Before I can fully process what’s happened, I’m on the roof of the business building David’s family owns and runs their business from. I'm being strapped into a seat of a helicopter with giant headphones to cover my ears with a microphone attached so I can communicate and receive communications from Chip and David. Chip, who apparently drives more than cars, is running down safety information as though I’m able to focus on a single word he’s saying. All of my thoughts are with my mother. Hearing her so clearly drunk, and only a week shy of her sixty-days of sobriety is soul crushing. Just as everything was looking up, I get slammed back down.

David and I don’t talk much, he just sits next to me, his hand wrapped around mine as he supports me silently. He lets me talk when I want to and lets me be silent when I want. When I do talk, mostly it’s just that I’m so crushed about my mother’s situation. I wonder what triggered this latest bout. It can’t just be that it was a bad week. Sure, it’s Friday, but she’s been through many Fridays so far. Were my questions earlier last week about Jimmy her undoing? Did she learn about me and my winnings and that I left her behind?

The bus ride that took more than seven hours when I first came to Chicago is only a mere two hours by helicopter. When we land, there’s a rental car waiting for us, and after I give Chip my old home address, we’re on the road. It’s almost eight at night, but it’s still light enough. Pulling into the trailer park, things looks worse than I remember, but maybe that’s because I’ve been in Chicago and in an upscale condo and home for the past couple of months. I’m filled with so many horrible feelings. Fear and dread about my mother’s possible situation. Shame at leaving my mother. And beyond self-conscious about David seeing where I grew up.

“Lot two-forty?” Chip asks.

“Two-forty-two,” I squeak, correcting him. “It’s the one on the right.”

Chip pulls into the lot, and my heart sinks. For as much work as my mom and I had put into sprucing up the place before I left, it seems like it was all for naught. There is a pair of broken lawn chairs in the yard along with a few empty beer bottles, and Mrs. Schwarzkopf’s flowers are mostly withered and dead. The house still looks drab, and the shutter we’d nailed back into place I now see had been secured crooked. Mom’s habit of setting the trash just outside the door instead of bringing it to the dumpster has persisted, and a rodent had gotten into one of the bags, and the garbage has spilled over the three rickety steps.

David curls his finger under my chin and turns my face toward his, locking eyes with mine. “Breathe, Talia,” David quietly urges.

We breathe a few breaths together, and I feel myself relax.

David laces our fingers together and starts to open the car door.

“No,” I say, gripping his hand. “Please. Stay here. Let me check things out first.”

“Are you sure? I—”

“Please.” I can’t bear the idea of him seeing my childhood home. Compared to his homes, he wouldn’t let a dog live in mine. And my mother? No. Just no.

David studies my face before leaning in and kissing the tip of my nose. I love when he does things like that. So sweet and simple.

I’ve only been gone ten weeks, but it seems like ten months. Stepping out of the car, the scents that surround me are an assault. I can smell the dumpster just two lots away. I can smell dirt and dog crap. I can’t believe I grew up surrounded by all of this and couldn’t smell it.

Stepping onto the doorstep, I don’t know what to do. Do I knock? I didn’t tell my mom I was coming. But I grew up here. I should just walk in.

Suddenly, I hear a crash inside and instinct kicks into gear. I push open the weathered door, bursting in, not much of an idea of what to expect.

“Mom?” I call stepping into the grimy living room, the smells of the place—my childhood, now a disgusting and pungent stench. In the cold light from the TV with its static reception blasting with the news from St. Louis, the station that comes in the best, is the only illumination in the shabby space. There are dishes, pizza boxes, and garbage all over the place. The seat cushions on the ratty couch are askew, and the lampshade of the floor lamp is bashed in. A pair of inside-out jeans are just next to the door, and I don’t want to know the story there. In short, the place is a disaster. But I don’t see Mom. A banging in the kitchen to the left draws my attention, and I see my mom’s head poke up above the table.

“Gary?” she croaks.

“Who’s Gary?”

“Crystal! Bayyybee!” she croons as she stands and stumbles my way. She practically falls on me in her attempt to give me a hug. The stench of whiskey is radiating from her.

“Who’s Gary?” I ask again. “Shouldn’t you be calling your sponsor? Candy?”

“Hey, who’s the motherrr? Bezides, Gary is just a friend. He waz gonna pick me up, and we were gonna hang out, but he’z late!” she says looking at her wrist which doesn’t have a watch. “Whatryou doing here?”

I walk her to the sofa, ignoring her question. “Where’s Jude?” I ask noticing that he’s mysteriously absent.

Mom falls eerily quiet.

“Mom?”

“He’z not been home all week.”

“What? Why? Where is he?”

“He wants to move outta here,” she grunts, jerking her thumb over her shoulder emphatically. “He wants to go to ‘nother town. Not juz that, even out of state. His cellmate moved to Arizona to be with his dad an’ told Jude how it was a good ‘fresh start’ or something like that. Now Jude’s got it in his head to go as soon as his initial probation is over.”

I watch my mom as she breaks down inside. Tears run down her face, and she looks so lost and sad. I pull her into my arms.

“Why does everyone always leave me?” she sobs. “Jude’s dad. You. Now Jude…”

“Hey. Mom, Jude and I… we’re your kids. We’re supposed to grow up and move out. I’m twenty-four. Jude is twenty-eight. We’re ready for our own lives. I can’t say why Alexander left.”

“Ohhh, Alexanderrr…” she wails at his name, her first husband. Her only husband. I kick myself for bringing him up. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

She sobs into my shoulder, and I do all I can to get her to calm down. If she gets any more emotional, she’s likely to puke in my lap. I’d held her before when she had cried over his leaving her, and yes, she was plastered then too. But now, the abandonment is so much more because I left. And Jude is talking about leaving.

“What about Candy?” I ask, trying to change Mom’s thoughts.

“She’z on vacation. Went to Florida, Disneyland or some shit like that with her grandkids. I can’t call her about my fucked-up life while she’s with Mickey fucking Mouse.”

“That’s what she’s there for. Or why didn’t you go to a meeting? You were doing so well.”

The front door creeks open, and David pokes his head around the corner.

I feel like dying. David’s about to see all my warts. If I thought this place looked and smelled bad after having lived in it for more than twenty years, what would he be thinking? The house and my mom, both trashed, and she’s bawling her eyes out in her drunkenness.

In my mom’s foggy brain, she hears the door and turns toward the sound. “Jude? Is that you? Are you back?” She wipes at her face with the hem of her filthy t-shirt to mop off the tears and sniffles back the snot buildup in her nose.

David clears his throat and steps inside. “Um, no ma’am.” He looks at me nervously and mouths, Sorry.

I pull up my proverbial big girl panties and straighten up. “Mom, I’d like you to meet my boyfriend.” I get up and walk over to stand at his side. David seems bigger in this place than he’s ever seemed before. Must be the low ceiling, I think dryly to myself. “This is David Waterston.”

My mom squints into the dimly lit space and then reaches to the floor lamp next to the couch. She flips it on then shields her eyes from the sudden harsh lighting. Once her eyes adjust and she catches a glimpse of David, she seems horrified. “Oh my God. I must look a fright!” she says, sounding comical. She picks up the old souvenir cup from Six Flags and drains what was left in it, and judging by the four or five gulps, there was quite a bit left in there. “I’ll be right back.”

She staggers off to the bathroom. I want to go after her, so she doesn’t fall and crack open her skull, but the door to the bathroom is closed before I can move.

“I’m sorry,” David apologizes again, this time aloud. “It was several minutes, and I got worried.”

I swallow my pride and say, “It’s fine. You had to see this sooner or later.” I flip the wall switch turning on another lamp and sweep my arm carelessly ‘showing off’ the dilapidated living room, dismal dining room, and catastrophic kitchen, all of which could fit into my apartment’s living room, or David’s foyer. “Home sweet home.”

I try to see the space with David’s fresh view. I’m used to looking at it all, and while it used to bother me as a kid, it’s utterly embarrassing now after my current apartment. I can’t imagine what David is thinking knowing what his childhood home, and his current home, look like. The brown carpeting is worn and matted. The sofa was actually from my mother’s childhood home, a true relic from the early seventies with caved-in spaces from butts and backs. The dining table is equally as old with the finish long rubbed off and multiple rings and stains all over the surface. It’s not even level as one of the feet has a small piece missing under the leg, so it’s propped up with a small thin block of wood. The four chairs that surround the table aren’t a matched set. Two of the chairs match, chrome and yellow vinyl pieces. Of the remaining two, one is a ‘find’ as a discarded wooden chair, and the last is a folding chair, but it at least has a padded seat. The kitchen is the… highlight? Mismatched handles on the cupboards except for the spice cupboard which doesn’t have a door at all. The white oven range is filthy, even worse than what I’d remembered, and has only three of the four electric coils in place. Above the stove, there’s still the scorch mark from several years ago when Jude was trying to cook popcorn and had forgotten the pot of oil on the hot stove. He lifted the lid and Whoosh! Flames. Clear up to the ceiling. Somehow, he had the presence of mind to put the lid back on the pot and tragedy was averted. The countertops are—well, nothing to see because they are completely covered with bottles, boxes, and packages of food that didn’t fit in the cupboards. The sink is overflowing with dirty dishes, and the faucet is dripping. I don’t think there was ever a time when that faucet wasn’t dripping.

I wonder how I ever lived in this place. Was it as bad as when I lived here, or am I just a snob now?

I collect myself and am fully prepared for David to be polite and tell me that he’s just gonna go and let me take care of my mom. And when I get back to Chicago to give him a call, and maybe we’ll grab a bite to eat. But he doesn’t say a word. He pulls me into his chest, wrapping his strong arms around me. I inhale deeply, memorizing how he smells. How he feels. The sound of his heart beating in his chest. Everything I can imprint before he crushes me and says, ‘Goodbye.’ He kisses the top of my head and rests his cheek where his lips had just been.

“So!” my mother says, making a grand entrance as grand as she can be two sheets to the wind. She’s scrubbed her face and brushed her hair, but her eyes are still red and blotchy. I also notice that she’s spritzed herself with perfume and tugged her shirt down to expose a bit of cleavage. Really, Mom?

“Sorry, cutie-pie. What did you say your name wazz?”

She is not flirting with my boyfriend, is she?

“Ms. Jameson, I’m David Waterston. Your daughter is a remarkable woman. You must be so proud.” I do note with a plummeting dread that while I introduced him a few minutes ago as my boyfriend, he simply called me Sheryl’s daughter—not his girlfriend.

“My Cryztalll has always been so smart.”

“Smart, and kind, and funny, and so beautiful.”

Is he talking about me?

“Where are my manners? Can I get you something to drink?” Mom ambles to the kitchen, but doesn’t quite make it there because she trips on… I don’t know, really. Nothing was in her path. But she’s all laid out on her face.

David and I are both at her sides helping her up.

“Well, aren’t I all red faced and with two left feet?” she says, trying to make a joke out of an embarrassing situation.

David pulls a chair out from the table, and we sit her in one of the yellow and chrome chairs.

“I’m fine, Ms. Jameson. Really. I don’t need anything,” David says graciously.

“Well, I think I could use a drink after that tumble.”

Mom tries to stand up, but David stops her. “I’ll get you something. Sit tight.”

David heads to the kitchen, and I cringe as he strides into the mess of a kitchen to open the fridge. What will he find? Is there moldy food in there? Is there anything at all?

Before I can intervene in David’s exploration of our abysmal kitchen, Mom pulls my arm down and in a whisper that might as well just have been her normal voice, says, “He’s cute.”

All I can do is respond with a tight smile.

“Are you keeping him happy?” she asks in the same voice, her boozy breath washing over my face. “You know, in bed,” she elaborates while grabbing her own boobs as if I would have missed what she was talking about.

“Mom. Please. Not now.”

David squats down and hands her a can of Mountain Dew. I smile knowing it’s Jude’s. “I wasn’t sure which cupboard has the glasses,” he says sheepishly.

Mom takes the can from David, batting her eyelashes at him. She really can’t help herself from flirting, can she? “You’re a darling. Know what goes great with Mountain Dew?” she asks.

“I can’t imagine,” he says, and I don’t think he could. I wonder if David’s ever drank the overly sweet and neon-colored drink.

“Tequila. There’s a liquor store just down the stre—”

“No, Mom. You don’t need any more alcohol. You were sober. Almost two months.”

“Oh, you know how it goes,” she says, waving me off. “Besides. It’s Monday! Mondays suck.”

Monday? It’s Friday. How smashed is she?

Somehow, I find the strength. I always do when it comes to my mom because deep down, I love her. She’s just a lost soul. A victim of alcohol.

“Mom? How about you sleep this one off? I don’t think Gerry is coming.”

“Gerry? Who’s he? Gary shouldn’t find out. He might get upset.”

“Sorry, Gary. I don’t think he—”

“Wait until you meet him. He does this thing…” she looks at me suggestively, then ‘lowers’ her voice to that not-so-whispery whisper and says, “And he’s huge.”

She goes to stand up and doesn’t have her bearings and starts to topple over. David, with lightning-quick reflexes, catches her, so she doesn’t fall on her face, again.

“Whoopsie-daisy!” she squeals. “Oooh,” she says with surprise, her hands on David’s chest. She moves her paws to his arms and says, “Someone spends time in the gym.”

“Mother!” I snap. She whips her head to me, surprised that I’ve taken such a tone with her. I march over to her and wedge myself under her arm. “You’re going to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Well, well,” she huffs.

I glance at David, but his expression is unreadable, or at least so many things being said on his face, I can’t determine what he is feeling.

Anxiety? Absolutely.

Sadness? Some.

Pity? Probably.

Mom wants to fight me as I escort her to her room, but her coordination is shot. Fortunately, for me, she’s not one of those strong and angry drunks—she’s just a slutty and emotional drunk.

When Talia turns into her mother’s bedroom, I fall back into the creaky wooden chair just behind me.

I look around the dingy rooms and can’t imagine Talia living here. She’s so put together. Her apartment is immaculate.

Slowly, I’m piecing together the amazing woman who is the love of my life. I completely understand why she’s so frugal with her winnings. There are two kinds of people when it comes to financial windfalls—those who spend like crazy and those who hold on tighter.

The condition of this place must reflect Talia’s mother, and that makes me sad.

When Talia told me that her mother was an alcoholic, the vision I’d assembled in my mind didn’t match what I witnessed tonight. Talia’s mother was, yes, a drunk, but something behind her eyes spoke of so much more. She was a tortured woman, a tortured woman in the deathly grip of a disease. And the compassion that her daughter holds for her, so evident and pure, is inspiring.

Watching Talia’s shame over her childhood home and mother was painful. I wanted nothing more than to swoop in and handle it all. I wanted to toss Sheryl in the back of Chip’s rental car and drive her straight away to the nearest rehab facility—a residential treatment program where she’ll dry out and get the therapy she needs. Talia said her mother was in AA, but that this wasn’t the first time.

I wonder about Talia’s brother, Jude. Isn’t he supposed to be here? I’m no lawyer, but I can’t help but wonder about the parameters of his parole.

“You… You’re still here?” Talia sputtered, coming back to the kitchen-dining-living room.

“Where else would I go?” I ask softly, my heart breaking for her. This can’t be easy for her—me witnessing all of this.

“I… I thought. You don’t have to stay. I understand.” Her face is bright red, and her eyes are glassy as if she’s about to cry.

I can see her as she tries to hold it all in—so strong and stoic. In an instant, I’m standing in front of her and pull her into my arms resting my chin on her head. I love how she fits so perfectly against my body.

“Why on earth would I leave? You don’t think I’m here out of pity, do you? Because I’m not.”

Her body starts to shake, “I think… thought… Well, I mean. I know I’m probably not what… what you’re looking for. Now that you know the full story. All of my… skeletons,” she hiccups through sobs she’s trying to contain.

My heart is pounding in my chest. “Sweetheart,” I say pulling her from my chest and crouching down some so I can be eye-to-eye with her. “I love you. I couldn’t care less where you came from, or if your mother is an alcoholic. You have the biggest heart of anyone I know.” Instantly, Jimmy comes to mind. “You have Jimmy’s heart, too, you know. You’re his child. And I’m sure you’ve pulled good qualities from your mother, too.”

At that, she breaks down. Tears freely stream down her face, and my heart breaks for her. I can’t imagine how she must be feeling.

“You… you… lo… love me? Still? Even with all this?”

“If it’s possible, I love you more because of all this.” She looks up at me, confusion crinkling her forehead. “You are strong. And smart. It would be so easy to let your situation define who you are. You didn’t follow in the footsteps of your mother. You saw beyond here and the lure of booze to numb how you feel. You’ve kept your head on straight. You finished high school and took classes at the community college. You’re doing what I’m sure many in this situation would have wanted to do, but weren’t strong enough. Or lucky enough.”

“My mom always said, ‘You can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the girl.’ And when I won the money, I up and left. Like I’m better than my neighbors. And I left my mom here. Doesn’t that make me a coward? Isn’t the trailer park still a part of me?”

“I’m glad they can’t take the trailer park out of the girl,” I reply simply. Again, she looks at me, baffled. “You wouldn’t be you without your experiences. It’s what gives you the greatest compassion. It’s what gives you a wider vision of what is possible. Your lottery winnings have given you the other side of the coin, and you’re sensible about it.”

My cell phone buzzes in my pocket. “Hang on,” I tell Talia and fish my phone out. As I suspected, it’s Chip wondering what’s going on. “Mind if I stay here with you tonight?” I ask Talia.

“Here?” she squeaks.

“If you don’t want me to…”

“It’s not that I don’t want you to, I’m just surprised that you are asking. I only have a twin-size bed.”

I pull her into my arms, nice and tight. “Good.”

I text Chip quickly telling him to go ahead and find a local hotel and to return in the morning.