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But I assume she’s here to talk about Ian. And feelings. Jessie always wants me to talk about my feelings.
“Mac and I talked,” Jessie says.
“Oh yeah? Are you setting a wedding date?” I’m being sarcastic, but Jessie blushes. I guess she’s not here to talk about Ian.
“No, we talked about grad school. We’re applying to all the same places, and only the ones where I can get a full ride. Mac said he didn’t see a future without me in it and his dreams are my dreams, so he wants to go to grad school together.”
“He said that? Word for word?”
She nods, biting her bottom lip to fight the smile. Her eyes are bright; her skin is practically glowing. This girl is so in love.
I fake throwing up, and Jessie giggles, slapping me playfully.
“You two are so gross, and I love it for you,” I say.
“What about you? You haven’t given me a straight answer about postgrad once. You said something about regional theaters, but not much else,” she says, calling me out again for the second time tonight.
And for the millionth time, Jessie is opening a door for me to talk about my mom. This time, she doesn’t know it’s about my mom, but it is. I can’t think about auditioning for regional theaters with Mom still behaving the way she is. I’d feel a lot better if she’d go to AA, but we never got to have that conversation when I was at home.
Jessie has probably pieced together that my mom is an alcoholic, knowing the few things she does know. But maybe I should tell her everything. Letting Ian see the truth about my mom and sharing that burden was more freeing than I thought itwould be. I would never have done it willingly, and it showed me that as scary as vulnerability is, it can be worth it.
“It’s, um . . . it’s complicated. Because of my mom,” I say, waiting for the courage to say the rest, but it never comes. “Because she’s an alcoholic.”
“Oh, Jade,” Jessie says, the words more of a sad sigh than anything. She reaches into the space between us and takes one of my hands in hers.
Jessie isn’t really the touchy-feely type, and neither am I, so I know this gesture is doing the talking for her because she doesn’t have the words.
But she doesn’t need them. The kindness in her eyes, the empathy pouring off her in waves—I feel all of that, and the comfort of it mingles with the sheer terror of being seen right now. It gives me the courage to go on.
“She’s always in and out of relationships, and when she gets dumped, she goes on these benders. I know I’ve told you a little about this, but it’s bad. She’s a danger to herself, and my grandma and I have to take care of her. I do want to maybe apply to some regional theaters for the summer to do makeup and costumes, but I also don’t want to be too far from home. I don’t trust her.”
“That’s really hard,” Jessie says.
I tell her stories from my childhood of taking care of my mom, explaining how I’ve always been the parent. Jessie nods at all the right times, squeezing my hand, making the right noises of acknowledgment. I tell her about the bathtub and fill in all the details I didn’t give her and Mac earlier. I was vague then, just saying Ian helped with my mom, but I tell Jessie everything now. I talk until my throat is sore and my soul is scraped clean and there are tears glistening in Jessie’s eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Jade,” she says, her voice twisted with sadness. She pulls me in for a hug, and for a few minutes we just lie there,half-cuddling, half-hugging, all the stories and truths I just told lingering in the air between us. “I’m so glad you told me.”
“Me too,” I say. And I am. But I sort of hoped confessing would also alleviate some of the discomfort of the whole situation. It hasn’t. All the same feelings are still there. All the anger and anxiety and worry about what will happen and what I should do. I thought by sharing those feelings, they would feel less potent. But nothing has changed.
We break the hug, and I lie on my back, facing the ceiling. Jessie stays on her side, facing me.
“I’m at a loss, Jessie. I’ve tried to talk to her about AA, but she doesn’t think she has a problem. It doesn’t matter that she’s lost jobs because of this, that her mother can’t enjoy retirement because of her, that I’m the parent in our relationship . . . She doesn’t see any of that. It’s so selfish.”
“It is really selfish. And you know, you’re allowed to be ‘selfish’ too,” Jessie says. She puts air quotes when she says the word selfish the second time.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’re allowed to have your own life, and I know you’re worried about your mom, but by putting your life on hold, you might be overprotecting her. It sounds like she gets to behave the way she does because you’ve been the safety net. You’re allowed to make plans for your future. You’re allowed to not go home every time she goes through a breakup. I know right now that probably sounds really scary, and I’m not saying just stop going home now, but I don’t know if anyone has ever told you that you get to live your own life.”
My eyes are full by the time Jessie stops talking, and tears leak from the corners. Of course people have told me that. I’m just shit at taking advice.
“There are support groups, something like Children of Alcoholics or Adult Children . . . I’m blanking right now?—”
“Adult Children of Alcoholics,” I say, nodding. I know the organization.
“Yes! You know them?”
“I went to Al-Anon with my grandma sometimes back home, and they had information about it. My grandma said I should look for a group when I went to school, and I just . . . never did.”
