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Fighting for my mom—hoping and praying she’d wake up whenever she closed her eyes.
Fighting for my brothers—it wasn’t easy raising two teenage boys. It was like they made things hard on purpose to see how far they could push me before I gave in and gave them up. They felt they weren’t worth loving because their parents didn’t care enough to keep them. They were waiting for me to do the same, proving they were right.
Lately, though, it was a bunch of small things. Things like…
…I’d make myself something to eat. A fly or bug would land on it.
…I’d drop the last bag of chips after eating only one or two.
…a piece of my crappy car would have to be replaced when I’d finally saved up a little extra cash to put aside for a rainy day.
On the surface, they were small things, but like nicks in the windshield of life, I could feel them growing deeper, heading straight for my sanity.
Not to mention, I knew how a man’s severed finger felt in a napkin. That was something I could go my entire life without knowing.
I shuddered at the thought, and how hot it was getting, and turned off my car. It took a second for the motor to grow quiet. I didn’t even want to know why. Sometimes I felt like, if I thought about it too hard, it would break.
Years ago, when I’d reached my limit of stress, I’d stupidly shouted at the universe, what else can go wrong?
Big mistake. Huge mistake.
The universe took it as a challenge and started throwing stuff at me left and right. And I noticed if I thought on something too long and too hard—like why my car took a minute to shut off—it would go for it.
That was the last thing I needed.
Even though my mom put in for rent and groceries, my brothers got money from the state, and I tried to work as much as humanly possible, we were barely staying afloat.
I released a breath when the car finally quieted.
My mom was sitting on the steps to the apartment when I reached the second floor. She was smoking, her eyes far off in the distance.
Once upon a time, Linda Davies was a striking woman. I could still see glimpses of the mom I used to know, even though she went away when I was seven, mentally and emotionally checking out because of drinking and drugs. For her age, she had deep lines that belonged to a woman much older. She’d lost her teeth and had dentures.
She was a shrunken version of herself, and even more shrunken was her capability to live a normal life. She was even more mentally and emotionally unavailable to me than she was before. She was still on drugs, but her doctors prescribed them for her. Mostly pills.
I stopped on the step below her and called her name. I had to call her twice more before she focused on me.
“When did you get home?”
No Hi, Leonora. How was work? No patting the spot next to her and telling me to sit after I’d been on my feet all night. It was always, When did you get home? followed by some need.
I adjusted my bag on my shoulder. “Just now.”
She blew out a cloud of smoke. “I need more cigarettes. More bread and deli meats too.”
It was Sunday. I always went grocery shopping for the week on Sunday. I’d take a nap and then go. Hopefully one of the boys would go with me. Mom barely left the apartment.
I always thought that was the root of her problems. The world was too ugly a place for her. Sometimes when I’d tell her she needed to do things, like go to the store or to the doctor, she’d flinch. Her safe place was in her room, and her limit to the outside world was the steps she was sitting on.
She was abused as a child—she’d told me that much—and it seemed like she’d buried it deep. After she had me, and my dad did all the things he did, it seemed like all her issues came to the surface.
She’d told me more than once that I was the cause of her habit. After she’d had me, and the hospital gave her pain meds, she realized how far away drugs could take her from this cruel life. After my dad bailed on us, it only grew worse.
Her cracks became mine, but I never had much time to dwell on them because I was always trying to seal hers.
It was a tough emotional pill to swallow, though, whenever I thought about her blaming me for becoming hooked on drugs. I knew it was untrue, I was only a baby, but it still stung.
Phoenix, my youngest brother, was lounging on the couch when I walked in. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, his hair was a mess, and he looked half asleep. A bowl of cereal and a gallon of milk were on the table.
