"Stop moving. You know I can't sleep when you're tossing around." Virgie snapped.
"Sorry." Patty bit on her lower lip.
Afraid to stir, eleven-year-old Patty lay on her side of the mattress.
She could smell cigarette smoke in the plastered wall. Her eyelids closed –– I miss my daddy.
As if trying to soothe herself, Patty slowly brought up one knee to her chest and then the other. The hum of the overhead fan lulled her to sleep.
She dreamt she was standing. Her mother was sitting on the floor. "Be still damn it! I need to get this hem straight." Gathering the material in her hand, her mother weaved in a straight pin. Not into the cotton — but Patty's leg. Suddenly, Patty was running; then, she was looking at her reflection in a mirror — a distorted face. Through a haze, her father was waving at her.
Patty was sweating. She didn't know if it was the pounding of her heart or the sound of streaming water that woke her. Rolling onto her back, she stared at the ceiling.
"Get me a cup of coffee. I’ve gotta go to work," Virgie called from the bathroom.
"Okay." Patty punched at her mother’s pillow and slid off the bed.