“Absolutely. But we’re not new to change.” Several seconds passed with no conversation. “I told you before that Prescott-Hayes will be ours whether you live in Michigan or South Carolina.Ifyou have to be here for anything, you’ll get here. Worry about Angel greeting you with open arms.”
“Right. But I’m not worried. All I need is permission to stay.”
“Alright, man. Let me know if I can help with anything before you hit the road.”
“Same. I mean it, bruh.”
I had no doubt about that. I thanked him and ended the call. The rest of my forty-five-minute drive was quiet—no music, no talking. As I sped toward the house I’d once called home, I wondered what I’d find when I got there.
When I arrived,I checked my surroundings, sucked in a deep breath, and made my way to the front door. Using my key, I unlocked it and walked in. The small house was quiet, but the smell of stale air, spoiled food, cigarette smoke, and vomit permeated the air. I flicked the light switch, expecting the lamp to come on, but it didn’t. I turned on the overhead light, which had never shined brightly no matter how many electricians I’d hired and expensive light bulbs I’d purchased. Off in the corner, the lamp shade was tipped over, and the thick glass of my late grandmother’s favorite lamp was shattered on the floor.
Dirty clothes littered the floor, fast-food bags were piled on the counter, empty pizza boxes sat on the couch. I didn’t know why I’d expected anything less than the sight that greeted me. It had always been this way.
My childhood had been spent taking care of home, of her. School had come second; friends or girlfriends hadn’t been a priority. Only her. Because I could never trust her to take care of herself or me. While other kids were partying, playing sports, meeting girls, I’d been working so I could make sure we both ate. When it was time to graduate, I’d missed my own graduation because I hadn’t wanted to have to explain why she acted the way she did. And when I’d enlisted, I’d spent days reassuring her I’d continue to help her pay the rent.
I walked to the kitchen, grabbed a trash bag from under the sink, and started picking up the trash. When I finished inside, I took the almost-full bag to the garage and checked the ’96 Buick. The car keys were on the car seat. Empty beer bottles were strewn on the passenger side and in the back seat. I made quick work cleaning up and tossing the bag into the trash bin.
I glanced at my watch and stepped into the house. I checked each room on my way to the master bedroom, where she was sprawled out on top of a soiled, sheetless mattress. Her clothes were hanging off, her feet were filthy, and her hair was a tangled mess on the top of her head.
“You’re here?” Her slurred words were familiar and indicative of her drunken state.
“You called me. At least twenty times in less than an hour.”
“I’m so glad you came. Can you grab me a pack of cigarettes from my purse? And a Pepsi. No, a beer.” She patted the top of her head. “Shit, my hair is a hot mess. I need to get myself together.”
The wordshotandmesswere an understatement. I stared down at the first woman I’d ever loved. Kenya Hayes had been a stunner once, so fly that she’d garnered the attention of one of the top modeling agencies. But an unwanted pregnancy at eighteen, a hit-and-run at twenty-one, and a failed marriage had left her with a lot of regrets and an addiction.
I should’ve felt sad, but all I felt was anger. Disgust, really. Maybe pity. But definitely rage. Because this wasn’t the first time I’d had to drop everything and clean up my mother’s mess— literally and figuratively. I took a cleansing breath, grabbed the bottle of vodka on the nightstand, and stomped into her bathroom. I heard her struggling outside, screaming at me to stop, but I poured the liquor into the toilet.
“Pres!” she hollered between coughs. “Don’t throw out my shit. I paid good money for that.”
Sighing, I walked back into the room. “Too late. And maybe you should’ve paid the electric bill, or even your cell phone bill, instead of buying a fifth of Tito’s.”
“Show some respect,” she slurred. She picked up her lighter and attempted to light the butt of a cigarette. “I’m still your mother.”
“Then act like it, Ma.” I snatched the lighter from her. “For once.”
“You have no right to talk to me like that, lil’ nigga. I will kick your big ass.”
I snickered. “Good luck with that.”
“You think you’re funny.” She stood up and nearly fell on her face. When I went to help her, she smacked me. “Don’t touch me.”
“You can barely stand up.”
She shuffled around the room aimlessly, opening drawers, throwing clothes around. I suspected she was looking for her pain pills or her stash of liquor. Because there was always a spare.
I spotted the half-full bottle under the recliner and grabbed it, holding it up. “Looking for this?”
She grabbed the neck of the bottle and tried to snatch it from me, but my firm grip made that impossible in her state. “Give me that shit,” she spat.
The unhealthy relationship I had with my mother had taken its toll on me, but it had never stopped me from doing what I had to do—it had never prevented me from succeeding in school and at work, and it had never kept me from being there for her. No matter how exhausting it was, when she called, I came.
Mom shoved me again. “You can get out.”
“You know I’m not going to sit here and watch you kill yourself with this drink.”
“That’s not your decision to make.”
