Lies You Never Told Me(30)

I climb the steps to my apartment and unlock the door.

“Where the hell have you been?”

My mom stands in the middle of the living room, eyes wide and staring.

This morning I left her on the sofa, drifting in and out of consciousness. I’d expected to find her mild and stoned now. But here she is, looking not so much alert as half-wild. I take an involuntary step backward as she comes toward me.

“Hi to you too,” I say. I take a deep breath and shut the door firmly behind me. The TV mutters madly from one corner. Mom obviously hasn’t showered in days; a rich, earthy stench is starting to roll off her. I drop my backpack next to the door and step around her into the apartment.

Mom tries to whirl around, but she’s unsteady, her feet tripping into a little jig to keep her balance. “I’m not playing. Where’ve you been all night?”

“All night?” I shake my head. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play cute with me!” Her voice is a sudden scream, ripping loose from somewhere deep inside her. My fingers tense into fists at my sides. “It’s six in the morning, Elyse. I’m not an idiot. Where have you been?”

I stare at her. I can’t help it: I burst into scornful laughter. All my fear and worry and confusion vanishes in a rush of anger.

“Jesus, Mom. You’re high. It’s six at night. I was home last night at eleven. We even had a conversation, though I’m not surprised you don’t remember.” I snort, crossing my arms over my chest. “I just got home from play practice.”

Mom wavers a little, her eyes going out of focus for just a moment. Then she regains her own outrage. “Don’t lie to me, Elyse. I can always tell when you lie.”

“I’m not lying!” I stride back to the door and throw it open. “Look outside, Mom. Rush hour traffic on the road. Light source in the west. It’s six P.M. and I just got home from school. And you’ve been so fucked up for the last week you don’t know how to tell time.”

I slam the door shut, more forcefully this time. “And even if it were six A.M., don’t think for a minute that you get to tell me what to do with my life. You’ve been so checked out for the past decade you’ve long since lost that privilege.”

Breath heaving, I stomp to the small kitchen, separated from the living room by a chipped Formica-topped island. I jerk open a cabinet and pull out a metal pot, a box of spaghetti. I’m not hungry now, but I can take it to work and heat it up there—better than another meal of popcorn and Sour Patch Kids. I keep my back to the living room, not wanting to look at my mother.

I bring the water to a boil and add the noodles, my hands trembling with anger.

It’s not until I pour the noodles out into the colander that I realize my mom is crying.

“I try so hard,” Mom whimpers. “And I still always mess it up. I just . . . I always mess it up.”

My shoulders sag, my resolve collapsing like it always does. I look up to see my mother standing like a forlorn child in the middle of the living room, covering her mouth with one hand. Her skin is pink and tear-streaked. I take a deep breath.

“Sit down, Mom. I’ll put on some coffee.”

Mom doesn’t move. I ignore her, pouring water into the coffeemaker, turning it on. Then I fix a bowl of noodles and sauce and set it on the island. “Come on. Eat something. You look like a scarecrow.”

“I can’t.” Mom’s voice is breathless, tragic. I slap my palm against the Formica.

“You have to. You haven’t eaten in ages. Come on, just a few bites.” I push the bowl a few inches toward the bar stools on the other side. The Oxy always kills her appetite, but if I can talk her into eating just a little, drinking some coffee, it might help sober her up. “Please?”

The please seems to do it. She doesn’t sit, but she walks forward a few steps and takes up the fork in one hand. Tears still wet on her face, she coils a few strands of pasta around the tines. Then she pauses with it halfway to her lips.

“I don’t . . . I don’t know what to do,” she whimpers.

I pour a cup of coffee and push it across the counter. “I think you need some help. Maybe . . . I mean, maybe you could look into going to a meeting, or . . .”

She grimaces. “A twelve-step thing? You don’t know what they’re like, Elyse. Full of sanctimonious, preachy . . .”

“You have to do something!” I snap. I grit my teeth. “You can’t go on like this. I’m going to come home and find you dead on the floor one of these days. Have you ever thought about what that’d be like for me?”

Her hand shakes. She sends a tiny spray of spaghetti sauce over her already stained shirt. “I know how much I can take.”

I laugh humorlessly. “Oh yeah, you know your limits, huh? You don’t even know what time it is. So pardon me if I don’t buy it.”

For a long moment she’s silent, staring at the fork with its few sad strands of spaghetti. Then, finally, she gets it into her mouth and chews. She washes it down with a swallow of hot black coffee.

“Okay,” she says, finally, her voice very small.

“Okay what?” I brace myself against the island counter.

“Okay, I’ll . . . I’ll find a meeting. I’ll stop. I’ll do better.” She puts the fork down with a clatter and rubs her face with both hands. “I’m sorry, Elyse. I really am.”