The Mixtape by Brittainy C. Cherry

2

EMERY

What’s for breakfast?

I scrounged through the cabinets in search of something—anything—to make for Reese. We used our last eggs and sausage links for dinner last night, and we wiped the side of the peanut butter jar nicely with a spatula to have an after-dinner snack while we read books from the library.

Think, think, think, Emery.

I pulled out a loaf of bread along with an almost emptied jar of jelly and set it down on the countertop.

We had one piece of bread left in the loaf along with the two end pieces, though Reese refused to eat the end pieces, no matter how much jelly I’d slap against them.

“That’s not real bread, Mom,” she’d argue again and again. “Those are the butt ends. That’s what the birds by the lake eat.”

Though she had a point, she didn’t have much of a choice that morning. I had only $12.45 in my bank account, and payday wasn’t until tomorrow. Half that money would go toward rent, while I’d use the other half for budget-friendly meals. We didn’t have much wiggle room in our lives at the moment, since I’d lost my one job at the hotel as a line cook.

Ever since then, I’d been working nights at a sporadically busy hole-in-the-wall bar called Seven. Needless to say, the job hadn’t been pulling in the money much, and I was still waiting to hear back from the unemployment office about income from losing my job.

I took out a knife and shaved off as much of the “butt end” as I could to make it look like a normal piece of bread. Then, I covered it with grape jelly.

“Reese, breakfast!” I called out.

She hurried out of her room and came rushing to the kitchen table. As she slid into her chair, she wrinkled up her nose and grumbled. “This is the end piece, Mom!” she sassed, completely unimpressed by my gourmet meal.

“Sorry, kiddo.” I walked over and messed up her wavy charcoal hair. “Things are a bit tight this week.”

“Things are always tight,” she groaned, taking a bite before tossing the rest of the sandwich down on the plate. “Hey, Mama?”

“Yeah, sweetie?”

“Are we poor?”

The question echoed in my ears and hit me in the gut. “What? No, of course not,” I answered, a bit shocked by her words. “Why would you even say that?”

“Well, Mia Thomas from camp said that only poor people shop at Goodwill, and that’s where we get all of our clothes from. Plus, Randy always gets McDonald’s for breakfast, and you never let me get McDonald’s breakfast. Plus, plus, plus,” she exclaimed excitedly, as if she was getting ready to list the biggest bit of proof to showcase our poverty level, “you gave me the butt ends!”

I smiled her way, but my heart began to shatter. It was something my heart had done over and over again for the past five years, ever since Reese came into this world. It shattered because every day I felt as if I was failing her. As if I wasn’t enough, and I wasn’t giving her the life she truly deserved. Being a single parent was the hardest thing I’d ever had to do in my life, yet I didn’t really have a choice in the matter. The father was definitely never going to be in the picture, so I’d learned to handle everything on my own.

Even though I’d worked hard to make ends meet, lately it seemed that the struggle bus was driving down the road faster and faster. Each day it felt as if I were seconds away from crashing.

I hated that things had gotten so tight lately, but business was slow at the bar I worked at, which meant less tips. Plus, every job interview I came across never led anywhere. Rent was also late, and I hadn’t yet informed Reese that I wouldn’t be able to make her next camp deposit that was coming up; therefore, no more summer camp. She’d be devastated, as would I for breaking her heart. I wondered if kids knew that when parents had to break their hearts, ours shattered more.

I didn’t know when we’d catch a break.

I stared at my girl, who looked so much like me. Some characteristics I was certain belonged to her father, but I was thankful I didn’t see them. I only saw a beautiful little girl who was perfect in every way.

And her smile?

That smile was kind of like mine. More like my mother’s. Along with the deep dimple in her left cheek.

Thank God for that smile.

She was also blessed with my bad eyesight, which was the reason those thick-framed, round glasses sat against her face. I loved that face so much. It was almost impossible to remember a day when she wasn’t in my life.

You know how my heart shattered daily due to feeling like a failure? Each time Reese smiled, the cracks began to heal. She was my Earth angel, my reason for existing, and every broken crack that my heart suffered, her love fixed.

I moved over to her and ruffled her already messy, tangled brown hair. I’d need to give her loosely coiled hair a deep conditioning session along with a twist-out sooner rather than later, but my urgent concern was dinner that night and how it would come to be. It was a private concern, a secret mental struggle I couldn’t let touch Reese. “You can’t listen to everything everyone says at camp, Reese.”

“Including Ms. Monica and Ms. Rachel and Ms. Kate?” she exclaimed, excited for almost getting permission to ignore her summer camp instructors.

“Everyone except the camp instructors.”

“So,” she said, cocking an eyebrow and picking up her sandwich, “we’re not poor?”

“Well, let’s see. Do you have a bed to sleep on?”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

“And a house to live in?”

“Uh-huh.”

“A car to get us around?”

“Yeah . . .”

“And even if it’s the butt ends of a sandwich, do you always have food to eat?”

“Yeah.”

“And do you have a mama who loves you?”

She smirked her little shy smirk. “Yeah.”

“Then there is no way we are poor. We have clothes on our backs, a roof over our head, a car to drive, and each other’s love. No one can be poor if they have love.” I said it, and I meant it too. When Reese came into my life, I learned that true wealth was wrapped in her love.

And with her love, I was rich. With her love, I’d never lose hope in tomorrow.

Reese lowered her eyebrows and gave me a stern look. “So, you’re saying Mia and Randy are both full of baloney?”

“Oh yeah, lots and lots of baloney.”

“Mmm, fried baloney sounds good,” she said, biting into her sandwich. “Can we have that for dinner?” she asked.

“Maybe, honey. We’ll see.”

There was a knock at the front door, so I stood to my feet and headed over to answer it. As I opened it, I saw a familiar friendly face standing there.

“Good morning, Abigail.” I smiled at my neighbor. Abigail Preston had lived in the apartment across from me ever since Reese and I moved in over five years ago. She was in her early sixties, lived on her own, and had been nothing but a saint to both Reese and me. On the days when I had to work the night shift, she was more than willing to watch Reese for me. She never asked for anything in return either. Even when I tried to pay her for her kindness, she told me that people shouldn’t be kind in order to reap rewards.

“You do good for the sake of good doing, Emery. That’s how the world keeps on keeping on—because there are good people doing good things for the simple sake of doing them.”

Abigail was a good thing—a great thing, even.

Not only was she kind, but she was a retired therapist, which came in handy five years ago when I was a new mother. Abigail was there to help talk me through my anxiety, through my fears, all free of charge.

I once asked her why she stayed in our apartment building when it was clear that she had plenty of money to live in a nicer location. The story behind her choice was more than enough reason to make my heart smile. It turned out the apartment was the first place she’d ever lived with her now-deceased husband. After he passed away, Abigail went searching for a new place to live, and when she saw that the old apartment was up for rent, she knew she had to get it back.

She said it wasn’t just an apartment, it was her life’s story, and without that life story, she would’ve never crossed paths with Reese and me.

Thank goodness for a person’s life story and how it sometimes intermixed with others.

“Hey, darling.” She gave me her sweetest smile. She was decked out head to toe in vibrant forms of yellow. Her silver hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and her glasses hung on a chain around her neck. She also held a box in her hands. “I thought I’d stop by with some extra doughnuts I had for dinner last night. I had a craving and couldn’t eat a whole dozen on my own, so I thought I’d leave the extras for you two.” She opened the box for me to see the sugary treats.

She never knew it, but her door knocks were always right on time.

“Doughnuts!” Reese hollered, hurrying over to the door and taking the box of miracles from Abigail’s hands. I knew most people wouldn’t consider a box of doughnuts a miracle, yet when the refrigerator was empty and payday was still a few days away, a box of doughnuts was a gift from the heavens above.

Reese dashed off toward the living room sofa to dive in, and I called after her: “What do we say, Reese?”

“Thank you, Abigail!” she hollered, her mouth stuffed already with the sugary goodness.

“Only eat one, Reese. I mean it.”

Those doughnuts would be enough to get us through until my check came in tomorrow night.

I turned back toward Abigail and narrowed my eyes. “For someone who had a craving for doughnuts last night, it’s odd that there is still a full dozen in that box.”

She gave me a sly smile. “They must’ve put an extra one in the box.”

Yeah, sure.

Just a good woman doing good things.

I shifted around a bit and crossed my arms. “Thank you for that. You have no clue how much we needed that this morning.”

She frowned a bit. “I think I have a bit of a clue.” She pulled a piece of paper from behind her back and handed it to me. “This was placed in my mailbox instead of yours by mistake.”

I took the folded sheet of paper from her and read the notice.

Rent was late.

Again.

I’d been behind for the past two months, due to losing my job and Reese having a few health issues, and luckily the apartment manager, Ed, had been nice enough to let it slide, but by the wording of his letter, it seemed that I was dangling from the end of his hospitality rope. I couldn’t blame him, really. He had a job to do, and the fact that he allowed me to be two months behind without eviction was baffling to me.

I’d seen Ed send people packing for being a few weeks behind. He was a cutthroat kind of guy, all bite and no bark. Except for when it came to Reese and me. I was completely aware of the murky legalities here, and I knew the situation couldn’t go on forever. Plus, there was no worse feeling than knowing you owed a person something. I wanted no debt against my name, for me and for Reese. For the time being, I was thankful for Ed’s generosity. He had a bit of a soft spot for Reese, and he always said that I reminded him of his own mother. She had been a single mother, too, so perhaps Ed saw himself in Reese.

He couldn’t take pity on us much longer, though, and I had to come up with a way to get him almost $2,000 in two days. I wouldn’t have the money until Friday, and even then, rent would take up most of our check for the upcoming two weeks, leaving little room for gas and food.

I took a deep breath and tried to keep from breaking. It felt like an everlasting battle. If I caught up on one thing, another was falling out of place.

“If you need money, Emery—” Abigail started, but I shook my head quickly.

I’d taken a loan from her in the past, and I couldn’t bring myself to do it again. I couldn’t keep relying on others to give me a break in life. I had to stand completely on my own two feet. I just wished I knew how to walk better.

“It’s okay, really. Everything will work out. It always does.”

“You’re right, it does. But if you ever need an extra inch to get yourself to tomorrow, I’ll be here.”

Just like that, my heart cracked and healed all at once. The tears I’d fought daily to keep from falling began sliding down my face, and I turned away from Abigail. I was ashamed of myself, embarrassed by our struggles.

Yet Abigail wouldn’t allow any such thing. She wiped away my tears, shaking her head. Then she said five words that were so simple, yet so meaningful. “You’re not weak; you’re strong.”

You’re not weak; you’re strong.

How? How did she know what I needed to hear?

“Thank you, Abigail. Truly. You’re a saint.”

“Not a saint, just a friend. Which reminds me, I better get going to meet a friend for coffee. You have a good day!” She turned and skipped away like the fairy godmother she’d always been.

I hurried over to Reese and took the box of doughnuts from her grip. Two and a half were missing from the box, and honestly, I was surprised it wasn’t more.

“Sorry, Ma. I couldn’t stop it. They are sooo good! You should have one.”

I smiled and almost got a sugar high from the smell of deliciousness. But I refused, because if I didn’t eat one, she’d have more for later. I’d learned quickly that motherhood meant saying no to yourself so you could later say yes to your child.

“I’m good right now, babe. Now, go wash up. We have to get you to camp on time.”

She hopped off the sofa and raced to the bathroom to clean herself up.

While she was gone, I studied the rent notice in my hand, and my mind began swirling around, trying to figure out what could fall behind so we could fall ahead on rent.

Don’t overthink it, Emery. Things will work out. They always have and always will.

That was a concrete belief I held in the deepest parts of my mind, because I was a woman of statistics, and the stats were on my side. When I thought back to the hardest times of my life, when I thought I wouldn’t have made it through, somehow I had done exactly that—I survived.

Our current situation was nowhere near as bad a place as I’d been in before, so I wouldn’t mope; I’d keep moving forward. It wasn’t a dark cave I was in—I was simply dealing with an overcast sky.

At some point, the clouds would shift and the sun would shine again. Statistics never lied—at least that was my hope.

Plus, there was some comfort knowing that the sun never truly left; it just stayed hidden some days. Until those clouds shifted, I turned to music. Some people turned to yoga or working out to clear their heads. Others went for walks or wrote in a journal. But for me? My key to breathing was music and lyrics. Music always spoke to me in ways that nothing else ever could. Song lyrics always reminded me that my feelings were worthy of being felt, and I wasn’t alone in my fears. Somewhere out there, another was feeling the same woes.

That was comforting in more ways than I ever could’ve described—just the idea of knowing that sadness wasn’t only felt by me. Or that my happiness wasn’t mine alone. There was a beautiful stranger somewhere across the world, listening to the same song as me, feeling both happy and sad all at once.

As we headed out the front door, I found a paper bag resting on my welcome mat. Inside were random food items, with a note on top. “Just thought you guys could play Chopped later this week, Chef.” A note, clearly from Abigail. It wasn’t the first time I’d received a paper bag with random food items beside my door from my neighbor. Chopped was a show that Reese and I watched often with Abigail. The concept was to take items that seemed random and create a meal from said items.

Abigail knew that my dream was to become a chef someday, and those little bags of food she left for us were not only to feed us physically, but to feed my soul too. I glanced into the bag and saw a baguette, a small honey ham, four sweet potatoes, and peanut butter.

Then, there was a note with one of Abigail’s therapist thoughts:

Asking for help doesn’t make you a failure.

Just like that, the sun peeked through the clouds a bit.

“Reese! Let’s get a move on!” I hollered, checking the time. I hurried and put the ham in the fridge. No time for tears of gratitude. My only mission was to get Reese to camp before nine a.m.

Each day on the drive to drop Reese off, I put on Alex & Oliver’s first two albums. I only ever played the first two, though, because in my mind they were the best ones. There was an authenticity to their sound before Hollywood wrapped its money-grabbing hands around the duo. Alex and Oliver Smith were lyrical geniuses, though their record label hadn’t allowed them to showcase their true gift. They’d just forced the guys to become cookie-cutter superstars. The majority of their fans loved the new stuff; again, there was a huge market for cookie-cutter music. If there wasn’t, it wouldn’t be a thing.

But us original fanatics? We saw the change. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Oliver was a host on some TV music contest soon enough.

I wasn’t the biggest fan of their new sounds, but I had quite a personal connection with the first two albums. Those albums felt as if they told the earliest chapters of my life.

Faulty Wiresby Alex & Oliver was the soundtrack to my youth, and it meant the world to me. It was sad to think after the tragic events a few months back that we wouldn’t get any more true, authentic music from the duo. I’d been holding my breath in hopes of Oliver returning to his true core, but from the headlines, it seemed as if, after the tragedy he’d experienced, Oliver was on a downward spiral with no real drive to ever come back to life.

Last time I heard, he hadn’t left his house in the past six months, having become a complete recluse.

I couldn’t blame him, really.

I, too, would’ve spiraled.

As I played Alex & Oliver in the car, Reese sang along to the lyrics she had yet to understand. Lyrics of first loves, and hopes, and demons. Lyrics of struggles and triumphs. Lyrics of truths.

I sang along, too, and like every other woman in the world, I pretended Oliver wrote the lyrics solely for me.