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“Not that it’s a surprise, but she has all the indicators of chronic alcohol abuse.” I clear my throat, allowing myself one more second before telling her the worst of it. “They’ll need to biopsy her liver to confirm, but based on her symptoms and the blood test, she has second stage liver disease.”
“What does that mean, exactly?” she demands.
I summon the voice of the doctor on the phone yesterday, his words precise, his tone surprisingly gentle. “Fatty liver is usually the first sign of long-term alcohol abuse. She’s past that, with the beginnings of alcoholic hepatitis. If she keeps drinking, she’ll get cirrhosis of the liver, which is irreversible and generally fatal.”
It’s also what killed our father.
My chest squeezes at the sound of my sister’s soft sob. “Why?” she whispers. “Why is she doing this?”
“I don’t think she has much of a choice at this point,” I murmur, closing my burning eyes. “She’s physically and mentally addicted. Her only chance to undo the damage is to stop drinking permanently and as soon as possible. And I don’t think she can do it alone.”
“How do we get her to rehab, though? An intervention? She’d laugh us out of the room. She won’t even admit she has a problem!”
“If an intervention doesn’t work, we’d have to go to court,” I answer morosely. “Have her declared a danger to herself. That’s the only way we can involuntarily commit her. But I’m not sure we can control where she’d go. It might be a state-run psychiatric hospital.”
“Fuck,” she hisses.
“Pretty much.”
Michelle releases a harsh breath. “Did you tell her the results?”
“Not yet.”
“Okay, okay. We’ll do it together. I’m getting on a plane tonight. An intervention armed with the results might be our only chance of fixing this.”
I don’t say what I’m thinking: that there might be no way to fix what’s wrong with our mother. I won’t take away Michelle’s hope, though, just like I’ll never tell her the extent of what it was like being the sole focus of our father growing up. There isn’t much I can do to protect my little sister now that we’re grown, but I can do this much.
“Before you book a ticket, maybe we should talk to Aunt Kathy, Aunt Claire, and Uncle Justin? See if they’d come? If we’re doing this, let’s to it the right way.”
“Yes, of course. Good idea.” There’s a long silence. “Aren’t you angry? I’m so angry at her.”
Emotion clogs my throat. “Yeah,” I admit. “I am, Michelle. Sometimes I can’t even look at her. Or I have to leave the room because I’m disgusted. Sometimes it takes everything I have not to unload on her. Blame her. Hate her for all the times she failed.”
I hear my sister’s soft sob through the line, and I know she understands. Feels the same way. There’s something deeply disturbing and uniquely painful about acknowledging the humanness of your parent. Especially a mother who repeatedly chose her own needs and those of her abusive husband over us. And who also tended our wounds, sang us to sleep, hung our bad school art on the fridge, and comforted us when we were sick.
Whoever said love and hate can’t coexist never experienced what we have.
“I hate her, too,” Michelle says finally. “And I love her and don’t want her to die. So this is it, then? She’s going to kill herself or we’re going to stop her?”
My heart squeezes. “No, baby sister,” I say firmly. “It’s not on us. Not on you or me or anyone. This is between our mom and whatever demons live inside her. All we can do is try to be heard, to let her know she’s loved and that we’ll support her if she wants to pick a different path. It’s up to her. Remember that.”
She exhales a tired laugh. “How’d you get so wise?”
I snort. “Hardly wise. I’ve just done a lot of Google searches on how to deal with an alcoholic parent.”
“I’m sorry,” she says mutedly, “that you’ve been dealing with this—with her—alone.”
Her guilt echoes and magnifies mine. We both left Sun River as soon as we could and barely looked back—our reasons different and yet the same at their core. And now we feel like we failed our mom by not being more present for her after our dad died. For allowing our anger over our father’s treatment of her and us to keep us away, to keep our emotional guards up so high we didn’t recognize the signs of her deterioration.
“I’m not alone,” I tell her. “You’ve been with me every step of the way. We’ll get through this. It’s not too late.”
“But there are no guarantees,” she murmurs.
“No,” I admit sadly. “But there are no guarantees for anything. Life is messy and complicated. People are the same. All we have to do is our best. To try to do what’s right.”
To my relief, she issues a tired giggle. “Again with the Yoda vibe, Lucy. You’re ruining my impression of you.”
“Very funny, Michael.” But I’m smiling. “Let me know what everyone says?”
