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Mitch took one and they both lit up, and Michael finally brought himself to sit down. It was quiet – he could hear a neighbor’s television and someone arguing. It must be a common thing around where she lived, and they’d likely contribute to the noise once he got going, should he decide to let it all off his chest. It’d be just another domestic dispute in the neighborhood. So American, like apple pie and baseball games.
“I’m glad you’re out, Mikey.” She exhaled a long stream of smoke that lingered in the air in front of them.
“You are?” His voice cracked. The smoke was bugging him, which was weird. He was a smoker, but the secondhand smoke was giving him a headache. Maybe it was just his mother – everything she did bugged him.
“I am,” she nodded and flicked some ashes into a glass tray in the middle of the table.
“Funny you say that, since you didn’t go to see me once.”
“I don’t have money, Mikey. I’m not healthy.”
“What does health have to do with it? You could’ve gone with Mitch. It’s not like I was across the country. I was right here in New Mexico. The state pen.”
“Did you come here to bitch at me about this? Or did you wanna see me?”
Michael balled his fists and glanced over at Mitch, who was watching as if it were an entertaining TV show. He didn’t want his brother to take sides, but he went through a lot of the same struggles, stemming from their childhood and the choices their mother made. The things she openly exposed to them. How did he not resent her? How come Michael was angrier with her? There was one situation Mitch didn’t experience, and that could’ve had a lot to do with it.
“Just so you know, I’ve stayed sober. No drugs, no alcohol. I’m going to my parole visits, I see a counselor, and I even attend AA meetings.”
His mother smiled and extinguished the cigarette. “How long have you been out?”
“A little over a month.”
“And when are you off parole?”
“Eleven months.”
She nodded again and pulled out another cigarette. Always a chain smoker. Nothing had changed. “You want a medal for it? Only a month.”
“A month longer than I ever have done before.” Michael felt the heat wash over his face. He wasn’t going to allow her to downplay his success. Even if it was just a month, at least he hadn’t been sent back. That was his fear – having the quickest turnaround time between being free and going back to prison.
“You expected me to get sent back after a few days of being out.”
“You still have eleven months to stay sober, Mikey.” She wagged the cigarette at him, poised between her index and middle fingers. “Eleven months to fuck up like you always do. You love those fast-ass women who make you think with the wrong head, and then you’re calling for bail money, pleading and begging, promising it’s the last time and it won’t happen again.”
“Says the ex-prostitute.” Michael knew it was harsh, but he didn’t care. She had hurt him since the day he was born. She never took care of him or protected him when he needed it the most.
“It kept food on the table and a roof over your head.”
“You call leaky trailer houses with the floor rotting out a good place to live? And junk food? One of my earliest memories was lying in bed, holding Mitch close when he was a baby as he screamed to be fed. He needed a bottle, but you weren’t around. There was no milk or formula. It was raining and the water drops just dripped on his… drip, drip, drip, soaking the bed. We hadn’t eaten in days. And you were off fu…” He stopped himself, raking his hand through his hair.
“I was off doing what? Making money so we could get food and the roof fixed.”
“But you never used the money for that. You can sit here all day and claim you did all that for us, but we starved. We wore dirty clothes. I had to steal just to get us something to eat. Sit there and justify your career choice all you want, but that money went in your veins or snorted up your nose. Right in front of us!” Michael’s voice was getting louder, and he started to shake.
“And then you carried on the tradition. Running wild with Marilyn until your ass got caught and it went beyond a jail charge.” She laughed and put out her second cigarette. “You come into my house and put me down when you’ve done worse things than I ever did.”
“Worse things?” Michael clenched his jaw, thinking about the worst memories of his life. Memories he never talked about, not even to Marilyn when they were close. The only people who knew were his mother, Mitch, and the man involved. “You call yourself a mother and you couldn’t even help me. Years ago, when I was twelve years old. That’s when I started hating you the most. And I’ve never gotten over it. And I probably never will.”
“So, why are you here, then?”
Michael glanced over at Mitch, who was uncharacteristically quiet. “Good question. I guess with AA and all, I needed to confront all my demons, but apparently, this one needs to remain buried. It’s not time.”
“I did the best I could with you boys.”
Mitch leaned forward, breaking his silence. “Michael deserves some slack. He’s been through more than I ever have. And the fact that you still can’t acknowledge it just rips the wound right open again.”
“I thought you loved me, Mitch. Your visits have been less, but you still come around. You don’t blame me for how you both turned out. And now that Mikey is back, you’re gonna let him change you?”
