her mother before she buried her face into the petals.

“I missed him tonight,” her mom said, with a flatness that stung. Sarah was led back inside by one of the women.

One night a friend called Sarah to accompany her in the birthing room. Without hesitation, she left the house and promised to call. Her ex must have heard the tone of a life Sarah always dreamed of in his ear. He leaned on her mother that night for reassurance and her mother on him for others. It would take weeks before they confessed, neither sure how Sarah would react. He promised it only happened once. Her mother echoed the sentiment like scripture. In the haze of truth, Sarah drove off without her phone. She came home to a heartbroken mother crying over him. Without kin, his ashes became hers. Sarah added him to the garden because it was one of the few places he worked on during sobriety. As the sunflowers grew strong, Sarah’s grief lifted. For the garden represented a promise made, it wasn’t her fault.

Trista Hurley-Waxali feels refreshed after 4 years in France. The Canadian born writer is Black from her father’s side (Trinidadian) and Brown from her mother’s side (Indian), and together they immigrated in search of a better life. Trista is looking forward to this second stay in California. Her debut novel, A Smoke Stained Cab was published by Writ Large Press in 2024.