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WE’RE FINE. EVERYTHING IS FINE
MICHELA
That night, I dragged my mom to her bedroom.
Then I folded the laundry. And then I decided the entire apartment needed a makeover.
Stress cleaning helps me cope with life’s many curveballs, and I seem to be the worst catcher in New York, because I can’t save a single one.
Exhausted, sometime around four in the morning, I crashed on my bed only to forget my daily alarm, which goes off at nine on Sunday morning because Sunday mornings are my favorites, and my alarm is set so I don’t oversleep and miss out on the tranquility of the day.
I hope Mom likes the new space.
After freshening up, I walk into the kitchen to find her dressed in her pink robe, mixing eggs in a bowl. Beside her, on the counter, the phone plays a song, and she’s jamming to it. Not wanting to disrupt her, I simply wave and sit at the table.
She smiles as if she won the lottery last night and pauses the music. “Morning, pumpkin.”
“Morning, Mom.”
“Coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
She fixes me a cup with the rest of the milk and tosses the empty carton in the recycling bin. “How was your night?” She pours the eggs into the pan.
“It went fine. Yours?”
“Same. All the same.”
I tap the coffee cup. “How do you like the new apartment?”
She scrambles the eggs. “Way better than before. Nice work, dear.”
I doubt Mom will tell me about losing her job, or if she does, she’ll ignore the potential disaster of not having it and tell me how everything is fine despite the fact we’re in trouble. Real trouble.
We share the uncomfortable silence before Mom serves breakfast. It’s eggs and toast. No bacon. No butter. And now we’re out of milk. As well as our jobs, but we don’t talk about that. We’re trying not to talk about anything at all, it seems.
After I reorganized the furniture and cleaned everything, I placed the letter I found in Mom’s hand on the kitchen counter, which she found and tucked away somewhere. She knows I know, and she won’t bring it up unless I do.
“Mom, I?—”
She interrupts. “It’s a lovely Sunday morning, isn’t it, Michela?” Her eyes are a little glazed over. She’s sad, but alcohol heals most of her ills. If she wasn’t an alcoholic, and if I hadn’t seen what it did to her and how it affected my brother, mainly how they’d argue and he wouldn’t come home for days, I wonder if I would have taken up a bottle myself.
I have ills that need healing, and I want something to make them disappear too. But then there’s faith. Always faith. On that thought, I ask, “Church today?”
“Next week.”
It’s been “next week” for over five years, ever since Pastor Gregory confronted her about drinking. When he brought me into the room so we could intervene, Mom looked at me as if I’d betrayed her. Since I told him about her problem, in essence, I had.
She stormed out of the back room and barely spoke to me for a year. It wasn’t until I told her I would move out with Katie that Mom started speaking with me again.
She didn't want me to leave. She still doesn’t. She doesn’t want to be left alone, and I’m afraid of what she’ll do if she is left to her own devices. Especially now that she’s unemployed.
Like me.
We spend our Sunday morning denying reality and smiling as much as we can. We eat ice cream we bought on credit from the corner store and watch romance movies we’ve seen many times during hard times like these.
Corrado’s generous offer sure could do a lot for us right about now and in the future.
