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I make my way to the garage, down the stairs, through the living room and kitchen, and out to the connected room that houses my mom’s car. When I flip on the light and see it there, a wave of relief rolls through me.
I know she’s upstairs in the tub. I know the keys are in my pocket. I know she’s passed out and not driving anywhere tonight, but it still gives me a sense of relief to know the car is here.
A few years back, my mom dated a guy who was into camping; I find a box fan and an old sleeping bag in a corner of the garage with the rest of the items she bought when she dated him. It’s the only time in her life she’s been camping, and when she came out of her downswing of that breakup, she was able to admit that she wasn’t outdoorsy and was glad the relationship didn’t pan out.
By the time I rejoin Ian in the bathroom, it’s half-covered in soaked-through towels. Ian wrings one out in the sink and then takes the sleeping bag from me, unrolling it and covering my mom with it.
I set up the fan to blow toward the drenched carpet and get to work on soaking up the water in the bathroom with already wettowels, wringing them out and soaking up more water. When the towels are too wet to sponge up any more, I put them in the dryer and turn it on high. I’ve cleaned up after my mom before—messes that looked like some kind of mini tornado blew through our house—but she’s never made a mess this big. I resent that this is a marker of my young adulthood; that even if Ian and I never speak after the one-act is over, I won’t forget how this night was spent, even if he does.
When I turn to go back and help Ian, he’s standing in my way between the hallway and the door to the bedroom.
“Why don’t you help your mom get changed and into bed, and I’ll keep going with the towels and the laundry?”
I nod and find warm pajamas for my mom in one of her dresser drawers. She’s got a flannel nightgown that will probably be easiest to get on.
While I wrestle to change her, Ian goes back to the linen closet, finding some beach towels and starting the process over again: soaking the water up, wringing it out. I’m too proud to thank him in such a humiliating moment, but eventually, I will. Right now, I’m consumed by the embarrassment of it all, of my mom and her behavior, of the fact that we’re spending our Saturday night cleaning up after my alcoholic mother instead of celebrating the homecoming game with Ian’s dad.
Ian’s dad . . .
Ian left a weekend of hanging out with his favorite person to be here with me right now. A stab of guilt pinches my ribs. I have to convince him to go home tomorrow.
“Can you help me get her to the bed?” I ask once I’ve got her changed, knowing I won’t be able to do it myself and that even if I try, Ian will jump in to help anyway.
He drops what he’s doing and leans into the tub, cradling my mom in his arms. She stirs, making unintelligible sounds. Hecarries her over to her bed and puts her on her side, covering her with her comforter.
While my mom sleeps, Ian and I do our best to finish cleaning the bathroom. We swap out loads of mostly dry towels for wet ones, soaking and wringing and drying until the bathroom has no more water on the floor. Occasionally, we exchange glances. He gives me tight, kind smiles, and I try to return them, but my face feels hot every time I look at him. I reach for gratitude, but all I catch is shame.
Not only has Ian seen my mother’s rock bottom, but he’s also seen what I’ve been trying to hide. From everyone.
By the time we’re done, it’s 10 p.m. Not that late, but we’ve been at this for hours, and if I’m sore, Ian must be too. He looks as tired as I feel, and when the last load of towels has been loaded into the dryer, we stare at each other in front of the laundry closet.
“Want me to wash those clothes?” I ask. His clothes are soaked, as are mine, our shoes and socks also soaked but long abandoned.
“Oh god, yes, please,” he says, and without hesitation he pulls off his hoodie. His shirt lifts and goes with it, and then Ian is standing half-naked in my hallway with my drunk mother passed out in the next room, and for a moment, neither of us quite know what to do.
“I’ll go get you some clothes,” I mutter and go to my room down the hall. Not because I’m embarrassed to see him naked or anything—this is probably the least embarrassing thing that’s happened today to either of us—but we still haven’t talked about our fight today. We’re both pretending like it didn’t happen, but it did, and it’s bubbling up. Casual intimacy isn’t something either of us can handle right now.
It dawns on me as I dig around in my duffel bag for some bike shorts and a crop top that we packed stuff for me and nothingfor Ian. I wonder if he thought he’d be dropping me off too, or if he just wasn’t worried about getting clothes since he could tell I needed to get home. I find some old sweatpants and a T-shirt for him, and after I change, I take the dry clothes to him and point to my bedroom so he can change too. I load our stuff into the washing machine, turn it on, and pop my head back into the room to check on my mom.
She’s sleeping soundly and breathing normally and not choking on her own vomit or anything, so the tight knot in my stomach eases a little.
The familiar sound of the washing machine brings me an odd, unexplained comfort. I’m suddenly so tired that all I want to do is crawl into bed under a pile of twelve blankets and sleep until Monday. At best, I think I’ll get a couple hours, and I only have two blankets on my bed, but I’ll take what I can get.
But Ian needs somewhere to sleep too.
I check the guest bedroom at the end of the hall to see if the bed in there is available. Last time I was home, it was packed full of junk and the pull-out sofa bed wasn’t even accessible. Upon opening the door, it’s obvious nothing has changed, and I close it again and shake my head. I’d hoped we could have separate rooms, private spaces to process the whole day separately, but I can see that’s probably not going to happen.
And if I’m honest with myself, I’m not sure I want to sleep alone.
“No spare bed,” I say, leaning against the doorframe to my bedroom, where Ian is sitting on the edge of my bed, typing something on his phone. He looks up at me and sets his phone down but says nothing, waiting for me to solve the sleep situation.
“We could share if you want?” I ask, pointing to my bed.
He glances at it and then back to me, his lips pressed together nervously. “I can sleep on the couch if you’re more comfortable with that?”
I take a seat on the edge of the bed next to Ian. My room feels weird, haunted by all the nights I worried about my mom and listened to her cry, scared she’d drink too much or do something dangerous if I wasn’t awake to protect her from herself.
I don’t often admit when I need someone else, because I don’t often need anyone. I like being independent. But as I realized earlier tonight, sometimes it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.
