Blind Side(7)

I was on my way across campus after a grueling day of camp to meet with Giana for our little PR refresher, and I was not in the mood to hear about Mom’s latest boyfriend.

But I didn’t have a choice.

“He’s a real gentleman. And he’s serious about business.” She paused. “And about me, which is refreshing.”

I tried my best to harness a smile even though she couldn’t see me, mostly so it would help me sound like I believed her. “He seems great, Mom.”

“You’ll see. When you come home for Christmas.” There was a pause, and then, “So, tell me about you. How’s football?”

I sighed before answering the question, which I really was grateful for. I knew Mom was in a good place because she asked, because she didn’t spend the whole call wailing about herself and her problems. Not that I minded when she did that, either. I was there for her no matter what.

Still, after so many times repeating the same narrative, I had a hard time believing this man would be any different from the rest.

My poor mother was stuck on a spinning Ferris wheel of heartbreak she couldn’t get off of ever since my dad left when I was eight.

The cycle went like this:

Mom would meet a new guy, usually at Le Basier, the ridiculously overpriced restaurant where she waited tables in Los Angeles. Mom was a looker — I got my sharp green eyes from her, and my naturally tanned olive skin — and she’d always bring home the kind of guys who were enamored by her beauty. She was charming on top of it, which usually meant the men slipped willingly into her web and were content to be consumed by her energy.

The problem was that once the relationship started getting real, once the shine wore off and they realized my mom could be a lot to handle, they left.

And they always left her with even more scars than she had before.

Dad leaving Mom messed her up. It messed both of us up — especially when he quickly moved on to another woman, had two kids with said woman, and built a completely new life that didn’t include us. Add that to her already traumatic dating life before Dad, and you could say Mom had her reasons for acting a little… much at times.

Most men couldn’t take it. They couldn’t sit with her in the hard times, couldn’t hold her hand through the panic attacks or give her words of affirmation when she so desperately needed them. When her jealousy and paranoia swept through her like a hurricane, they didn’t batten down the hatches and ride out the storm alongside her.

They took the fastest escape route out of town, leaving her to manage the damage.

And in their parting words, they made sure to make her feel like the crazy one, the nag, the jealous bitch, the psychotic, untrusting woman. Never mind the fact that they gave her plenty of reasons to feel those emotions.

But in the end, it was always me there picking up the pieces.

And that was when I braced for the other side of my mom.

When she was happy, when things were good, Mom was the brightest light of sunshine. She was enigmatic and fun to be around, motivated and driven, passionate about everything. She’d be invested in my life, in keeping our home clean and put together, and most of all, in her relationship with whoever the guy was.

But when they left?

She was a disaster.

Mom had always been a drinker, ever since I could remember. The difference was that when I was younger, when it was her and dad, that drinking was usually a bottle of wine between them — one that led to them laughing and dancing in the kitchen.

But Mom drinking A.D. — after Dad — looked a little different.

It was entire cases of beer consumed on her own. It was crying and screaming and clinging to the toilet as I held her hair or pressed a cool washcloth to the back of her neck.

And that was another part of the cycle that repeated itself — happy drunk when she was with someone, and a drunken mess when they left her.

Sometimes, in the worst of the breakups, she’d turn to drugs. Sometimes, she’d let depression take her under. Sometimes she’d get so close to being fired that I wondered how she’d stayed with the same place all this time. She’d blow through her savings, get into so much trouble that she needed to ask her only son for money, and then make me feel guilty if I didn’t give it to her.

And I would — every time.

It didn’t matter if I had to clear out my savings, work a summer job, or sell my PlayStation.

I would never turn my back on my mom.

That was a given, something I’d felt strongly ever since she didn’t turn her back on me when my father did. She wasn’t perfect, but she’d always been there, and for that alone I’d give her the last penny in my bank and the shirt off my back, too.

But it didn’t mean it didn’t sting, that I didn’t realize especially as I got older how much her cycle had fucked me up, too.

“Chart Day is just around the corner,” I finished after filling her in on how camp had been going so far. “So, we’ll see.”

“You’ll make the team, baby,” she said without hesitation. “And you’ll start, and before you know it, you’ll be signing a multi-million-dollar NFL deal and buying your mom a big mansion on the beach.”

I smiled, the vision she’d had for me one I’d heard a thousand times. It was born when I was young, from the time we realized I actually had some pretty decent talent in football. I could still remember her sitting me down after a game when I was twelve, still wearing my dirty uniform and cleats. She made me look in the mirror and she stood behind me, her hands on my shoulders and eyes locked on mine in the reflection as she said, “You’re never going to have the struggles I’ve had, Clay. You’re going to be rich.”