1
ELISHA
After today, I will have seven rights.
“One,” I whisper. “Retention of the right to vote in a public election. Two: the right to adequate care: food, water, shelter, hygiene, and regular medical attention.”
Abby rolls around in her little bed. The old wood squeaks as she settles back under the covers. That’s the only right that would’ve done my younger sister any good. Here, she’ll make do with the occasional medical clinic and home remedies.
“Three: the right to anonymity of surname.” I squeeze my eyes shut. Pressure builds between my brows. After today, I won’t be a Wilder.
“Four.” I pluck the photo of my family from the windowsill. “The right to one personal item.” It’s the same one Mom took with her. She won’t miss it. She probably can’t even remember it.
That visit was the last time she was anything like herself. We had our picture taken by a man at the fair. His camera had an old-fashioned lens that reminded Dad of his childhood.
It was years ago, anyway. Abby was only a baby, all wrapped up in swaddling. Dad still had his beard, a smile nestled in the middle. I’d just grown one tiny hair on my chin and couldn’t wait to show Mom how manly I was becoming.
“Five.” I resume my count. “The right to personal physical safety.” My heart beats a little faster. “Six: the right to sexual health and protection from pregnancy.” A breeze cools the heat on my face.
Between school and work and helping around the house, I’ve never had time for relationships. And I’ve certainly never had time for sex. Where would I have done it, anyway? On my mattress on the floor, next to my little sister’s bed? I know a few guys who use the community barn, but between the squawking and cow shit I could never bring myself to join them.
Besides, I’m counting on Seventh Right to save me from anyone who tries to violate Sixth. “Seven: the right to refuse or demand Dociline, and at any time to change your mind.”
I rise from bed as quietly as possible and pull on my jeans. No sense in changing my shirt. I put on an old pair of sneakers, leaving my good boots for my sister. She’ll grow into them eventually. I doubt they let Dociles keep their clothing.
One personal item.
I slip the family photo into my pocket and tiptoe out of our room without waking Abby. Regret tugs at my heart as I close the door. I didn’t even say goodbye, not a word or a kiss on the cheek while she slept. Nothing. Not for her, not for Dad.
I linger at his bedroom door for a moment before going to the kitchen. Mom doesn’t look up from the floor. She sweeps back and forth over the same worn-down spot, even when I put my hand on her shoulder.
“Hey, Mom, it’s Elisha.”
“Hello, Elisha.”
I hold on to the moment when I can pretend she remembers I’m her son, and that it’s not ten years of Dociline bending her to politeness.
“I miss you so much.”
“That’s nice,” she says, her voice smooth as fresh-churned butter.
“I wanted to let you know I’m not mad at you.” I take the broom with no resistance and lean it against the wall.
“Okay.” She smiles, but her eyes are empty, expressionless.
“And I love you.”
“Okay.”
“I understand why you left us. And when you’re better, someday—”
“Okay.”
I pause. It would be easier if she didn’t reply at all, rather than in that monotone voice, following the same script, over and over.
“Someday, I hope you’ll forgive me for doing the same.”
“That’s nice.”
“I need your signature.” I flatten the Office of Debt Resolution form on the table and find her a pen. My parents aren’t married—not legally, anyway. Get married and you—and your children—inherit your partner’s debt. Like each of them don’t have enough separately. No, this is the form that signs both of my parents’ debts over to me, so I can sell it. Sell it all.
Dad already signed, assuming it was for Abby, like we’d discussed. It was that or wait for the police to drag us all off to debtors’ prison. They only send out so many notices.
I trace the scar tissue that patterns the inside of my left wrist. The mark stands out, dark and ropey from years under the sun, a fat “S” with a “U” slicing down its middle. If I close my eyes, I can still smell the dollar sign burning into my flesh, hear the cop calling me a drain on society.
Mom finishes her signature, dots the i’s in “Abigail,” and stares at me, still smiling. Waiting for my next order.
“Thanks, Mom.” I kiss her cheek.
“You’re welcome, Elisha.”
I fold the paper and hold it tight, afraid to lose it. One more stop before the ODR. I lock the door behind me and bury my key in the flowerpot on the porch. When I look up, I see the Falstaffs’ front door open and close, one house over. Dylan stuffs her socked feet into oversized boots. She crosses her arms to secure an old crocheted blanket over her pajamas and hops over, still squeezing her shoes into place. “Where’re you running off to? Can I come?”
The two of us have snuck out more times than I can count. Midnight swims in the reservoir; talks on the bridge, our bare feet dangling over the edge; that time we walked to Hunt Valley for a party in one of the old office buildings and ended up sleeping in an abandoned unit overnight, talking about what we’d do if we didn’t stand to inherit our parents’ debts. I’d go to the University of Maryland, get my teaching degree, put all the tutoring I’ve done to good use. She’d travel to an elephant sanctuary in Thailand that she read about in an old textbook. I told her it probably didn’t exist anymore; she told me to mind my own dreams.
I smile at the memory, but hers fades when she sees the forms in my hands. I tuck them under my arms, but it’s too late. Dylan knows me better than anyone; she’s practically my second sister. After her father took his life and it became clear that my mom was no longer herself, Dad and Nora began spending more time together. We have three surnames between us, but we’re still a family. Even after what our parents went through—what we’re dealing with, now.
“I have to.” I have trouble looking into her eyes. “We received a final notice. The interest is—”
She wraps her arms around me before I can finish. Warm together inside the blanket, I never want to leave.
“I don’t want you to go,” she says, voice muffled against me.
“I don’t, either, but it’s me or Abby.”
Copyright © 2020 by Kellan Szpara
