It’s one of those sticky August days when your blood feels like melted peanut butter and Tia’s mom finds no relief, lying on the scorched grass in the shade of the maple tree. The edges of the leaves are turning their first shades of crimson, like the glow of a dying match. Tia’s mom is a dying match too, in a cheap dip-dyed dress, with two buttons missing. She’s always gone without, more than Tia will ever know.

Tia’s mom grew up in hand-me-downs from her own mom. Shirts with reams of extra cloth around the chest, jeans rolled up at the ankles, bruises on her wrists and her face. Back then it seemed like everyone had a go at using Tia’s mom as a punching bag. The man Tia should have called Daddy threw Tia’s mom down a set of concrete steps and into a motel swimming pool after he found out Tia was on the way. Left them both for dead. Some cleaner fished her out and drove her to the county hospital. After she was patched up, Tia’s mom hitchhiked two hundred miles on her own, got a job serving coffee and eggs to truck drivers and runaways, and gave Tia a better life.

When Tia was born the maple tree branches were bare and black against the pale sky, but the hospital sheets were bright red. Tia’s mom lifted her head from the pillow as a nurse handed her the tiny, lizard thing with a slick of black hair and turned-up little nose.

“Your little girl,” said the nurse, with her eyes on the clock in the corner.

“Mine?”

Tia’s mom vowed then to never speak about her history. She wanted to look forward to their family, to their new life together, hand-in-hand, never looking back over their shoulders to the wreck of the past.

The memories Tia and her mom treasure most are from the days when the trees were dark green and plump with water, when there was still a freshness in the air. Tia in her pink dress like a spring blossom, singing along with the radio. Tia slitting the stalks of daisies with a sharp thumbnail, making long chains and looping them over her mom’s neck.

“Am I your best friend, Tia?” her mom asked.

“Yes, Mom,” said Tia, still looking down at the daisies.

“Give me a kiss, then.”

Tia pressed her lips to her mom’s turned-up nose, then ran towards the river to chase some bird she’d seen.

“Pelicans, Mom!”

“Away from the river, Tia!” her mom screeched. 

A vision rises: concrete steps, cracked bone, and a half-conscious splash into cold water. The river would not—could not—take Tia away. Tia’s mom grabbed her a little too tightly, pulled her a little too roughly, and Tia cried out—but the water couldn’t take her.

“Never, never go anywhere near the river again.”

Tia stared up at her mom. A shadow bloomed across her cheek.

“Am I still your friend, Tia? Mom’s sorry.”

“Yes, Mom.”

There were no tears in Tia’s eyes. Even at four years old, Tia recognized the depth of Mom’s love.

Tia and her mom were always friends. Sometimes her mom could talk rough when the whiskey flowed a little long, usually after a bad day when too many customers grabbed her ass, and especially when the boss told her to suck it up, count the tips, and be glad she wasn’t working at a strip bar. Her mom watched her say goodbye to her school friends through the window most days, sipping her drink, when Tia came home from school. When Tia came in, Tia’s mom would remind her that those friends of hers in their new outfits might be pretty and speak nicely, but they’d never respect Tia. They’d never really understand what it was like to struggle. They’d never know her or care for her like Mom did. And Tia would say “Okay, Mom” and turn the radio on.

“Don’t you ‘Okay Mom’ me. Listen to me. I’m telling you what I know. I’m gonna be there for you till the end, you know that? One day you’ll see it too. Shallow. Ungrateful. You’ll see what matters one day. You’ll see what I’ve done for you…”

“You’re drunk, Mom.”

And sometimes the whiskey would swing Tia’s mom’s arm. And in the morning Tia’s mom would apologize for the whiskey and the arm, then lend Tia a little cover-up for the bruise. And Tia would say thank you.

“No more whiskey, Mom.”

Tia didn’t kiss her mom anymore. And she stopped saying goodbye to school friends right outside the window. Tia’s mom had to watch around the corner when she arrived home walking next to some red-haired boy with fierce eyes, sunburned arms, and hard knuckles. As he handed a pile of books to her, Tia leaned in. Tempted by the false promise of a charming smile that would lead her all the way down concrete steps to a dirty swimming pool and a hospital in another county. Tia’s mom came out from the corner, clutching a bottle, just to scare the boy away.

“You little whore!”

The red-haired boy never came back, but Tia was a pretty girl, and there were other boys.

Tia’s mom had to protect her. Maybe it wasn’t sensible. But she couldn’t handle the thought of losing her to some rich boy who’d be too embarrassed to invite her to the wedding. Some boy who’d persuade Tia to run away to New York or Boston, some city suburb where Tia would start to dress in tailored suits and forget where she came from. Tia’s mom locked Tia in her room. What else was there to do?

“One day you’ll understand, Tia.”

Tia didn’t answer.

Her mom knew she made some mistakes. She always knew there must be a better way of keeping Tia close if only her heart would stop beating too loud for her to think of it.

One day, Tia’s mom was half a bottle down when she unlocked the door with thoughts of reconciliation and found Tia gone. Her mom remembers grasping her car keys from the kitchen, cold metal against her hot hand. She remembers crossing the bridge over the falls and not knowing whether the noise pounding in her ears was the crashing river water or the sound of her own blood, thin with heat and alcohol, rushing around her body too fast. The road lined with red-tinged maples rolled out in front of her as the headlights unfolded the future. She remembers a motel. A set of concrete steps. A swimming pool lit with a single lamp, illuminating dirt and drinks cans, floating. She remembers a blank room, some stranger with wide eyes and a rich man’s haircut, shouting, his hands held high. She remembers dark hair, a turned-up nose, and a scream.

“Mom, no, please, let’s talk. Please. Mom, I love you but you need to stop. Mom, we’ll get you a coffee and talk it through.”

A glass smashing on the hard floor as the telephone wire yanked out of the socket. Two loud bangs. A dog barking somewhere, followed by distant shouting, and then sirens. She runs, ducks into her car, blood still rushing through her ears like a fast-filling tank all the way down the highway. Then the memory hits, a sea of crimson even redder than maple leaves in October.

Tia’s mom turns the wheel of her car, sharp and sudden. The driver’s side slams straight into the trunk of the biggest maple on the roadside, throwing her clear. Crumpled metal, crumpled bones, and a cool breeze as her vision blurs and anger fades. Her heartbeat slows. The hot blood leaves her body. Tia’s Mom will stand and be judged before whoever does the judging, split her ribs and open up her heart wide as needed to prove there’s nothing else in there but love.

And then she’ll walk over to Tia and take her hand and they’ll walk under the maples together.