Chapter Nine - Emma
She wakes me up in the middle of the night, as usual. My phone rings, and I answer it. I haven’t learned yet.
“Please, Emma,” her drunken voice croaks. “Please . . . I . . . I’m at Turner’s. Please.”
I pause just long enough for her to worry. Then, finally, I say the answer we both knew I would. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
The next thing is to call a taxi and get dressed. I avoid looking at myself in the mirror – at how dishevelled and exhausted I must look. Though this tiredness is less the cause of being woken up than it is the knowledge of what’s to come. It’s going to be a long night.
***
Mom’s in her usual spot: the corner booth. Her head is wreathed with empty glasses and her last five is crumpled in her hand; she’s passed out cold. Her hair is fanned out in matted fingers of grey. The yellow, twisted-nailed fingers on her other hand are spread out, probably waiting for another glass. The bartender is hovering like a vulture. As I gingerly shake my mom to wake her, he caws, “She’s got a fifty-dollar tab.”
With a sigh, I hand him three 20s. “Keep the change.”
Then, thankfully, he’s gone, leaving me to deal with my mom. She wakes unwillingly, groaning and muttering a few times before she dares lift her head. People are staring at us like my mom’s some kind of alien. I don’t look at them. I’m used to this.
“Emma . . . ” my mom mumbles as I help her to stand up. Even as we make our way to the door, she throws one last longing look at the bar, at the place that did this to her.
Once we’re outside, things don’t improve much.
Pawing at me demandingly, my mom questions me. “Where we going?”
“Home,” I tell her, though we both know Dad took ‘home’ with him when he left.
This next taxi takes its time, allowing me ample opportunity to battle with my mom, who, despite her complete lack of funds, is convinced that the best thing to do is get another drink. When he finally does arrive and I gingerly help my mom into the back, he stays with his head twisted in her direction for a minute, as if he’s reconsidering giving us a ride at all. “No barf in the taxi,” he finally mutters, giving me a dark look from under his bushy brows.
I nod and then we’re off. When we pull up to the house, I pay him and then we get out.
As my mom slumps onto me, half-asleep already, I take a long, sad look at the dump that used to be my nice family home.
The white wood is all beat-up and sagging. The lawn is a tangle of weeds. Mom’s told me the neighbours want her out . . . and will have her out in a few months. I don’t know what we’ll do then, either of us.
Inside is no better. After opening the door, I’m enveloped in a choking mustiness – a raw sort of stench that doesn’t smell right.
Mom’s passed out now, so I half-carry, half-drag her to her bed. I push all the clothes on the mattress aside so she can flop down on the grey sheets. It’s 4 am by now. I still have 5 hours until the doctor’s office opens, but I can’t fall asleep. Not here, where the stench is almost a taste, a feeling.
No. I go into the kitchen, blast some music from my phone, and get to work. This would be motivating if I didn’t know how pointless it all was. I’ve lost track of how many times we’ve gone through this, my mom and I: the bar rescue, the home cleanup. We’re way past 20. Each time I return to my former happy family home, I find it as filthy and horrible as if I hadn’t ever cleaned it just a month ago.
At any rate, I’m here, so I better do what I can.
I start with the most important parts – empty the fridge of all the ancient, disgusting horrors of food. Next, I wash the dishes, which takes care of some of the fruit flies. The papers and flyers go in the garbage too. I go to the 24/7 corner store, pick up some food she’ll hopefully remember to eat: some vegetables, fruit, and meat. By the time I get to cleaning up the clothes strewn all over the floor, it’s already 7 am.
At 8 am, I wake her up. That is a task in and of itself. At first, she only ignores my prodding. Then, when I start resorting to pillows and even water, she cries out, shrieking obscenities and sobbing. Finally, once one of her eyes is unwillingly open, she tries bartering.
“One beer and I’ll do it. I’ll go to the doctor. I’ll do anything.”
I shake my head and go and get her some of the food I bought. I make a nice spinach and egg sandwich. When that doesn’t coax her out of bed, I resort to what always does the trick: “I’ll call Dad.”
At this, she gasps and half-crawls, half-flails out of bed. It’s funny – almost endearing – how she still gives a damn what he thinks. Though, it’s not like he doesn’t know by now anyway.
While Mom begrudgingly eats my sandwich, I call another taxi. This one arrives fast. Too fast. Mom has to eat the rest of the sandwich in the taxi. Sitting there beside her, taking in just how dishevelled she looks, I sigh. I never had a chance to change her clothes. I forgot entirely, and now it's too late. Oh, well. The most important part is coming up next anyway.
Dr. Borys’ office is full, as usual. His goggle-eyed receptionist, however, at the sight of my mom, informs us that he’ll take us next. So, Mom collapses into a chair. I position magazines in both of our laps as if we’re normal patients, and we wait. The others in the waiting room try not to stare. When I hear the door opening, I figure that it’s our turn. Instead, however, I see just about the last person I expected to.
Luke. He doesn’t see me right away – not until he’s at the front desk. Then, he gapes at me.
“Yes?” the receptionist says.
“Luke Winter. Here for Dr. Borys,” he says in a robotic voice, still staring at me.
“Ok. There’s a bit of a wait, but he’ll see you as soon as he can.”
In a daze, Luke wanders over. “What are you―”
“Mrs. Smith?” A woman with a clipboard says, “Dr. Borys can see you now.”
I help my mom up and walk by Luke, avoiding his intent gaze. “My mom’s just seeing the doctor.” I feel like sinking into the floor and disappearing, but, luckily, we’re in Dr. Borys’s office in no time.
“Meredith,” the tall, grey-haired man addresses my mom with a weak smile, “What brings you in today?”
“She had another episode,” I tell him.
Then, we go through the motions. He suggests alternatives, programs, AA meetings – as if either of us really think she’ll actually listen this time. As Dr. Borys drones on and Mom nods her head as if she’s really going to change, all of us know she never will.
As we leave the office, just as we have countless times before, I wonder how long it’ll be before we’re back . . . Before Mom’s calling me in the middle of the night again. Still, I thank Dr. Borys. As he offers us his weak smile, I almost see a twinge of pity.
Outside, Luke is gone, nowhere to be seen. I’m glad. I’ve had enough pain today.
***
I call another taxi to get Mom home. There, I make her another sandwich and give her the offer I always do: to meet up for lunch every weekend, to go to AA meetings with her – anything. She nods without saying anything, smiles valiantly, nibbles on my sandwich. She bids me to go, and so I do.
Luke isn’t at home either, thankfully. I can just make a beeline to my room, collapse on my bed, and fall fast asleep.