Page 9 of Finding Parker

“Can we turn it down a little?” I asked as I walked toward the television.

“I can’t hear it now,” she said through her fingers as she stretched her hands over her face in agony.

“In the bathroom, under the sink?” she groaned.

“I looked, mother. I’ve looked everywhere. You’re out. Completely,” I sighed.

“Go find me something. I’ll even take Lortab’s,” she begged in an almost inaudible tone.

My mother had fallen at work when I was in second grade, fracturing several bones in her hip. Her employer was found negligent in court, and was required to settle with my mother financially as well as medically. The end result was a lifelong addiction to pain killers, a short period of unemployment, and a paltry monthly paycheck spent entirely on obtaining more painkillers than the doctor was allowed to prescribe.

Immediately following my birth, my father was killed in a car wreck. My mother never remarried. She claimed he was her first and only love. As I grew older and watched my mother become a drug addict, I often wondered if she was merely wallowing in the grief of her loss by dulling herself senseless with narcotics.

Her medical state didn’t allow me to do or see much beyond working. My paychecks primarily kept me in clothes, fed me, and supplemented the amount of painkillers she was prescribed by the doctor.

Her addiction had become her life.

Enabling her had become mine.

“What day is it?” she breathed as she scratched her arms unknowingly.

“It’s the fifth,” I responded.

Ten more days.

“Oh lord,” she groaned.

“I’m going, mother,” I sighed as I turned toward my bedroom to retrieve my purse.

Growing up, all I ever wanted was to be a chef. Cooking was something which had always fascinated and satisfied me. I suspect it grew from the necessity to cook for myself at such a young age. In my wildest dreams as a child, I never would have guessed life’s destination for me was going to be here.

A drug dealer and caregiver to my Barco Lounger dependent narcotics addicted mother.

After assuring her I would return with something, I stepped outside and onto the sidewalk. As I walked to my car, I smiled at my recollection of the boy from the book store.

Parker.

The thought of getting to know a boy and developing a relationship was satisfying.

But impossible.

I’d probably never see him again anyway.

If I did happen to see him again, he wouldn’t stick around for very long.

They never do.

PARKER. If wealth were measured by the aesthetics of one’s living quarters, Kenton Ward was one rich man.

6201 Camino De La Costa.

As the front of my car approached the gate, I stared at the speaker which was carefully hidden in the ornamental stone post on the left side of the brick and stone driveway. As the car came to a stop, I sat and gawked like an idiot; not quite knowing what to do next. A precursory glance toward the trees that surrounded the left side of the entrance revealed a security camera mounted to any ivy covered fence.

I glanced toward where I expected the home to be. From the entrance, the home was well hidden by the stone fence and trees which separated the land in front of the home from the street.

“Good day Mr. Bale. Mr. Ward is expecting you. Follow the drive to the front entrance of the home, please. Feel free to park in front of the fountain.”

The voice was pleasant and surprisingly clear.