My mom was abused in the worst way from the time she was old enough to form memories. When I was younger, she’d get sober for a while and come clean about why she did what she did.
She’d been molested, beaten, tortured, and eventually put into foster homes, where she’d been locked in closets for days, urinated on, and starved nearly to death.
She’s still completely terrified of enclosed spaces and her pain is still my pain.
I know why she does what she does. She gets high to forget, to get numb, to get some type of relief from the trauma and the pain and the horrific nightmares that have plagued her ever since. Only they aren’t just nightmares. They’re memories.
Sporadically over the years she would get on these healthy living kicks, swearing over and over that she was done for good with the meth or the crack or whatever she’d binged on that time. She’d clean the trailer from top to bottom, replacing all the empty boxes of off-brand Pop-Tarts and week-old pizza lying around with actual groceries when the state put money on our food assistance card.
“We’re going to be okay, baby,” she’d say. “You’ll see.”
I saw all right.
Each and every time, I would be stupid enough to hope. That this time would be different. That this time her sobriety would stick.
It never did.
It never will.
Deep down I know this. There was always a boyfriend who’d hit her and trigger the memories, or a packet she’d find in a pair of dirty jeans. There was always something. A few times it would be me. I’d snap at her, say something hurtful, and send her spiraling. I will carry the guilt for this forever. Maybe that’s why I can’t leave her, why I can’t just walk away and stop trying to protect her from the evils she brings on herself.
She and I are the definition of hopeless.
Just like when I was a kid, I make the same, stupid wish I always do. That she’ll stop this and get better, be better. But I’m not a na?ve kid anymore and I know this is unlikely.
The sun is coming up and I need sleep, but I decide it’s not just time for me to get my shit together, but way past time for her too. I pull out my phone with the intentions of searching local state-funded rehab centers and see several messages that nearly cause me to drop it.
Dixie: Where did you go? I looked for you after . . .
Dixie: Your boss said you left with a woman. So . . .
Dixie: I hope you had a good night, Gav. I’m worried about you but maybe don’t call me or stop by for a while, okay? I need some time.
Fuck. Me.
And just because the shit cake of life always has additional hidden layers, there are more.
Dallas: Robyn and I came home early to see Dixie’s show. Where were you? Did you know she could sing like that?
Dallas: Call me, man. 911.
And one more.
Unknown Number: You’re an asshole, Garrison. Plain and simple. Tonight was the final straw. I’m done watching you pull this shit on her.
I know that the last text is from Jaggerd McKinley, just like I know the sky after a night of rain is the same shade of stormy blue as Dixie’s eyes.
I will deal with him later. In person.
Right now I need to call Dallas, so I do.
It rings and rings until his voice mail answers.
When the beep comes, my mind blanks and I’m at a complete loss for words.
“Hey, man. It’s me. I . . . it just, shit got crazy last night so I had to leave early. Hate that I missed you. Call me later.”
My voice sounds like I had gravel for breakfast but I’m too tired to care. Dallas might think the worst, which sucks. Thanks to McKinley, Dixie will probably think the worst now, too, which sucks far more than Dallas possibly being pissed at me.