I Would’ve Asked

Fiction by Phebe Jewell

Mom hates convenience stores, so when she drives me straight to the 7-Eleven after picking me up from the hospital this time, I know she’s run out of ideas. Parking in front, she keeps the engine running and hands me a five without saying anything. Mom knows how hard it is for me to be in public. One glance at my bandaged wrists tells my story.

I make my way past hot dogs, wings, and Taquitos to the coolers in back and grab two bottles of Gatorade. No one notices me. That’s why I love 7-Eleven. Keep the change, I tell the cashier, turning away before he can put quarters and pennies in my palm.

At the hospital they never asked why. I don’t know what I would’ve said if they did. Mom always says it’s a dog-eat-dog world. You’ve got to speak up if you want something. Still, I would have liked to be asked. They brought me tiny cups loaded with cubes of jello, breakfast and dinner trays I left untouched.

Mom’s checking her teeth in the rearview mirror when I tug open the door. Barely enough time to click the seat belt before she backs the car out and speeds toward the light, slowing for the amber. I unscrew the Gatorade, she turns on the car radio, and we listen to disco all the way to the drive-thru at Burger King.

Rolling down the window, she orders our usual—two chocolate shakes and Whoppers with cheese – using the tone she saves for Jehovah’s Witnesses knocking on our door. When the voice in the box squawks, Would you like fries with that, ma’am?, I know what’s coming. If I wanted it I would’ve asked for it, Mom says, smiling at me as she adds, but thanks for asking, and I sink back into the seat, hungry for the first time in weeks.

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