by Liz Murray
“Yeah, everybody’s got a high horse apparently,” Ma said. “He gave me this crap,” she said, handing me a strange coin in her frustration, “and he preached at me . . . Like he’s so good.”
Seeing that the coat was the size of a child’s, the drug dealer handed it back to Ma along with the single large coin, and he told her to go home to her kids, which made Ma livid. Ma would later explain to me that it was one of those coins people got in Narcotics Anonymous for reaching a given number of days in their sobriety, as a symbol of their progress so far and for struggles yet to come. In no way did Ma seem to appreciate the irony of being given the coin by a drug dealer. Collapsed on her bed, shaking from withdrawal, she was just consumed with pain, hurting from the need to use.
I stayed with Ma until she fell asleep, then I went into my bedroom and got under the blankets, where I turned my attention to the coin as I lay in bed. Later on, I would keep the coin tucked away in my dresser drawer for years. From time to time, I’d take it out just to run my thumb over the engraving and to marvel at its mystery, the “Serenity Prayer” on back:
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.
While I didn’t exactly get the meaning, I recognized the music of this prayer as familiar to me from Ma’s countless NA meetings. There was a structure to the meetings: Addicts always recited the serenity prayer in unison, clasping hands together in the basements of urban churches while their children, Lisa and me included, rummaged through the free donuts and too-sweet lemonade. Once at the beginning of the meeting, and then once more at the end, God grant me the serenity . . . It was a staple of all NA meetings, along with the testimonies from those who had forsaken addiction, those who had “worked the steps” and “beat drugs,” the testimonies of those who had “made it.” Standing in front of the room, each recovering addict’s story took on a familiar shape: there was a lifestyle that wreaked havoc on self, family, and loved ones; the redemption that brought them successfully through NA; and in between, a dark and frightening low—one moment of demarcation between old life and new, characterized by the person’s absolute bottom.
These former addicts who “had recovery” would sometimes make their way over to Ma after meetings. They wanted to help her, and I could feel them using me and Lisa as a way to reach Ma. One man stands out in my memory, a white guy with green eyes, impossibly tall. He crouched down to look me in the eyes and asked if I liked cookies. With several in my hand and one stuffed in my mouth at that very moment, I couldn’t discern if he was being playful, or if I felt accused. I stared back stupidly. He smiled and stood to talk to Ma about sobriety. She chain-smoked and eluded eye contact while he spoke, shifting back and forth (a side effect from her schizophrenia meds), as he tried futilely to connect. Ma was fresh off another release from North Central Bronx psychiatric ward at the time, and her sobriety was hitting its predictable threshold. We would end up accompanying her to the drug spot right after the meeting that night. But for a few moments this man’s message was as clear and powerful as it could be to someone who was unwilling to listen.
“You know how you know for sure when you hit bottom, miss?” he asked. “You know you hit bottom when you stop digging! That’s what my sponsor told me.” His attempt at eye contact was earnest, but his words just couldn’t get to her.
Later that night, Ma sold the toaster and my bike for a hit.
After years of experience, I knew that there were a few existing versions of Ma, roughly five personalities in total. There was crazy Ma, drugged-and-drunken Ma, sober-and-nice Ma, check-day-happy Ma, and pleasant, fresh-out-of-the-hospital Ma. This last one was maybe the most appealing version, though she had a lifespan of roughly two weeks.
Back home, at the outset of this alter ego, she would entertain us with hilarious stories about other people on the psychiatric ward, each anecdote making her laugh in a breathless way, the edges of her mouth turned down, her fist slamming the countertop as she doubled over at her own jokes. She still carried the smell of that hospital-assigned soap on her skin and hair, something I loved to smell when she hugged me so frequently, having just come home to us. This Ma smoked less; she fussed over the symmetry of the living room curtains. She might pass through the apartment humming, and then pause at the couch to kiss me on the forehead on her way down the hall, just because. Simply being home was enough to make this version of Ma happy.
But this time was different. This time, the hospital sent us back a stranger in Ma’s place, one that did not seem to fit any of the previous versions. They dressed her in the same clothes, delivered her to the right address, familiarized her with our names and her surroundings—only they forgot part of her personality. The first thing I noticed was her absolute stillness, the way her limbs carried her too steadily through the front door, like a model balancing a stack of books on her head. None of her usual fidgeting; the jumpy quality was totally removed from her mannerisms.
Ma went through all the motions, extending limp hugs to us one at a time. She managed a smile, though most of her face wouldn’t cooperate. “Are you taking a different drug?” I asked as she unpacked in the most awkward silence.
“I don’t know, Lizzy. I might be.”
Lisa was more aggressive; she came with question after question. Ma said little, and walked away from Lisa mid-sentence, her eyes searching the wall, the ceiling, the floorboards, anywhere but Lisa’s eyes. Daddy was obliging, or else Ma was; they shared a bed for almost a week. Then Ma returned to the couch, or she took a seat by the window, where she could sit for hours, wide-eyed, hair pulled back, her body steady, frozen in her rose-colored robe, like one of the mannequins in a Macy’s window, a picturesque display of sadness. Outside, the weather seemed to match her mood.
It rained that entire first week she was home, overflowing potholes and washing old beer cans and cigarette butts clear from the gutters. It rained so much that the weathermen diligently provided updates on commercial break. The sky was so gray it seemed to be evening all day long. On the third straight night of the rain, Ma commented that it was “tsunami weather,” exaggerating its significance.
“Wherever tsunamis hit, this is probably what the weather looks like,” Ma said, while we sat together one evening to watch the rain pimple the asphalt in the alley.
“What’s a tsunami?” I asked, more in an attempt to gauge her mood than in sincere curiosity.
She picked at tiny pieces of ancient paint, chipping it off the windowsill, the scent of rain riding in with each cool burst of wind. “A tsunami is a really big wave that kills people and destroys houses and villages, Lizzy. It’s huge, the size of a mountain.”
Sometimes, the randomness of what Ma offered in conversation made her seem like a stranger. I both did and didn’t like learning things about her this way. It was like bobbing for pieces of Ma in the dark space that was her past. It was all too indistinct, with no rhythm to what she shared. I could learn something important about Ma as easily as I could not learn it. The thought of how much I didn’t know about her bothered me; it made us feel separate, and I hated that.
“How does it destroy stuff if it’s only a wave? Waves are in the ocean, and villages and people are on the ground.”
“Yeah, but this wave is different, Lizzy. It’s not like at the beach, ya know. It’s a lot bigger.” Lightning flashed through our window, illuminating old water stains like a stencil on the glass. It was followed by a deep crack of thunder that set off car alarms outside.
“How big are they?” I asked, draping a sheet over my shoulders for protection.
“Huge. So tall. As tall as our building, like six stories, or sometimes even higher.” Ma extended her arm above her head. Her faced tensed with emphasis. “I’m telling you, Lizzy, like this. They’re huge. They darken the whole sky before they drop down.”
“Wow. Have you ever seen one?” I fished to link the information to Ma’s life.
“Do you dream of them now?”
“Every now and then. Last night. I guess the rain has me thinking about them.”
“Why don’t people just leave before it comes?” I asked. Ma stared again out into the alley.
“They would if they knew when to expect it, but they can’t. It takes them by surprise, and then it’s too late to get away. I’m going to get some sleep now, pumpkin. I’m tired.”
“But Ma, no matter how fast they run?”
“No matter how fast they run, Lizzy. Once they see it coming, it’s already too late to escape.”
Ma and Daddy plowed through Ma’s saved-up welfare check in just a matter of days. For Lisa and me, they’d purchased thirty dollars’ worth of groceries, but just under a week later, money was scarce, and we had to be careful about our portion sizes again. Each day that I tried to work in Met Food, every slot was full. So Lisa and I divided what was left of the food. That night, I made myself peanut butter and jelly sandwiches out of my supply, while I worked on a diorama assignment for Ms. Benning’s class. The rain was still coming down in noisy sheets, blowing bursts of cool air onto my legs and arms from the open living room window.
In fifth grade that October, we’d read Charlotte’s Web for the fall reading fair. I was using construction paper from the art lounge to cut and paste careful sketches of Charlotte, Wilbur, and Templeton into a shoebox for a depiction of the scene where Charlotte weaves the word humble into a web. The three best models from each class were going to be displayed in the school lobby for the month of December, where everyone would see them. Tomorrow morning, first thing, Ms. Pinders, the school librarian, was going to pick the winners. If I made the characters vivid enough, I was sure that my diorama had a chance.
I spent all night on the finishing touches: Elmer’s glue joined Popsicle sticks to form the barn’s low fence. Pencil shavings sat in for tufts of hay. Every so often, I stepped back to take in my progress, pleased with how well it was coming along. As I worked at the living room table, Ma and Daddy stormed in and out of the apartment behind me, headed to bars or to cop drugs. It was clear from their aggressive but indistinguishable conversation that something was up. Just what it was remained unclear. More than once, Ma staggered out of the apartment in tears, headed for the bar. From my window, I’d watched her dissolve into rain so thick, it concealed University Avenue.
Finally, around four o’clock, my arms grew tired and my eyelids heavy. Though neither Ma nor Daddy was home, I went to bed. Once the finished diorama sat safely on my dresser top, I made my way through my darkened room, under the covers, my head sinking into the pillow. Outside, cars whizzed by, casting fast-moving shadows on my empty walls. A gate rattled in the wind, barely audible over the pouring rain. The repetitive clink carried me into sleep until a closer, more urgent sound brought me back, waking me—Ma’s beer bottle tipping and sloshing with the tapping of her foot.
“Hey, pumpkin.” Weighing down the corner of my bed, Ma sat with her legs crossed, the remainder of the mostly consumed beer in her hand.
“Hi, Ma.” Rubbing sleep out of my eyes, I became instantly ready to console her, to listen well to whatever was wrong.
“You want to talk? Are you okay?” I asked.
Tears streaked down Ma’s face, shimmering in the moonlight. She rubbed them away harshly with the back of her hand. She said nothing, only taking in deep breaths and letting more tears fall. I always knew what to do when Ma spoke, but this silence thing was new. It made me tense, clumsy.
“Ma, talk to me. . . . You know, I love you. Ma? I love you. Whatever it is, you should talk to me. Did someone say something mean to you at the bar? You know I want to hear it. . . .”
“I love you, pumpkin. Don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re not my baby. You got that? No matter how old you get, you are always my baby.”
“Ma, please, what’s wrong?” Watching her face contort in some private pain, I wished for one of our better nights, when Ma let her thick, curly hair dangle down to brush my cheeks while I lay in bed. She’d tickle me until I burst with laughter. But sometimes she just didn’t have it in her. I knew those nights did not come easily to her. And she needed my help through the harder ones, like this, when memories of her past caught up with her. This was when I needed to listen, to soothe her, when she needed me most.
“Ma, I love you. You shouldn’t cry. We’re all here, we all love you. Whatever it is, it’ll be okay.”
I searched her eyes for recognition, but she was somewhere far away. I could tell that this was going to be one of our long nights, when we talked until the sky lightened and the birds were the only noise outside. The thought alone exhausted me. I thought of Ms. Pinders and the fall reading competition in the morning, and I wished for some way to make Ma as tired as I was. Maybe then she’d just fall asleep.
“Okay, Ma, talk to me.” I grabbed her hand; it was wet with her tears.
“Lizzy, listen. I’ll always be in your life. Always. When you get big—” She suddenly sobbed, letting out a heavy moan that scared me. “When you get big and have your own kids, I’ll babysit them. I’ll watch you graduate from school. You will always be my baby. You know that? No matter how big you get, you’ll always be my baby.”
“Let me hug you.” I began shaking, but tried hard to conceal my fear. “I know you’ll always be here. I’ll always be here for you, too. Don’t worry so much, Ma.”
“Lizzy, pumpkin, I’m sick. . . . I’m sick, I have AIDS. They diagnosed me at the hospital. Daddy thought it would be better not to say anything until I got sick. . . . They gave me a blood test. I have AIDS, Lizzy.”
Television images of pale men spread out on stretchers came to mind; people on cots, limp with sickness. I remembered someone saying that all AIDS patients eventually died. It took me only a moment to connect the images and the word death with Ma. Was Ma going to die? A hot quiver shot up from my stomach, and I burst into tears.
“Ma, are you going to die? Are you going to die, Ma?”
I was fully awake. I watched the rain fall behind Ma as she continued to cry, illuminated by the streetlight. It made a silhouette of my mother, like a stark, vacant painting. Only a few minutes ago, the rain fell just as steadily and Ma wasn’t dying. Somehow, my bed and my furniture all stayed in place, the shadows of my window guards remained stationary along the wall, but Ma had changed.
Ma gathered me into her arms, digging her beer bottle into my back. Hugging each other, we shook with quiet sobs on my bed for long, disbelieving moments. My mother and this thing, both seated beside me, both in my arms. Holding her, I held it, and shared her, took what I could get away from the alcohol and from the disease.
“Ma . . . you can’t go.”
“Not right now, pumpkin. I’ll be here for a while. At least a few years.”
“What? No, Ma!”
Now it was me who was sobbing uncontrollably, choking on my own tears.
“I mean, I’ll be here for a long, long time. Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. I love you, pumpkin. I’m not going to die. Mommy’s not going to die for a long time. I might not even have AIDS, who knows. Never mind what I said.”
But it was too late. I knew Ma too well, with her inability to keep secrets. I was sure it was true. She couldn’t just take it back. I wished so badly that this was a delusion, a sign of another oncoming episode, but I knew this was real.
“But you just said . . . Ma, don’t lie to me. Are you going to die?” I coughed and choked on my tears; I was hysterical.
Abruptly, Ma stood up and reached for my doorknob.
“Forget it, Lizzy,” she said. “You get some sleep now. Never mind what I told you. Who
knows what I have. These days, no one knows anything. Don’t worry, I was just kidding. It’s fine. I’m fine,” she said, taking another drink from her bottle. “We’ll be just fine,” she added, before stepping out and shutting the door.
“Wait,” I screamed. “Wait! Ma! . . . Maaaa!” I knew she’d left because I failed to give the right response. That must be why she’d left. I hated myself for whining, for being so needy. Whenever I needed too much, it always pushed Ma and Daddy away. i should have known better. I called out to her one final time, “Maaa!”
But as loud as I yelled, and as much as I cried, she did not come back. I couldn’t find it in me to chase after her, either. Something about climbing out of bed would make the moment more real.
I drew deep breaths and tried to quiet down; I gripped the sheets to ease my trembling. The silence made the room feel emptier than it had before. Only ten minutes ago, I was asleep and Ma didn’t have AIDS.
As much as I wanted to hold things together, I was always letting them fall apart. I tried to help Ma, to give her what she needed, but maybe I only made things worse. Knowing what she needed the money for, there were countless times I still gave Ma my tips from packing bags or the dollars taped inside my birthday cards sent from Long Island. It hit me then, like a hammer to my chest, that maybe I’d driven her crazy and paid for the needle that infected her with AIDS, too.
“Idiot,” I said out loud. “Moron.”
I hurled a pillow across the room, smashing the pieces of my diorama. The Popsicle stick fence, still glued together, clacked onto the floor, snapping in half.
Chapter 4
Unraveling
IF OUR APARTMENT HAD BEEN A WORLD UNTO ITSELF BEFORE, THEN by the time I was nearly twelve years old, the four of us came to live on entirely different continents, separated in our own locked rooms, detached and floating so independently from one another that I worried we might never come together again. I spent the majority of my time out of the house, hanging out with friends or packing bags and pumping gas. Lisa, in her room, blasted music from her radio, her door permanently shut. Daddy had his trips downtown, and his long walks around the neighborhood. And Ma made a new friend to keep her company, a detestable man whose presence in our apartment drove a wedge between us at a fragile time when we were already farther apart than we could afford.