Missing Dixie(31)

“There he is. Isn’t he handsome?” She practically knocks over the drink of the lady sitting next to her. “Hey, baby. I saw the flyer about your little friend playing tonight and thought maybe me and my date here could get a few drinks. You know, on the house, since I’m related to the bartender. They have a family discount, right?”

She giggles at her own joke. She’s slurring her words, barely standing upright, and her eyes are so glazed over it’s a wonder she can see me. The man with her gives me a once-over, then leers at a young girl on the other side of him. I recognize him. He’s been over a few times—one of the local dealers and I’m pretty sure a bruise my mom was sporting on her neck a few days ago came courtesy of him. He practically runs out the door every time I walk in, which has been the one intelligent decision he’s made in his life.

I have a strong suspicion I might be going to jail this evening.

So much for light at the end of the probation tunnel.

I glance longingly at the stage, wishing I could stay to watch my Bluebird finish her set.

She’s amazing. She’s captivating and strong and her voice is this haunting mix of sweet and sultry I never knew she was capable of. She is capable of so many things, so much more than being held back by a bartender with a record and a junkie for a mom.

I sigh and walk around the bar, apologizing to the woman whose drink my mom just knocked all over the place. I signal to Jake to replace it on the house and he’s Johnny on the spot, handling it quickly and apologizing profusely as he cleans up.

He shouldn’t have to apologize. This is my f*ckup. My mess. My problem.

“Let’s go home, Mom,” I say, taking her elbow sharply.

“Easy, kid,” her “date” warns. “She’ll leave when she’s good and ready.” He knocks over the drink of the man behind him and I can see the impending bar brawl behind my eyes. If I don’t stop this it will ruin Dixie’s show. If I do stop it, I’ll miss her show.

The verdict is in. I’d rather give her the moment even if I can’t be a part of it.

My mom’s friend is a few inches taller than me but older and clearly out of shape. He’s broad, with a beer belly and yellowing teeth and already bruised knuckles that tell me this isn’t even his first fight this week.

“Care to discuss this outside?” I tilt my head toward the door and he smiles, a predatory scowl with a hint of anticipation. This is what he really came for.

Violence.

I don’t know why, but it has always seemed to surround me. To find me. Like it seeks me out for some unidentifiable reason.

As I practically drag my mom outside, leaving Dixie’s angelic voice inside, the heavy weight of dread settles on my chest.

This is my life. There’s no escaping it. No cutting ties or starting over or a future. It’s bleak and it’s bullshit but it’s true.

Dixie deserves so much better than this.

She will have better than this.

Even if it kills me to let her go.

Several bruised ribs and a possible concussion later, I tuck my mom into her bed. She’s out cold and snoring and her “friend” is probably still unconscious in his beat-up blue Ford pickup where I left him. His face will likely take a while to heal and his pride might, too. When it does, I know he’ll be back for round two.

I’ll be waiting.

For a few long minutes, I watch her sleep. She looks so tiny and fragile.

Part of me wants to be angry with her, for doing this to herself, to me. For all of it. But I know why. I get it.

My mom was abused in the worst way from the time she was old enough to form memories. When I was younger, she’d get sober for a while and come clean about why she did what she did.

She’d been molested, beaten, tortured, and eventually put into foster homes, where she’d been locked in closets for days, urinated on, and starved nearly to death.

She’s still completely terrified of enclosed spaces and her pain is still my pain.

I know why she does what she does. She gets high to forget, to get numb, to get some type of relief from the trauma and the pain and the horrific nightmares that have plagued her ever since. Only they aren’t just nightmares. They’re memories.

Sporadically over the years she would get on these healthy living kicks, swearing over and over that she was done for good with the meth or the crack or whatever she’d binged on that time. She’d clean the trailer from top to bottom, replacing all the empty boxes of off-brand Pop-Tarts and week-old pizza lying around with actual groceries when the state put money on our food assistance card.

“We’re going to be okay, baby,” she’d say. “You’ll see.”

I saw all right.

Each and every time, I would be stupid enough to hope. That this time would be different. That this time her sobriety would stick.

It never did.

It never will.

Deep down I know this. There was always a boyfriend who’d hit her and trigger the memories, or a packet she’d find in a pair of dirty jeans. There was always something. A few times it would be me. I’d snap at her, say something hurtful, and send her spiraling. I will carry the guilt for this forever. Maybe that’s why I can’t leave her, why I can’t just walk away and stop trying to protect her from the evils she brings on herself.

She and I are the definition of hopeless.