— EMILY BRONTË On Sunday morning, I wake up wondering who I can tell about my dad’s drinking. I also wake up wet. Oh, no. I get out of bed, peel off my cold, clingy pajamas and put my bathrobe on. The bathroom is empty. Thank goodness. There are pink spots from my father’s vomit on the toilet seat. I wipe them away with toilet paper. He throws up every morning now. I run water in the tub and clean myself off. I wish we could get a shower like everyone else in the modern world. Dad keeps promising, but his promises mean nothing anymore. Maizey said Sue-Ellen has her very own bathroom with a shower and tub and a makeup vanity with a cushioned chair and a closet you can walk around in, clothes all hung in pretty rows with matching shoes underneath. That girl is so lucky. I bet her birthday party will be fit for a princess. Please, God, let me still be able to go. Back in my room, I strip the fitted sheet from my mattress and stare at the little puddle of pee on top of the plastic garbage bag Mom makes me put down to protect my mattress in case of accidents like last night.
