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Especially since, as I hurried down, I couldn’t escape the feeling that I was being watched.
I mean, it wasn’t unusual. It wasn’t a huge trailer park, and people typically kept an eye out if someone looked unfamiliar. I hadn’t visited my mother in a long time, so it made sense that they would be curious about me. Still, I couldn’t shake off the eeriness associated with it. It was almost like a crawl down my spine. It felt like a predator was watching me, ready to grab me at any moment. Of course, when I looked behind me once again, no one was there.
I slipped my ring off my finger and put it in my pocket, both because I didn’t want my mother asking any questions and also because I didn’t want the ring stolen. Then, I took a deep breath and told my paranoia to settle down as I reached my mother’s trailer park door. I rapped on it a few times and waited with no response. I must have stood there for a full minute. Did she forget she’d asked me to come over today? Was she even sober?
“Mom,” I called out, knocking on the door again, and then I finally heard footsteps.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she grumbled as she got closer, and then the door was pulled open. She sighted me, and her lips spread wide in a smile that resembled a grimace. “Lisa. Come in.”
I blinked at her, barely able to recognize her. The years had not been good to my mother, and it easily showed on her face. She looked about a decade older than her forty-five, her face wrinkled and haggard and her hair thin and tangled around her head. She was wearing a stained blouse that hung over her frame and slacks that looked like they hadn’t been washed in days. Her eyes were bloodshot, and I knew what she’d told me about being sober and starting AA was a bunch of hokey.
I tried not to be disappointed, but it was hard.
“Hey, Mom.” I walked in and allowed her to pull me into a hug, ignoring the pungent combination of cigarettes, liquor, and body odor. When she stepped back, I analyzed her face and battled with whether or not to confront her about her obvious alcohol use. But knowing my mother, any mention of her alcoholism would only send her into a defensive rage followed by fits of outraged tears. Furthermore, it wouldn’t change anything.
“How are you?” I asked instead.
“Oh, you know.” She gestured around her at the clothes strewn about and lots of unwashed dishes piled up on the counter. “Living the dream."
“I can see that.” I wandered further in and tried to find a clean surface to sit on, finally perching on the edge of the couch. I turned back to see my mother settling into her love seat. And then we stared at each other for a few seconds, neither of us knowing quite what to say to the other.
“It’s been a while,” she said.
“Yeah,” I responded.
“Did you disappear off the face of the earth, or did you just decide not to see your mother?” She laughed a little at the words, but I could sense the bitterness underlying her voice. Despite some lingering guilt, I refused to feel bad for my absence.
“Well, considering that the last time I saw you, you slapped me across the face and then threatened to beat me to death with a beer bottle, I figured I needed some distance.”
My mother blushed as the memory must have flooded back. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me that day.”
“Of course.” My mother was always apologetic when she sobered up, but it never stopped her from doing the same thing over and over again when she went on her drunken binges.
Of course, the abuse hadn’t been that bad before. In the past, she only threw things at me, at worst. But as I got older, she became more and more violent, and the last time we spoke had been the penultimate attack. It was on a morning five years ago when I’d told her that I wouldn’t see her again unless she sought help for her problem. Granted, I probably shouldn’t have told her while she was nursing a hangover, but still. I thought being sober would curb her temper, but it only made it worse. When I saw her advancing with the bottle, I ran out of there and never came back, ignoring all her calls. Until now.
And I still wasn’t sure why I answered this time. Maybe it was some misplaced sense of familial duty. Or maybe I simply wanted to believe her and believe she’d changed.
But it seemed I was wrong once again. Perhaps, I was doomed to give people more chances than they deserved.
“I have a daughter now,” I said, looking my mother right in the eye as I told her. “Someone to protect. Someone to live for. I won’t let anyone abuse her mother, and I won’t explain to her why I always have red marks on my face after I go and visit grandma. I already told you. The only way you and I will ever have a relationship is if you genuinely seek help for your problem.”
“I understand,” my mother said shamefacedly, nodding. “And I am seeking help, Lisa. I’m trying. But it’s hard doing it on my own. I need…I need your support. I need your help.” Her voice cracked at the end of the words, and typically, that would have had me on the edge of caving. But right now, I didn’t even flinch. All I had to do was to picture Violet to realize how fucked up it was and how messed up my childhood was. I couldn’t even imagine doing to my little girl half of what my mother did to me. And I wouldn’t have Violet be connected to that, even adjacently.
“The most I can do is call you now and then,” I told her. “But if I notice you’re always drunk when I call, I’ll stop. And you know me, Mom. I’ll know, no matter how hard you try to hide it.”
Tears sprung into her eyes, and she seemed hurt, but I continued.
“And you have to keep up with AA and the therapist. I know you drank last night. Don’t even bother lying to me.” I held up my hand when I sensed she was about to protest. “Lying only makes it worse. I know you’ve been drinking again, but as long as you keep trying, I’ll keep answering your calls. But the minute I know you’ve given up, I’ll give up on you too.”
My mother flinched at the words. I knew it might be harsh, but I’d already tried the gentle method with her for too long with nothing to show for it. Maybe this would finally be the kick in the ass my mother needed to get herself together.
She finally nodded, but I knew not to get my hopes up. She’d agreed too easily, which meant she hadn’t really thought about how hard it would be yet. It might take more visits and more talking on my end. But maybe this was a start, something to spark the change. But I was serious. The minute I sensed she wasn’t actively pursuing her own recovery, I would be out.
After a few more moments, I got up, hiking my purse higher on my shoulder before telling her, “I have to go. I need to pick up Violet from daycare.”
“How is she?”
“Good,” I said.
