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That’s not good.
“Mom?” I shout, walking back toward the stairs and starting to climb them.
There’s no response.
And then I hear the faintest noise as I near the top of the stairs. It sounds like . . . running water? Is she taking a shower?
“I do love a bath.”
Oh god.
I charge up the rest of the stairs, taking them two at a time. A hard left at the top, and in seconds I’m in my mother’s room, the sound of running water loud and clear.
My first step into her room is . . . squishy? The carpet is soaking wet, but I ignore it and rush into the en-suite bathroom to find the bathtub full and overflowing, my mother passed out in the water, mouth wide open, water lapping at her chin. Her head leaning against the back of the tub is the only thing keeping her above the waterline.
My heart is beating too hard in my chest. I can’t decide if I want to throw up or scream or both. Tears leap to my eyes, and I don’t have the time or energy to fight them.
“Jesus fucking Christ! MOM,” I scream at her and splash through the bathroom. My hands tremble as I turn off the water. The deafening silence of the bathroom is interrupted only by the drip of the last few drops out of the faucet.
I have to get her out.
“MOM,” I scream again, inches from her face. The floor has a half-inch of water pooling on it—my shoes and socks are already soaked. Three empty half-pints of vodka float around on the floor. I need to count the bottles and figure out how much she’s had to drink, but I keep my eyes on my mother as I position myself behind her and the tub.
Ihaveto get her out.
Her arms are in the water, and I plunge my arms in to dig hers out, but she’s too waterlogged for me to pull her up, and I can’t get the leverage I need to drag her out.
“For FUCK’s sake, Mom.MOM.”
I roll up my soaked sleeves and go around to the front of the tub. I slap my mom on the cheek hard enough that it should wake her. And it does for a second. She makes a noise, and her head lolls to the side again, her chin dipping further into the water. She starts to slide down in the tub with the shift of her head. Her mouth and her nose hit the waterline, and I panic, reaching into the tub again from behind to get hold of her. This time, I hook my wrists under her armpits and use the weight of my body to pull her backward. It should be enough, but the height of the tub isn’t doing me any favors, and my mom is deadweight, her clothes too wet, too heavy. She’s a smallish woman, 5’4” and maybe 130 pounds, but I’m not very strong, and I have to let her slide back into the water.
“Shit,” I say, my hands still hooked under her arms, holding her up. My arms burn with the effort, and most of my hoodie is soaked.
The bitter taste of regret sours in the back of my throat. I was a fucking idiot for sending Ian away. I need another person. I need help.
A sob breaks out of me like a clap of thunder. With my hands still hooked under my mom’s arms, I squat, my legs too weak to hold me. My chest aches with the loneliness of it all. Why do I insist on being so goddamn independent all the time?
I can handle this on my own.
I want to.
I could handle my mom when she was silly-drunk or even belligerent-drunk, but I have never had to try to drag my mother out of a full bathtub, and the horror of what might have happened if I hadn’t gotten here when I did makes it hard to breathe. My ribs squeeze my sides, my throat is too tight, and even though I can barely get in any air, another sob finds its way out of my chest. It echoes in the bathroom. A single drip from the faucet reminds me that I’m alone.
That I have always been alone.
For a second I’m five again, watching my mom drink herself to blackout and having no idea what to do with her. That was my first memory of my mom like this. She’d passed out on the kitchen floor and I couldn’t move her. She was a full-size human, and I was pint-size. I called my grandmother, but until she arrived, all I could do was wait. And I did—sitting next to my mom, holding my hand under her nose every minute just to see if she was still breathing. I’m as helpless now as I was then. My head spins, and I know I need to try again, but all my energy is gone. I’m barely holding myself together, much less my mom. But I can’t just give up.
I have to get her out of the tub.
“Jade?” Ian says, bringing me out of my memories and my own head. He’s out of breath and standing in the doorway.
I’m not alone.
Ian is standing in my doorway.
I’m not alone.
A fresh round of tears springs to my eyes. Ian is here. As if I manifested him. As if the universe brought my cries to his ears and he answered them.
