The house always smelled of frying food and rose oil, a heady, Catholic combination that sticks to your hair. We never had money for haircuts and the bathtub was full of whip spiders, but I didn't think anything of it until the day that Daisy died. I came home from school, dropped my backpack, coat, and boots on the landing, and ran up the stairs feeling the thick carpet under my toes. Every day I went through this routine, and for five minutes I felt free. Unburdening myself, my eyes on the kitchen cupboards, anticipating a snack of three soft batch chocolate chip cookies and a glass of tepid water. Most kids preferred milk with their cookies, but I hated the way it coated my mouth with a rancid feeling, like the aftermath of a vomiting episode. Cookies and water in front of the television. Sitting on the floor, splayed on the brown carpeting that continued through the living room and down the hall to the bathroom and bedrooms, watching cartoons I was too old for. This was my bliss. For five, maybe ten minutes I was alone in the house and it was quiet. My brothers were still at school activities, and my mom, who worked as a crossing guard for the little kids at elementary could never quite make it back before my bus. I was so grateful I said a daily prayer to the gods in charge of this orchestration of events. As I finished the third cookie Mom would come in running, out of breath, fear across her forehead, the sleeves of her turtleneck pushed up, as if every afternoon she anticipated the worst.
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