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“She’s asleep now. The doctor will check her when she wakes and as long as she’s still fine, they’ll let her go. ” She whispers something to Scott. Scott whispers back.
“Elisabeth,” he says. “I’m going to go fill out some paperwork. ”
Meaning he’ll pay her bills. For now. How could I have not noticed the marks on her arm before? “Okay. ”
The room becomes very still except for the steady beat of Mom’s heart monitor. From the moment my aunt Shirley called Scott, I’ve felt like I’ve been spinning in the Gravitron from the fair. If I could, I’d crawl right into oblivion and disappear. I’m tired and all I want is to get off this damn ride.
“Which one of you punched Trent?” Shirley asks behind me.
“Both of us. Nice job taking care of your sister. ” I knot my fingers with Mom’s. Does she know I’m here? Probably not. Mom doesn’t even notice I’m with her when she’s somewhat coherent. “Where have you been?”
“Smoke break. ” Shirley hacks her smoker’s cough and Mom flinches in her sleep. “Who do you think found your mom and dragged her ass into the alley before I called nine-one-one? If the police went into your mom’s apartment we’d be in a bigger shit pile than we are now. ”
Mom stirs and I wish she’d wake up and tell me she’s sorry. “Thanks for calling Scott. ”
“He’s got money. Make sure he uses it to pay the bills. ” Shirley’s light footsteps come closer to the bed and she rests a hand on my shoulder. I keep my eyes on Mom, terrified if I glance away she’ll disappear.
“Two days ago your mom told me a funny story. It was the type that could start with once upon a time,” says Shirley. “She said you were coming soon to take her away. Sad part was she also told the whole bar and someone there told Trent. He got a little pissed. ”
A little pissed? Fresh bruises cover the right side of Mom’s face. Knowing her, she took the heroin to forget the beating, to relieve the pain.
“You know I don’t believe in fairy tales. ” I should never have left Mom. Never. I should have found a way to leave weeks ago. This is my fault.
“That’s a shame,” she says. “Because I would have paid to see that one. ”
I jerk my head to look at her.
“Cash,” says Shirley. “She’s not going to last much longer the way she’s been going. The decision is yours. She’s your responsibility. ”
Shirley walks out of the room. I try to inhale, but it’s virtually impossible with the burden weighing me down. Ever since I was eight years old, the responsibility of my mother has been on me. I’ve taken care of her. Moved her. Fed her. Made sure she went to work or helped her find jobs. But right now, what I want more than anything is for my mom to take care of me. I’m done being the grown-up.
For a few minutes I want to be the kid. I want my mom. I just want my mom.
A light touch moves across my hand. “Don’t be sad, Elisabeth,” my mother mumbles.
I sniff. “I’m not sad. ”
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“I dreamed of you. You and your daddy. I miss him. ” Her fingers lightly grasp my wrist.
“I miss you. You were a beautiful baby. ”
“Why?” A tangle of anger and sadness and happiness weaves around my soul and strangles the scream fighting to leave my throat. She’s alive, but she almost died. “Why do you have to make everything so fucking hard?”
“Come here. I like you better sad. I hate it when you’re angry. ” She tugs on my wrist and ignores my question. “I want to hold my baby. ”
I feel like I’m five as I crawl on the bed and rest my head between the crook of her arm and her chest. Her fingers weakly pick at my hair.
“You were born on a Tuesday. ”
I close my eyes and will the hurt to leave, but it doesn’t go away. It stabs at me over and over again. I’m so tired. So damned tired. I don’t want to think about Trent or heroin or running away or about the responsibility I thought I could abandon.
“It was an awfully hot day. You were so beautiful, but so tiny. The doctor wouldn’t let me hold you for three weeks because you were early. Your daddy loved you then. He came by the hospital twice before your grandma brought us home. Scott was excited to hold a baby for the first time. ”
Her bony fingers relax against my head and I wish she’d tell me she loves me, because I love her. She may be a drug addict and an alcoholic and she’s probably a whore, but she’s my mom. My mom.
“I loved to take you to the mall. People would stop me and tell me what a beautiful baby you were. I’d let them hold you and they’d try to guess your name. You were so cute and you never cried. You were my own personal baby doll. ”
