My Dead Parents

by Anya Yurchyshyn

  The fridge cooled my back as the next message played. It was another friend of my mother’s. She said the same exact things, but she was calm and positive.

  I thought it was strange that my mother needed a weekend of supervised rest because she slept so much already, but that thought didn’t turn into concern or questions. I figured she must be really, really exhausted.

  “Your mom in New Hampshire again?” my friend Josh asked as we got high on my couch later that night. I nodded. I didn’t want to explain where she was, or actually think about why she was there.

  I managed to get into New York University and happily abandoned Boston for New York, where Alexandra now lived and I already had lots of friends. When I started college, I turned into someone I didn’t recognize. Most of the freshmen I met seemed only to be interested in partying, but I told myself I’d fucked around plenty in high school. I became fascinated by how cities functioned or didn’t, and designed my own major out of urban studies, philosophy, and education, convincing myself that I would become the next Jane Jacobs.

  I was obsessed with doing well in school, but since I didn’t really know how to study, I was immediately overwhelmed by the workload and spent most of my time in the library or computer labs. I liked my classes, and I loved getting A’s. My devotion was fueled as much by the thrill I got from doing well as by my persistent insecurity; my grades were good because I’d managed to trick my professors into thinking I was smart despite actually being dumb as shit. When I became too anxious and crazed, I got hammered with my friends on the Lower East Side or went to hip-hop shows. I decided I was going to be a New Yorker forever, and because I was so focused on my new life, I didn’t notice how rarely I spoke to my mom.

  As I was walking out of my dorm room to go back to Boston for Thanksgiving, my mother called for the first time in more than a month. “I want you to know,” she slurred, “that I’m drunk. I don’t want you to be surprised when you get home.”

  “What?” I let my bag fall from my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  She said, “I’m drunk,” and hung up.

  My roommates had already left for the holiday, and I stared at our dirty bedroom. It was thoughtful of my mother to warn me, but why the hell had she drunk to the point that she had? I wanted to go anywhere but home, but I didn’t think I had a choice. I didn’t know any of her friends’ numbers so I couldn’t call them for help, and my sister was spending the holiday with her boyfriend. My mom and I were supposed to drive to Connecticut the next morning so we could have Thanksgiving with my father’s family. I could recruit them, but as angry as I was with her, I still didn’t want to rat her out. I spent the hot bus ride home with my knees and forehead against the seat in front of me.

  My mother didn’t respond when I opened the front door and called her name. After searching the top of the house, I found her in the kitchen. When I turned on the lights, I saw that she was passed out, naked, and falling out of a chair in the middle of the room. Her stained robe was on the floor next to her.

  She smelled like wet trash. I patted her cheeks. “Hey!” I shouted. “Wake up.” Her eyes fluttered and she began to mumble. I righted her in the chair, but when I let go, she collapsed like a puppet.

  I didn’t know what to do. I thought about dragging her up the stairs to her room, or making a bed for her in the kitchen so she could sleep it off. Maybe she’d be okay tomorrow. “I’m going to put you to bed,” I yelled, but when she didn’t respond, I began to panic. I told her we were going to the hospital, then I realized I wasn’t sure how to get her there. I didn’t have a driver’s license, and I didn’t want to call an ambulance and cause a commotion in our quiet neighborhood. I didn’t want to call her friends the night before Thanksgiving. There was one person whom I knew I could call—Eli—but I hesitated. We’d had a bad breakup (or five) after he went to college a year ahead of me, and I’d been desperate to get back together with him. I was worried he’d think my call for help had an agenda; even if he didn’t, I’d be humiliated. But when I heard my mother moan, I knew I didn’t have a choice.

  After exchanging pleasantries with his mother, I asked to speak to Eli and told him what was happening. “I’m really sorry,” I said. “I don’t have anyone else to call.”

  My mom kicked me when I tried to wrestle her into clothes. When Eli rang the doorbell, I tied the belt of her robe around her waist before realizing I’d also tied it to the chair.

  Eli greeted me with a “Hey” and a limp, sad smile. He followed me to the kitchen and wordlessly scooped up my mother as she fought him. I tried covering her with her robe but she fought me, too. She didn’t know she was naked or who was holding her, but she knew to resist, flailing and hitting our faces as we carried her into his double-parked car. I ran back into the house to grab her purse and bag the clothes I hadn’t been able to get onto her body.

  When the car started moving, she began to shout. I turned to Eli. “This was supposed to be easier. I couldn’t get her to answer my questions or even look at me twenty minutes ago, I swear.”

  She pawed at the windows and tried to open the door. I turned on the radio. When we got to the emergency room entrance and I opened her door, she kicked me and cried, “No!”

  I pulled her out of the car toward Eli. She thrashed in both directions; the terror in her voice didn’t quiet until we got her through the automatic doors and a nurse ran up with a wheelchair and a blanket. Two male orderlies followed fast. “This is my mom,” I told them. “Her name’s Anita, and she’s really drunk.” My mother tried to slip out of the chair, so the orderlies grabbed her shoulders and held her still.

  “Anita!” the nurse shouted cheerfully. “Your daughter brought you here because you need someone to look after you. You’re not going anywhere, so relax. It’s Thanksgiving, and it’s already been a long night.”

  As my mother was wheeled away, I looked back at Eli, who was standing by the doors with his hand burrowed in his sweatshirt. We waved goodbye.

  When I went into the intake office, my mother was wrapped tightly in a blanket.

  “You like to drink, Anita?” the nurse asked as she copied information from her driver’s license. Her voice was loud and flat. “Are you an alcoholic?”

  When my mother shook her head, the nurse glanced at me. “Maybe?” I said. “She likes to drink, but this is new, at least to me.”

  An orderly walked in and handed her a file. She flipped through it and glanced at me again. “She’s been here before for the same reason. You didn’t know that?”

  I told her I didn’t. When she sighed, I added, “I live in New York.”

  She tried again with my mom. “Hey, Anita, stay with me, kiddo, we’re almost done. How many drinks have you had today?”

  My mother looked at the nurse for the first time. As her chin wobbled, she said, “Every man in my life left me.”

  “Mom! How many drinks? You have to tell her.”

  She closed her eyes and pretended to sleep.

  I asked the nurse what would happen next.

  As she scribbled notes in my mother’s file, she said, “We’ll stabilize her and send her to dry out for a few days. You can go.”

  I put my mother’s purse and clothes on a chair. “This is her stuff.” When the nurse didn’t respond, I said, “Thanks. And happy Thanksgiving.”

  It had been three years since my father died. I didn’t think my mother was still sad; I thought she just wanted to tell her stories again. I thought she wanted pity. I took a cab home and went to sleep. The next day, I called Aunt Lana to tell her what happened, and that neither my mother nor I would make it to dinner. She asked if there was anything she could do, and I told her there wasn’t. My sister phoned about an hour later, after calling Lana and hearing that I wasn’t there.

  “Mom’s in detox,” I told her. “She was wasted yesterday. It was really scary. Has she b
een doing this a lot?”

  My sister hesitated before she answered. “Not a lot,” she told me, “but sometimes.”

  I spent my Thanksgiving at the tables of three different friends whose families were more concerned about my mother than I was. I returned to New York on Sunday, and a few days later, my mother called to apologize. “I get lonely around holidays,” she explained, “but it won’t happen again.” I chose to believe her. But a few months later, she had to go to detox again. Alexandra told me that our mother’s friends had taken her to the hospital and had called to say that they were really worried. They’d told our mom that she needed to go to rehab instead of detox before her drinking got worse, and she’d told them that their concern was unnecessary. She was giving up drinking for good. “So, you know, good news!” Alexandra said.

  One weekend while she was in New Hampshire, my mother met Dave, who soon became her boyfriend, her first since my father’s death. He hadn’t gone to college, was thrice divorced, and was “as poor as a church mouse,” but she liked his company. “He really loves me,” she gushed. I was happy for her, but when I met Dave for the first time, he and my mother were drinking beer in the kitchen, and I started wondering if he was a bad influence on her. As their relationship continued, I understood I had it very wrong. She’d never stopped drinking like she said she would, and still regularly drank enough that she had to go to detox. She shamelessly took advantage of Dave, drinking as much around him as she wanted because she knew she had a ride to the emergency room. He’d stopped drinking around her, but if she got too drunk alone, she’d call him, and he’d drive from New Hampshire in the middle of the night, even when he had to be at work at six a.m., to take her to the hospital. She made him promise not to tell Alexandra or me what she was doing, but after months of shouldering the responsibility and worry alone, he told Alexandra what had been happening and broke up with my mom. She’d stop drinking for a few weeks and ask him for another chance, but she’d slip up soon after they reunited.

  I saw my mother as little as I could over the next few years. Every time I did, mostly around Thanksgiving or Christmas, I’d beg her to stop drinking and get serious help. She often missed the holiday celebrations because she was too drunk to attend, but I’d see her before or after. Her presence was more frustrating than her absence; she’d have tried to sober up but would still be drunk. She usually hadn’t showered, had trouble following conversations, and was unsteady on her feet.

  Most of my visits included some sort of disaster. One time I came home for Christmas to find that my mother was in detox. My friend Hillary and I took advantage of the empty house to smoke weed in the living room. While we were laughing, the phone rang. I picked it up to hear Dave in hysterics. He’d been living in our cabin in New Hampshire and had woken up the night before to find the house on fire. By the time the fire department arrived, the cabin was gone.

  My brain was clouded by pot. “Mom’s in the hospital,” I mumbled. “I’m glad you’re okay. I’ll tell her when I see her tomorrow.” When I hung up, I rested my head on Hillary’s shoulder. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I said, and told her what had happened. She’d been to the cabin and knew that my parents had filled it with Native American antiques, that my father’s ashes were spread on the property, that it was my mother’s refuge. I knew this catastrophe would be punishing. I felt worse for her in that moment than I did when my father died—another loss seemed so unfair. I was relieved that I’d be giving her the news while she was in detox so she couldn’t immediately get bombed, though I imagined that once she’d heard what had occurred, she’d begin counting down the minutes until she could. I pictured her sober, shaking with pain and desperate to douse it with gin.

  When I went to visit my mother the next day, she was chirpy and alert. She complained that the other people in with her were all “drug addicts and junkies,” which was what she always said. She didn’t have problems like they did. “It’s not like I’m an alcoholic.”

  I asked her to sit down and told her about the cabin. “Dave’s okay,” I said, “but the house is gone. Apparently, squirrels got to the wires.” Her face went gray. “Mom, I’m so sorry.”

  She nodded and told me to leave. I didn’t see her again that break.

  Although Alexandra and I were both in New York, it was Alexandra whom Dave or my mother’s friends called when they were worried about her. Alex went to Boston often to take care of my mom or get her to detox.

  Every time I got a call from my sister, or from any 617 number I didn’t recognize, I feared it was someone calling to tell me my mother had died—a hospital or morgue who’d taken away my mother’s body after she’d been found in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. I channeled my growing anxiety about her drinking into my classes, which made me anxious anyway but were a welcome distraction. My efforts surpassed even my own expectations, and I spent my junior year at Oxford.

  That spring, I took a six-week trip to Turkey, Israel, Jordan, and Egypt, eager to see the places I’d heard about for so long. My parents had set a high bar for travel, which I wanted to meet and, eventually, exceed. Until I landed in Turkey, I’d understood their adventures only through the interesting things that they brought home. When I became a teenager, the items that interested me were the ones I could steal or show off: a pair of bespoke suede bell-bottoms that my mother’d had made in India, whose ass I’d split when I zipped them up because she’d been even skinnier than I was; a white brocade dashiki I repurposed as a beach cover-up; masks that elicited screams when I answered the door in them. Travel to me seemed to be about objects, not experience, and I didn’t grasp the extent of all that my parents had seen or done. My sophomore year of high school, I’d shoplifted a copy of Bob Marley’s album Legend and told my mother I thought she’d be into it, figuring she’d be grateful that I’d bothered to share something so cool with her. She snickered and said thanks, she was already aware of his music—was I aware that she and my father had attended Marley’s famous Independence Day concert in Harare in 1980? I was not.

  As I bounced around Istanbul, camped in Wadi Rum with Bedouins, and spent nights drinking on a felucca that lazed down the Nile, I wondered if I was doing it right, doing it as well as my parents had. I was as in awe of the world as they had been but desperate to have only “authentic” experiences. I sneered at travelers who seemed too impressed or green, though I was stumbling to ensure I wasn’t being rude or had gotten on the wrong bus. I usually had, but rarely recognized my mistake until it had become deeply inconvenient for me. My parents hadn’t taught me how to travel because they’d never brought me on any of their trips, but they’d shown me that travel was something you did. It wasn’t a big deal; you got your ticket, got your shots, got on a plane. Once I realized how lucky I was to feel that way, I begrudgingly admitted they’d done at least one thing right.

  When I graduated magna cum laude and scored a prestigious fellowship with the New York City government, my mother said she’d buy me a ticket to wherever I wanted to go that summer, as long as I paid the rest of my way. She’d given the same graduation gift to Alexandra, who chose India. I chose Indonesia. I spent close to three months island-hopping, tripping on mushrooms, and clubbing in Hong Kong—where I extended a ten-hour layover to five days—with the son of one of the city’s most infamous triad operatives.

  After returning to New York and realizing that I didn’t actually want to work in government, I sent emails to all of my friends asking if they had any leads on jobs abroad. The one that came back was about a position on Zanzibar. I agreed to go for a year, booked my ticket for three weeks later, and told my mother what I’d decided to do only ten days before my departure.

  “Zanzibar?” she said in shock.

  “Yup,” I said. “I’ll be handling a hotelier’s philanthropic projects.”

  In the long pause that followed, I imagined her arguing with herself. She wanted to t
ell me not to go but knew that she couldn’t. I’d grown up watching her and my father in what felt like a constant state of departure. How could she tell me not to do what she herself had done?

  The first time I ever missed my father was that year, when I was twenty-three and pressed against the window of a crowded bus that had just crossed the border from Malawi to Zambia on my way to Zimbabwe. I hadn’t missed my father when I’d been in the Middle East, although I associated him with that region as much as with East and West Africa.

  Next to me was a woman with two children in her lap; the three of them were being shoved into me by the people sitting on bags of maize in the aisle. I was breathing through my mouth to avoid the smells: breast milk, dirt, chickens, and chicken shit. The bus had been twelve hours late, and the ride itself felt interminable. Every time I thought we might tip over or pop a tire—and there were plenty of overturned buses along the road, some abandoned, some surrounded by passengers and their luggage, to show me how possible this was—we pulled over and picked up someone else. Aches burned in my hips and neck, and I couldn’t feel my feet. When we hit a bump, bags and limbs flew into my head and knocked it against the scuzzy glass.

  I was ecstatic anyway. Zimbabwe. I couldn’t believe I’d finally gotten there. It was the place I most associated with the far away I’d fantasized about as a kid. My parents spoke of Zimbabwe often and showed me pictures of its cities and the people they’d met there. I’d worn the word across my puffy teenage breasts after I’d found a T-shirt of my father’s commemorating the opening of the bank’s Harare branch, which I’d paired with a flannel shirt, hot pants, fishnets, and Docs.