I paused outside on the sidewalk in front of my house, holding onto Sasha's leash and staring at the bedroom window where my mother usually lurks. The curtains were drawn and the house seemed quiet from where I was standing, but I was almost certain that if I walked in the door the smell of alcohol would bowl me over and my mother's shaky voice would reach out to me from the shadows asking if I was my father.
Sasha whimpered at my side, confused and frightened by the loud wooshing sound of passing cars on the road behind us. I decided I'd spare the poor girl of having to deal with my mother and took off her leash by the dog house, hooking her up to the long chain instead so she could safely wander the yard but not the road beyond. She licked my hand as if to wish me luck and I thanked her with a smile.
It was exactly as I had expected when I opened the front door. The smell of bourbon rolled over me like an invisible tidal wave and I had to turn my head back outside to catch my breath. I couldn't hear her footsteps shuffling across the hardwood floors so I counted that as good luck. I could seek refuge in my basement and be left alone to think about what I had just done to Janet.
My foot collided with something hard and I heard the sound of thumping glass rolling and bouncing down the steps into my sanctuary. I held my breath. Oh God no, she wasn't in my studio was she? She never went down there. I snapped the light on and rushed down the stairs as quietly as possible. Of course this wasn't very quiet at all -- I could oil all the locks and hinges I wanted to for hours but there were limited ways I could prevent the wooden steps from creaking under my weight. Besides, I'd never seen the need to before because my mother never ventured down here. She barely had the energy to get up and bathe. However, it amazes me that she can pull herself together long enough to drag herself into the kitchen for more alcohol and it sickens me that her so-called friends keep bringing to her when she runs out. There are a lot of things I miss out on when I hide in my basement or when I avoid the house for days on end.
As I had feared, I could easily see my mother from the bottom step slumped on the couch and reaching blindly for a bottle of alcohol she had set on the closest stool. Rather than check immediately on her I scanned the room to make sure nothing had been damaged. The only source of wreckage I found was that my bonsai tree had been knocked over and lay in a small pile of dirt as if it were bleeding. I hurried over to the crumpled plant and tried to replace it in the pot as best I could, scooping up the dirt and tossing it back in, not caring so much that it was getting stuck under my nails but angry that I'd have to polish my ring afterwords.
My mother's voice was scratchy, nothing like it had once been. I could barely remember the days when she smelled like a rose garden and curled her hair. There were days when I was younger that, after my father had beaten her, I would come to her and wrap my small hand around her own and offer to do her make-up. I told her she was beautiful because for hours my father would tell her that she was the most hideous creature on the planet. She allowed me to apply the eyeshadow and lip gloss and would smile when I'd hold up the mirror to show her what I'd done. "See mommy -- you're beautiful." "Yes, Mikey. I see."
The days where I could put my mother back together simply by fixing up her hair or holding her hand were gone. It would take more than that to kill off this addiction and I didn't have the energy to support the both of us. Now that I was older and had my own problems it was all I could do to take care of myself. Surely she understood that deep inside of that haze she'd confined herself to.
I was reluctant to approach the couch. If I made my presence known, because I was certain she had yet to realize I was there, she would assume that I was my father. I didn't want to go through another long and drawn out episode that involved me dragging her up the steps kicking and screaming. She was so thin now, pale, her eyes seemed to be seeking safety by receding into her skull. Her dark hair was plastered to her face by sweat or tears -- perhaps even both.
Out of the corner of her eye she must have seen my distorted image shifting in her vision and she beckoned me over with her hand and then went straight back to trying to grasp the bottle in her hands. Her fingers kept missing it by mere inches and it sickened me that she was more concerned with reaching out for that bottle than for my hand.
I was surprised that she seemed to recognize who I was, looking up at me with what once had been beautiful dark brown eyes but were now bottomless pits. "Mikey, darling. Hand mommy that glass of orange juice." Her long fingers gestured towards the bottle of liquor and rather than hand it to her I pushed it farther out of her reach.
"Get it yourself," I said shortly, closing my eyes. I hated seeing her like this. I should have stayed with Janet, I shouldn't have told her about Jorge, and I certainly shouldn't have left the way that I had. What was wrong with me?
Blaire tried to sit up on the couch but kept falling back onto her stomach, grunting with the effort to push what was left of her body into a half-kneeling position on the couch. Her eyes were unfocused and it took her several long seconds before she could find my hand and grasp it tightly. My eyes snapped open and I yanked my hand out of her grasp. It was like touching a corpse -- she felt like wax or perhaps even rice paper stretched over bone. This woman wasn't my mother anymore.
"Mikey," she pouted, "Mommy's thirsty. Just hand me that glass of juice, that's all I want."
Feeling sick, I grabbed the bottle and the five or so others that accompanied it and turned my back on her, heading deliberately up the steps and ignoring her calls. I hadn't done this in years and I couldn't decide why I was doing it now. Perhaps it was because I hadn't seen her close-up in a good light for a long time. I felt my stomach lurch when I heard her nails scratching on the wooden steps, trying to get a grip to chase after me, too weak to walk properly on her own two feet. I kept going, heading for the kitchen and dumping the contents of the bottles down the sink. Some weren't opened yet but I quickly rectified that and emptied them along with the rest.
By the time she had finally gotten into the kitchen, clutching the door frame for support, I was already working on the unopened bottles under the kitchen sink. She had these stashed all over the house so I knew there was no way I could get to them all. She didn't register right away what I was doing but as soon as she did it was if a new-found strength empowered her to launch across the room and claw at my hands with her nails. I half-expected her to start screeching 'My Precious' like the poor Golem in the Lord of the Rings stories. I could even see that same look in her eyes as she tried to wrench the bottle out of my hands, drenching both of us in vodka and I coughed. I wasn't going to attack her and so the most I could do was firmly push her away and continue with what I was doing.
"Don't, Mikey! What the f**k do you think you're doing?" she screeched, latching into my arms with her nails.
I didn't answer her, filled with anger and trying to resist the urge to act as my father had done and hitting her clear across the room. I wouldn't become him if I could help it. Still she wouldn't relent, clawing with a vengence at my hands to snatch the bottle away. I hissed and gritted my teeth, dropping it as soon as it had emptied and grabbing another. This time she latched onto my shoulders and I dropped the bottle. Thankfully it didn't shatter when it hit the floor, rolling under the table and out of her reach.
"Goddammit, Mikey -- what are you doing with mommy's juice?" she spat, slapping me across the face.
I flinched but kept my hands firmly at my sides. I would not hit her no matter how much I wanted to grab her by her shoulders and shake some sense into her. She was an adult, for God's sake, she should be taking care of herself and me -- it shouldn't be the other way around. I'm only seventeen, I'm still trying to figure out who I am. There isn't time for me to help her rediscover who she is too.
Her slap stung my face again, "I asked you a question, Mikey."
Turning my head away so that she couldn't slap me again I said, "Don't call me Mikey. My name is Michael."
This simple sentence alone was the equivalent of smacking her in the face and she backed away from me at once. The fury that had consumed her just moments ago seemed to have died and she was left looking as frail as she ever had. I wasn't in the mood to comfort her and I didn't want to risk crawling under the table to grab the bottle I had dropped. I went back to the task of dumping another bottle down the sink.
Blaire was crying, not bothering to wipe her tears away, "You hate me. Just like Jorge. You're just like him."
The effect of this sentence was much the same as how I had just done to her. I stiffened, setting the bottle down. I had just had a very vivid image of beating her about the head with it and I was not going to allow myself to be the reason my mother finally went over the edge. Tears stung my own eyes and at a loss for anything else to do I whispered, "May I do your make-up?"
A voice I hadn't heard in years answered me, "Of course honey. I always love having you give me make-overs."
It was a jolt I hadn't expected. Who would have ever thought that those honeyed-tones still lurked inside this woman? She hadn't spoken that sweetly in years. I slumped forward against the sink and buried my face in my hands, trying to answer her before I broke down. "Go to your room, mom. I'll be there in a little while to do you hair and everything."
She went obediantly, almost as easily as if I'd been ordering Sasha to sit or roll over. I finished dumping out the rest of the alcohol under the sink, crying silently, blocking out every memory that threatened to claim me as I worked. The bottle I went for last was the one under the table but rather than dumping it I tucked it away on top of the refrigerator where my mother was too short to reach. I'd come back for it later to drink myself.
Once I'd made it upstairs to see her she had collapsed at the foot of her bed and was snoring gently.
I paused with my hand on the doorknob to the bedroom, watching her, and slowly eased out of the room. "You're beautiful, mommy."
I closed the door.
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