Getting off the school bus he inhaled deeply at the sight of her car in the driveway. It was a blue Cadillac, a real piece of junk. The metal was rusted on the edges, making it look like the underbelly of an idle boat in a harbor collecting barnacles. The heater didn’t work, the windows were busted making winter driving an adventure and the brakes squealed like a dying pig. The back bumper was full of dents and various colors from other cars. She always got into accidents; usually after leveling off. She hadn’t used the car in a while because she had her license taken away.
The front door was unlocked, as it always was, and the first thing that he noticed was the lack of noise throughout the house. She was probably passed out. She claimed her doctors said she needed to nap daily. He always found it weird that despite being unemployed she was always tired. For a while he thought that she was mad at him but he later found out that it was the alcohol. He’s still not sure what’s worse.
She was snoring on the couch. An empty bottle of liquor was on the ground in front of her and the television was tuned into a soap opera. The show was one of the only things that brought a smile to her face.
He tiptoed his way past her to the kitchen and started making something to eat. If he didn’t no one else would.
“Who’s there?” her voice bellowed from the other room.
“It’s just me. I’m making a snack.”
He was hoping that she would go back to sleep. She didn’t and struggled to get to her feet.
“Well why do you have to be so fucking loud about it? You know that I have to get my sleep.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”
“That’s your problem, you never mean to. Wait a minute, what are you doing here, don’t you have school?”
“It’s four o’clock, school is over.”
She stumbled towards the kitchen. He tried his best to remain calm. Already he could see the thick vein in the middle of her forehead beginning to bulge.
“Get the hell out my sight! It’s bad enough you woke me up, now you’re giving me a headache.”
He silently nodded and began to make his way to his room. He stepped lightly, staying on the tips of his feet, not wanting to make any noise.
The screaming began before he finished his math homework.
Barely audible at first, it grew louder with each word. She had a way of becoming angrier, and louder, as she spoke, like when she would turn up the volume to some old song in the car.
“You little prick, what did you do with my alcohol?”
He knew better than to answer. When her anger turned to blind rage, her questions became rhetorical. Besides, nothing he could say would satiate her.
It was like a cat and mouse game when she was like this. He had to cower away to some corner of the house and wait out her outburst and then, when it was quiet he could show his face again. He’d gotten good at playing hide and seek when he went to his friends’ houses or on the playground. So good in fact, that no one wanted to play if he was doing the hiding.
He double checked to make sure his bedroom door was locked. He fell to the floor slowly, keeping his back against the grainy wood of the door. The feeling, as he slid down to the ground, pricked his back. The pain felt good, relief.
He began to sob. He let the warm tears fall down his face until they reached his quivering lips. They tasted salty and bitter; a reminder of his lost childhood, an explanation for why his father had left a long time ago. He wanted to leave with his dad, but he was too young to have a say in it. He wondered if he had started a new family by now, if by creating a replacement one he could finally erase them from his memory.
He wanted to make a run for it himself. He knew he could reach the front door before she got to him. He even knew where she hid a spare set of car keys. He’d driven it plenty of times in the past. His mom had made him drive her to the liquor store. He could barely see over the steering wheel. Propped up by a phone book, hands shaky, more nervous of his mom sitting next to him than the other cars on the road.
The yelling stopped. It was followed by a low, subtle, sobbing, echoing throughout the decrepit house, pinning off of each paint peeled wall. They rang through the house long past sundown. It was safe to sleep now. She’d worn herself out; her temper tantrum was about finished. He got under his sheets and pulled his blankets up to his chin as if it were some kind of protective shield. He forced his eyes shut and willed himself to sleep.
The alarm clock buzzed, acting as a cattle prod, and he sprang to attention. His sheets were soaked in cold sweat from the night before. He still couldn’t shake the initial intensity of the nightmares that had begun just before dad left. The radio was playing a Billy Joel song. He was singing of a drunk, painting a happy portrait of the hell he was living through. He’d gotten used to sleeping with the radio on, volume low enough to keep his mom from hearing but loud enough to quiet his internal fears, for a moment, and give him a chance at a decent night of sleep.
He crept up the carpeted stairs towards the kitchen. He could hear humming coming from above. She was standing at the oven, her back facing him. She turned as he took a seat at the table.
“Good morning sweetie. How did you sleep?”
She was happy, a completely different look in her eye. She brought over a plate of soggy scrambled eggs and burnt bacon to him. She leaned in and gave him a kiss on his forehead. He could smell fresh liquor on her breath. She had started today’s bottle a little early. Still freshly drunk where she was in a nice mood. He soaked in this mood for as long as he could knowing it was only temporary. Later she would revert to her irritable drunken alter ego.
Living with her made him realize, a long time ago, that he had to treasure the small, daily, treasures of stability.
Patrick Trotti
Belly Fat Magazine 