Working Girl by A. E. Woodward Page B

I cry for all the damage that has been done. However, unlike my Momma, I still have a chance to reach for the life I so crave. I can let people in, allow them to see me—the real me.
    But am I strong enough?

SUNLIGHT STREAMS THROUGH THE only window in the living room, and I squint. I’d apparently passed out on the couch, the emotions from the previous night exhausting me beyond belief. I yawn and stretch before finally sitting upright, glancing across the room at the clock on the DVD player. It’s lunchtime and it’s unusually quiet. Having most of the girls living at the brothel makes living at the Mansion a little more bearable. I like slow times like this. I could definitely get used to it.
    I look over my shoulder into the kitchen and see the empty coffee pot. Not one person is around this morning.
    That’s strange.
    Standing up, I look down the hallway to see Momma’s door still closed. She must have been as exhausted as me. Not only did she emotionally exhaust herself, sharing all the ugly details of her childhood, but she had the disadvantage of having HIV wreaking havoc on her system.
    With it being the end of the semester, I’m looking forward to a day of just me and my books. It’s time for me to catch up on the pleasure reading that I’ve been so desperately missing.
    I pick up the book I was reading last night and immediately lose myself in the story. It’s about a woman living in New York with her best friends, who happen to be all guys. It’s a cute, easy read, and it makes me giggle here and there, listening to all of their shenanigans. It stays quiet as I read, and I lose track of time. Before I know it I’m closing my book, having finished the adorable story about Shane and Emma. I’m sad to have finished, I usually am. I hate endings. They’re so . . . final .
    Gazing over at the clock again, I realize two more hours have passed. Yet there’s still no sound coming from Momma’s room. I decide it’s time for me to go check on her and I slowly move towards her door. I knock lightly at first, but when there is no answer I call out to her. “Momma? You awake?”
    No answer.
    I reach down to turn her doorknob only to remember that she locked it. Knocking again, this time a little louder, I call, “Momma! Open the door!” Panic sets in as I jiggle the locked doorknob, even though I know it won’t do any good.
    Chrissy steps into the hallway, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Unlike us, she had to work last night. “Presley, you okay?”
    “No!” I cry out. “It’s Momma. She won’t open the door!”
    Springing to life, Chrissy hurries to join me in front of Momma’s door, banging her fists against the chipped paint and calling out to her. It’s no good. The door remains closed. The room behind it silent.
    “We’ve got to break the door down.”
    I nod as Chrissy grabs my hand and backs us away from the door. “On three,” she commands. “One . . . two . . . three! ”
    Chrissy and I launch ourselves at the door, but it doesn’t move. Undeterred, we throw our bodies at the wood again and again until the frame cracks under the pressure, the door falling inward.
    My eyes immediately find Momma, curled up on her mattress, her hands tucked under her cheek. She looks like a porcelain doll, lying on the bed, motionless. Her hair covers the pillowcase and I can see the lace trim of the satin pajamas she always wears to bed peeking out from under the covers. The air feels strange. It hasn’t rained recently, yet there is a musty smell that assaults my senses, clogging up my nose and leaving a metallic taste in my too-dry mouth.
    I look again at Momma, taking in all the small details that I missed at first glance. Her skin is waxy, and her neck is at an awkward angle. Her chest isn’t rising and falling as a sleeping person’s should.
    Because she isn’t sleeping.
    I fall to my knees, Chrissy catching me under my arms, softening the fall by wrapping her arms around my waist and sliding