Page 9 of What About Us

“Mom!” I yell now, trying to get her attention. “Wake up!”

She snorts, and her eyes open, and when she sees me, she scowls.

“The fuck do you want?”

“You missed your shift again, Mom. I need you to get up.”

“No.”

She turns over.

“Yes. Please, Mom, I need you to sober up⁠—”

“Get the fuck out of here, you stupid bitch! Leave me the fuck alone! I can’t stand looking at you. You ruined everything. Get out!”

She starts to throw pillows at me, and I can’t stand the thought of them touching me, so I scurry out of the room, resigned to picking up another night at Lucky’s.

But tomorrow, I have to have a conversation with her because if this continues, I’ll be working myself to the bone, and I know it’ll kill me.

It’s my day off from the hospital, so after a shower, I return to the bar and walk up the steps to the apartment.

She never even bothered to lock the door after I left yesterday. I don’t even know if she’s awake. She might have drank herself back into oblivion by now.

I knock twice, and without waiting for an answer, I push inside and lift an eyebrow in surprise when I see the window is open and my mom is sitting on the couch, not passed out. In fact, she’s had a shower and doesn’t look like a strung-out junkie.

“Go away,” she barks, but I walk in anyway and cross my arms over my chest. She takes a drag of her cigarette and looks at the TV.

“Mom, we need to talk.”

“Don’t got nothin’ to say to you.”

“Well, I have things to say,” I reply. “I know you’re having a rough time with Chris leaving, but⁠—”

“You don’t know shit,” she interrupts.

“Yeah, I do.” I sigh because I’m just so damn tired. “You still own the bar. I don’t even technically work there, but I’m there at least five nights a week, filling in for you. And half the time, you empty the bank account and I have to pay our people, our utilities, all from my own personal money. Mom, you’re behind in the taxes, and I don’t have the money to cover it.”

“So the fuck what?” She won’t even look at me.

“I can’t keep doing it.”

“Then don’t. I don’t really care.”

“If you let the bar go to shit, you won’t have an income. Or a place to live. Or any more vodka.”

Her eyes narrow into slits, and I know that was the wrong thing to say.

“Get the fuck out of my house,” she says. “You’ll do what you have to do to keep the bar going. You won’t let me be homeless. You may hate me, but you don’t⁠—”

“I don’t hate you. I’m mad at you.”

“I DON’T FUCKING CARE!” She stands and starts throwing shit again, and when an ashtray full of butts goes flying past my head, I leave, listening to her scream and break things as I descend the stairs.

Okay, so maybe I hate her.

Lucky’s was never supposed to be my responsibility, but clearly she’s not capable of taking care of anything. Unfortunately, the bar can’t afford to hire more help, so I’ll be the one filling in, tips being my only wage for the hours, for the foreseeable future.

But, just like I always do, I’ll make it work.