I'm Glad My Mom Died(53)

The next morning, I wake up energized, mascara smudged all under my eyes like a raccoon, still wearing yesterday’s outfit.

“That was one of the best nights of my life,” I declare.

Colton agrees, and we debate taking another shot. Ultimately, we decide we’ll wait until nighttime so we have something to look forward to.

And my God am I looking forward to it. I can’t believe I’ve waited so long to get drunk. It’s an incredible, one-of-a-kind feeling. When I’m drunk, all of my worries disappear—hating my body, the shame I feel about my eating habits, coping with my dying mother, starring in a show I’m humiliated to be a part of—it all just goes away. When I’m drunk, I’m less anxious, less inhibited, less worried about what Mom would want or think of me—in fact, when I’m drunk, the voice of Mom judging me evaporates completely. I can’t wait for tonight.





54.


KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK.

I jolt awake, startled by the noise. Ow. My head’s throbbing. I rub my temples. This must be what it feels like to be hungover. I’ve only heard about what it feels like to be hungover, but I’ve never actually felt it for myself, despite the fact that I’ve gotten drunk almost every night for the past three weeks since having my first sip of Tennessee Honey Jack with Colton in San Francisco. Up until this point, every time I’ve gotten drunk, I’ve been able to wake up the next morning unscathed, regardless of what and how much I drank. But today’s different, for whatever reason. Was it the tequila? The whiskey? The rum? The wine? Mixing all four? Who knows.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK.

Shit. What time is it? I check my phone: 8:05 a.m. Fuck. I forgot to set my alarm. I was supposed to leave for a flight five minutes ago. This must be the driver that Nickelodeon sent.

“I’m coming!” I shout, trying but failing to put on my best I-definitely-did-not-just-wake-up voice.

I yank open the front door. The suit-and-tie-clad driver is nowhere to be found. Instead it’s Billy—my jovial contractor sucking on a cough drop—and his three crew members.

“He-hey!” Billy says cheerily as he bounds in, not waiting for an invitation. His guys trail behind.

I totally forgot Billy was coming today. I shouldn’t have forgotten, being that he comes almost every day.

I bought a house three months ago. Everyone was telling me it would be a good investment. Plus the idea was exciting to me. My first home. It would be free of must and mold and hoarding. It would represent how far I’ve come.

I got a beautiful three-story hillside house that was turnkey so I could move in immediately and not worry about having to do any remodeling. I even bought the display furniture so that I wouldn’t have to think about decorating the place. My vision for this house was to not have any—to let someone else have the vision and let myself enjoy it.

Within weeks of moving in, I learned the entire infrastructure needed to be dug out and replaced. A pipe broke and the shower leaked onto the living room display furniture, ruining all of it. The kitchen sink and one of the toilets clogged. The deck chipped and a stair broke. This thing was not turnkey. This thing looked good on the surface, but underneath it was falling apart.

As Billy and his guys barrel up the stairs, I step onto my porch and crane my neck over the ledge to see if the driver’s down below. He is. Of course he fucking is. And not only is he, but he is with his arms crossed and his gloves on and his car running and his trunk popped. Drivers’ level of preparation and timeliness has always been irritating to me.

“I’ll just be a few minutes!” I shout down to him.

“All right, ma’am! But we really should leave any min—!”

I slam the door in the middle of his sentence. I’m becoming an angry person with no tolerance for anyone. I’m aware of this shift and yet have no desire to change it. If anything, I want it. It’s armor. It’s easier to be angry than to feel the pain underneath it.

I rush upstairs, drag a suitcase out of my closet, and open it up on my hardwood floor. The guys start banging and hammering in the bathroom to work on the shower while I crouch down and haphazardly stuff socks, underwear, pajamas, jeans, and shirts into my suitcase.

I hold up a jacket, debating whether or not I’ll need it for this trip. Is it cold right now in New York? I toss the jacket aside and opt for a hoodie instead. I shove it in my bag, shut the lid, and sit on it to try and get the zipper up. Shit. I forgot toiletries.

I’m frantically jumping up to grab each respective item as it pops into my mind. It’s chaos. I rummage through my bathroom cupboard and grab some makeup items, a travel toothbrush, a mini floss, and mouthwash. I toss them in the front flap of my suitcase when my phone starts buzzing. I swipe it open.

“Yeah, Dad?”

Hammer-hammer-hammer. Drill-drill-drill.

“You should get down here.”

“Really?”

Hammer-hammer-hammer. Drill-drill-drill.

“Yeah…”

I throw my body onto my suitcase again. Why won’t this thing shut? I yank the zipper harder. The part of it I yanked on breaks off in my hand. I chuck it.

“Are you sure? Because I’m supposed to leave for a flight right now, the car’s downstairs waiting for me.”

I hear Dad take a breath on the other end of the phone. He sounds stressed.