5. People Change
“Good morning,” Evan greeted from the slick walkway. I closed the door behind me, leaving my mother in the shower getting ready for work.
“Hi,” I replied flatly, adjusting my backpack over my shoulder as I took calculated steps toward his car.
“You have something against mornings, don’t you?” Evan teased, opening the passenger door. I smirked before kissing him briefly on the lips and ducking into the car.
“Sorry,” I offered when he closed his door. “I didn’t sleep well. This house is super creaky.” Considering my weariness, I was glad he'd offered to pick me up on our first day back from break.
“What are you doing after practice tonight? Do you want to come over?”
“Sure,” I answered automatically, and then quickly countered with, “I can’t.”
Evan appeared confused.
“I’m going grocery shopping with my mother,” I explained. "She’s not sure what I eat, so she wants me to go with her."
"Okay," Evan replied. "How was it after I left last night? You two were pretty funny at dinner―she talks when she's nervous, and you don't say anything."
"That was torture for you, wasn't it?"
"I was fine," he chuckled. "I'm pretty sure it was worse for you."
"I... I don't know what to talk to her about," I confessed.
"I think you could just let her do all the talking," Evan advised comically.
I stared out the window in a daze. I didn't realize we had pulled into the school parking lot until the car stopped. A wave of dread consumed me as I watched the students getting out of their cars.
“I know you don’t want to be here,” Evan acknowledged, reading my thoughts. “But I'm convinced it’ll be different.” I didn’t say anything and got out of the car.
I used to look forward to coming to school―not for the social benefits, but to escape the oppression at home. After everything that had happened, my safe place had become the place I dreaded most.
When I started the school year, I kept my head bowed, trying to retract further into my shell―not only in the halls but in the classroom as well. I refused to participate other than to complete the assignments. Sara and Evan eventually gave up trying to encourage me, promising that it wasn't as bad as I thought.
I stared at the brick building and took a deep breath before closing the car door. I pulled my backpack over my shoulder, preparing myself for the scrutiny. Evan took my hand, its warmth comforting me. Sara was waiting for us by the back door, smiling brightly as usual, and greeting just about everyone passing her by.
“Good morning,” she beamed. Then her brows dipped into a scowl. “You didn’t sleep well,
huh?”
“Wow,” I responded to her bluntness. “Do I look that bad?”
“No,” Evan countered quickly before Sara could utter the truthful words on the tip of her tongue.
“Liar,” Sara and I chimed in unison. I met her eyes and we started laughing. The sound of my laughter had the strangest effect, like waking a sleepy village from a curse. All of a sudden I heard, “Hi, Emma.”
I turned my head to find Jill standing next to us. “How was your New Year?” Before any of us could respond, or shake off the stupefied looks on our faces, she continued, “Did you hear about the party at Michaela’s? Her parents came home in the middle of it, and of course everyone was drunk. But the worst part was when they found Nick and Tara having sex on their bed. Michaela is so screwed.”
And just like that, the past seven months never happened. Jill and Sara continued talking about the party while Evan and I followed behind. Evan wore an "I told you so" smile on his face, and I smirked at the sight of it. As we continued down the hall, I realized the stares were gone, and no one was whispering as I passed them. Every so often, someone would acknowledge us with a "hi" or "good morning." It was freaking me out. Everyone was letting it go... or pretending to anyway.
“Good to see you survived over vacation,” a voice cut through the crowd. Evidently not everyone had gotten over it.
Evan stiffened as the jeering words found us. My chest tightened in response. Evan spun around and pinned a guy against a locker with his forearm across his chest. I looked on in complete shock, and everyone in the hallway froze.
“What did you say?” But it wasn’t Evan asking the question. Several other seniors were surrounding the guy, who by the size of him, must have been a freshman. Joel Rederick leaned in closer as Evan kept the guy immobilized. The freshman stared back in complete panic, sweat beading along his forehead.
“Nothing,” he choked.
“That’s what I thought,” another senior threatened.
“Don’t bother walking down the senior halls again,” Evan seethed.
“What’s going on here?” an authoritative voice questioned from behind the crowd. Evan released the freshman, and the seniors began to part. The guy scurried away in search of the small pack who had abandoned him.
“Dick,” Jill snapped from behind me. Everyone continued on their way, and the talking resumed. No one looked twice at me as I remained still, attempting to digest what had just happened.
“Sorry about that,” Evan offered, taking my hand once again.
“It’s okay,” I replied slowly, recovering from my befuddlement. “Thank you.”
He studied me with eyebrows raised, not expecting my reaction, then grinned before leaning down to kiss me.
“Ahh, you’re in the middle of the hall,” Sara stated with an undertone of omigod. Evan pulled back, and I looked at her oddly.
Sara and I continued to our lockers, and I asked, "Since when do you care if Evan kisses me in the hall?"
"You don't like to draw attention, remember?" Sara stated from within her locker.
"Sara, is there something wrong?" I questioned, sensing she was still not right.
"No, I'm fine," she returned, closing her locker with a smile.
I watched her walk off, knowing she wasn't being honest with me.
After basketball practice, I arrived home to find my mother at the kitchen table writing down a list of what we needed―which was practically everything from the looks of it.
"Hi," she greeted. "I think I have some ideas for meals. Is there anything you don't like?”
"I'm pretty open to trying anything... except for meatballs," I told her with an inadvertent shiver. "But you don't have to do anything crazy. Besides, I usually come home late because of basketball."
"We'll pick out some easy things. How's that?" she offered, scanning her list again. "That way you can throw something together for yourself if you come home late or if I have to stay at work."
The thought of preparing anything beyond a sandwich was intimidating. "What?" she questioned anxiously, when she saw my scrunched face.
"Um, I'm not exactly adept in the kitchen," I confessed sheepishly.
"You can't cook?" she clarified in shock.
"Does oatmeal count?" I shrugged in embarrassment.
My mother laughed. "Well... I guess we'll be shopping in the frozen food section, too."
We got in her car and drove to the grocery store in the next town over. She spent the ride reviewing the list and asking for my input. I'd never really had a say before, so I didn't contribute much. When I lived with Carol and George, I would write the basics of what I needed on the grocery list―cereal, granola bars, and the like―since I wasn't allowed to eat it unless I'd asked for it. But for the most part, I ate what was put in front of me, no questions asked―even when it made me violently ill.
We ultimately decided to make up the list as we went along. Which was pretty much our approach to everything―including our relationship.
"You know I'm not exactly very good at this mother thing, right?" my mother said, picking through a pile of apples and putting a few that met her approval in a produce bag.
I didn't know how to respond. It was the start of a conversation I never expected to have in a grocery store.
"I mean, I don't want you to think that I'm expecting to walk back into your life and take charge or anything," she continued, her voice laced with apprehension. "I just want... I think it would be nice if we were... friends. You know, instead of..." She looked at me with her lips pressed together. "I just want to get to know you. Does that make sense?"
My shoulders eased in relief. I had no idea where the conversation was headed, but this was a welcome surprise. I wasn't exactly sure how to be her daughter any more than I expected her to be my mother.
"Yes," I agreed with a smile. "I'd like that."
"So, would you be okay with calling me Rachel then?" she asked cautiously. "Mom feels a little weird to be honest."
I let out an uncomfortable laugh, slightly surprised by the request. "I can try."
She smiled softly and released her nervousness with a quick breath. "Great. Now, what do you eat for lunch?"
I continued behind her, pushing the grocery cart around as she held up items and waited for me to nod or shake my head before placing them in the cart or putting them back. By the time we were done, there was more food in the cart than two people could eat in a month. Thankfully, a good portion of it was frozen.
"Do you want to learn how to cook?" my mother asked as she set the items on the belt. "I could teach you."
I smiled warmly at her offer. "Uh, sure," I replied, not having the heart to tell her that Evan had already made several attempts to teach me, and each had ended disastrously. She seemed eager to be able to do something with me―I would at least try.
"So, how long have you and Evan been together?" she asked after we had loaded the groceries in the car and were driving home.
"Officially," I calculated, "about ten months."
"What does officially mean?"
"Well," I fumbled, not sure how to explain how we felt for each other from pretty much day one, and how due to misunderstandings and hurt feelings, it had taken forever before we finally ended up together. "I guess I don't know how to answer that. Let's just say we started dating last March."
"Okay," she accepted with a confused nod. "He seems really nice."
"Yes," I agreed. My face glowed. "He is."
"I'm still looking," she said with a sigh. "I'll never find anyone like Derek again."
My heart faltered. I knew we had agreed to be friends, but she was still my mother. And having her talk so casually about finding the next best thing to my dead father knocked me back a bit.
"Do you want to help me with dinner tonight?"
"Huh?" I stumbled, still trying to get over her comment.
"Want to start your cooking lessons?" she clarified.
"Can I take a pass on tonight?" I begged. "I think I want to wait a bit before revealing how terrible I am.”
She laughed. "You can't be that bad."
"You have no idea," I grumbled, making her laugh again.
"Okay. Maybe another night."
I sat in the kitchen with her while she explained what she was doing as she filled the pork chops with stuffing. I just nodded like I was paying attention, knowing it was useless. I could figure out the most complex math equations, or understand the internal workings of the nervous system, but to ask me to baste or julienne anything caused anxiety beyond explanation.
My mother set the plates down on the table I’d set for two, the one thing I could do.
"Thank you," I said, sitting down with a glass of water.
"Sure," she responded, sitting across from me.
When I looked up from my plate to praise her for the meal, I found her watching me. It was like she was examining every inch of my face, so intently that it made me want to sink under the table.
"I forgot how much you look like him." Her eyes were glassy and distant―she was looking at me but not at the same time. I bowed my head to escape her sorrowful gaze.
"So, Sara seems like she's an amazing friend," my mother said, her voice suddenly back to normal. I glanced up as she pierced the cut pork chop with her fork.
"Uh, yeah," I responded, shaking off the haunted look in her eye. "She's my best friend."
"I have one of those," my mother smiled. "Sharon." She let out a laugh just thinking about her. "We've done everything together. She usually gets me into trouble, but I have the best stories because of her."
I nodded, trying to remember this woman that seemed to be such a huge part of her life―but came up blank. I realized there wasn't much about my mother that I knew, even from the twelve years she was technically in my life.
It wasn't the howling of the wind or the boards groaning that drew me from my bed that night. Yes, they were the reasons I was still awake, but I was brought to my feet by the clatter of metal crashing outside my door. I found my mother kneeling on the floor with her back to me, trying to stack the framed photographs that were scattered across the hallway.
As I got closer, I could hear her mumbling to herself, clumsily setting one frame on top of the other. When I bent down to help her pick them up, I realized that she was crying.
"Are you okay?" I asked tentatively.
"Huh?" her head shot up. “Oh, Emily, I'm sorry." She sniffled and wiped her red cheeks with her sleeve. "I woke you up."
She blinked heavily, and I sank to the floor with the realization... she was drunk. I spotted the bottle of vodka resting next to the top step and swallowed hard against the disappointment that rose in my throat.
"I was... I was just remembering," she stuttered. She was crouching, trying to balance the stack of frames, when she clumsily plopped down to sit.
"F*ck," she muttered, blowing a stray hair from her eye, her arm still wrapped around the frames as she reached for the bottle. It was just out of her reach, so she scooted over to grab it and repositioned herself so her feet rested on the top steps. She took a swig and ran her arm across her forehead, frustrated with the floating hairs that kept falling in her face. She looked like she'd just traveled through a tunnel of blankets.
I held the remaining frames that she couldn't quite manage and settled next to her. That's when I realized what they were―pictures of my father.
My mother shuffled through the stack that teetered on her lap and sent one slipping and sliding down the stairs. "F*ck."
Big, wet tears streamed down her face as she held a photo up. It was of her and my father sitting on a sailboat.
"I know you were looking for these," she blubbered, swiping the back of her hand across her nose. "I had to dig them out of the back of the closet. But I can't..."
She couldn't continue. Her eyes were smeared with mascara, bloodshot and half-open. Behind her inebriation was a sadness that was consuming her, and my heart ached at the sight of it.
"You remind me of him."
"I'm sorry," I whispered, not knowing how to comfort her.
"I forgot how much I missed him," she slurred, slouching against the banister. Another frame slid from her lap and crashed down the stairs.
"F*ck!" she screamed. In one sudden motion, she picked up her pile and threw the pictures down the stairs. I jumped at her outburst. Glass splintered along the staircase as the frames collided with each step.
"Why? Why? Why?" she bellowed in agony, crumbling to the floor. I remained paralyzed beside her, my back tense. I took in the destruction at the bottom of the stairs, and then the woman who was disintegrating before my eyes.
"It's okay," I whispered, my heart beating frantically. I doubted she could hear me.
She pushed herself up to sit and reached for the bottle to take another swig. She flopped back against the post, barely able to keep her eyes open. The bottle tilted in her hand as she attempted to rest it on the floor. I grabbed for it, setting it down next to me before it joined the carnage at the bottom of the stairs.
"Let me help you to bed," I offered softly. Releasing the stack of frames that I still gripped tightly and setting them on the floor, I slid closer to her so I could put her arm around my shoulder.
"Huh?" my mother groaned, unable to hold her head up.
"There you go," I encouraged, slowly getting her to her feet. "Easy." She wobbled under my support. I focused on the bedroom door and hoped we'd make it inside before she toppled over. I had a good five inches on her, but if she fell, we'd both go down.
I guided her to her bed, and she collapsed face first. She drew in heavy breaths with a slight snore as I pulled the blanket over her. Leaving her in her induced peace, I shut the door behind me.
I stood on the top step and surveyed the mess below, exhaling deeply and shaking my head. Picking up the bottle that had instigated this disaster, my jaw tightened. I blinked away the tears, not wanting to feel anything. With a weight in my chest, I drudged down the stairs and dumped the bottle’s contents down the kitchen sink. I blew out an exhausted sigh before slowly picking up the shattered pieces.
I wasn't exactly waiting for it, but I knew. I wasn't convinced after seeing her sober one night a year ago in front of my school that sobriety was going to take. She may not have had a drink that night, but it didn't mean she didn't every night after. I knew. I knew this was coming... I just hoped it wouldn't.
I picked up the picture of her and my father on the sailboat, and the lump tightened in the back of my throat. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath to suppress the storm that was brewing in my chest. I breathed out once more before opening them.
After stacking the photos on the stairs, I filled the trash bag with the broken glass and busted frames and swept up the remnants. When I returned from taking the bag to barrel outside, I brought the memories back to my room, where I tucked them under the sweatshirts on my shelf in the closet. I wasn’t ready to face them either.
I slipped back under the covers and lay staring at the ceiling. The tears silently slid along my temples and were absorbed into my hair. I let them flow, but I kept the lump lodged in my throat, pushing away the pain and sorrow I’d seen in my mother's eyes.