by T. K. Leigh
“Mom.” I soften my tone, hoping she’ll relax enough so we can have a rational conversation.
“What, Chloe?” She spins around, her motions quick. Too quick.
Everything seems to happen in slow motion as the sound of an air compressor firing a nail echoes, followed by a sharp pain in my thigh just above my knee.
Darting my eyes up, I see the nail gun in her hand and collapse to the floor, clutching my leg as blood blooms on my jeans.
The sight is all it takes to push my mother over the edge. She loosens her grip on the nail gun and it falls with a clatter just as she passes out, her body slumping to the floor.
“Of course,” I grit out through the pain. “It’s not like she could have driven me to the hospital anyway.”
Pulling my phone out of my back pocket, I unlock the screen and call the only person I can in this situation.
“Izzy, I need your help.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“How’s she doing?” I ask several hours later when Izzy reappears around the privacy curtain in the emergency room where I’m lying on a bed, my leg propped up.
“She’s fine. Had to get a few stitches over her eyebrow and suffered a mild concussion from the fall, but she’ll survive. How are you doing?” She heads toward me, pulling off the thin blanket, revealing my heavily bandaged knee and thigh. “Is the local wearing off?”
“Yup. But they gave me some painkillers.” I shoot up in bed. “You didn’t let them prescribe any for my mom, did you?”
“No. I apprised the attending of her history, but it was in her chart already. Her injury is minor anyway. She’ll just have to suck it up with regular ol’ ibuprofen.”
“Good.” I relax back into the mattress, checking the time to see it’s after seven. “I can’t believe I wasted my entire fucking day on this. And for what? For my mother to shoot my knee with a nail gun?”
Izzy assumes the chair beside the bed. “Not quite your knee. She’s lucky her aim was off. A few centimeters down and you could have faced some major reconstructive surgery. At least it didn’t nick any bones and the doctor was able to yank the sucker out.” She grins a devilish smile. “Did the doc let you keep it?”
“Why would I want to keep a bloody nail?”
“As a souvenir,” she says, as if it’s obvious.
I playfully roll my eyes. “I’d rather not have a reminder.”
She shrugs. “To each their own. How long will you be off your feet?”
“Doctor Warren said I should be back to my old self in a week or so, but to take it easy and listen to my body, since the stitches need to stay in for about two weeks. Speaking of the handsome doc, is it a requirement for every doctor here to be ridiculously good looking?” I narrow my eyes at her. “Please tell me you’ve taken advantage of working here.”
“I’m on the pediatric oncology floor.”
“So? They have doctors there, too, don’t they?”
“They do, and I’m sorry to disappoint you, but most of the hot doctors also have hot wives at home.”
I sigh dramatically, leaning back against the pillows. “Yeah. Doctor Warren told me he was happily married during my attempts to flirt with him after I was given anesthesia.”
Izzy straightens her spine, her brows furrowing. “Chloe, they only gave you a local to numb the area.”
“So?” A mischievous smirk skates across my lips.
She stares at me for a moment, remaining silent. Then she bursts out laughing. It’s a strange sound in a hospital, as out of place as a nun in a strip club, but maybe we all need to laugh more. After this afternoon, I need to laugh more.
“You really have no shame, do you?” she asks, wiping at her eyes.
“I figure he probably sees enough depressing shit working here, so I may as well do something to make him laugh. Consider it my civic duty.”
“Civic duty,” she repeats, shaking her head, giggling even more.
“Excuse me, Chloe.”
At the sound of a serious voice, I whip my eyes from Izzy, my own laughter ceasing when I see my mother’s boyfriend, Aaron, standing in the opening of the privacy curtain. His graying hair is slightly disheveled, worry and guilt etched in the lines of his face. He’s on the tall side, around six feet, and in great shape, considering he’s in his sixties. But the energy and liveliness he usually exudes is lacking, his tie loosened, his suit wrinkled. Based on the suitcase beside him, I gather he took a cab straight here from the airport.
“Aaron.” I sit up in the bed. “My mom is—”
“Actually,” he interrupts, “I’d hoped to talk to you first.” He shifts his attention, noticing Izzy at my side. “Thanks for taking care of my girls, Iz.”
“You bet.” She stands from the chair and walks to him. They hug briefly and he kisses her cheek. “I’ll give you two a few minutes.” She looks back at me. “You should have your discharge papers soon, but if you need anything in the meantime, shoot me a text.”
“I will.” I watch as she leaves, grateful to have a friend like Izzy, who immediately left Nora and Evie to get me to the hospital. Then I turn my attention to Aaron, apprehensive about his reason for wanting to talk to me.
“This is all my fault.” He slumps into the chair, burying his head in his hands.
I exhale, knowing all too well what he’s going through. I’ve done this same thing myself more times than I can count. Hell, I did this same thing earlier today when I walked into Mom’s house and was met with the smell of alcohol.
“No, it’s not,” I say with all the compassion I can. “I promise you, nothing you could have done—”
“No.” He darts his eyes to mine, his gaze intense and remorseful. “It is. I could have stopped it. I could have prevented it from starting in the first place.”
I open my mouth, about to reassure him once more, when he says, “I gave it to her.”
I shake my head. “I don’t—”
“Alcohol. I gave her the alcohol.”
His admission is a punch to the gut, the air knocked out of my lungs. “You…gave her alcohol?” I’m barely able to get the words out.
With a deep sigh, he closes his eyes, his shoulders drooping.
“How long has this been going on?”
He runs a hand over his face. “For a little while now.”
“How. Long?” I demand again through clenched teeth.
Hesitant, he licks his lips. Then his unwavering gaze meets mine. “About three or four months.”
His admission hits me hard, my jaw dropping, the world feeling like it’s giving out from beneath me. My mother’s been drinking for three or four months? I’d hoped maybe he’d brought over a bottle of wine a few weeks ago. But three or four months? So much could happen in that timeframe. So much could go wrong in that timeframe.
“I didn’t expect it to get this out of control,” he offers in a misguided attempt to not seem like the villain in all of this. But even if he’d only given her a sip, it would be one sip too many.
“Oh, you didn’t? What did you expect when you gave alcohol to…an…alcoholic?” I hiss, trying to keep my voice low.
A part of me feels bad about speaking to him this way. It’s one thing to have a shouting match with my mother when she’s in one of her stupors. Sometimes it’s the only way to get through to her. But Aaron is basically a stranger to me.
“It’s not like I showed up at her door one day and force-fed her a bottle of vodka. It started out relatively innocent. A sip out of a glass of wine I’d order at dinner.”
“That’s the same thing as force-feeding her! And what were you thinking ordering wine when you were with her? You’ve been to meetings with her, haven’t you?”
He nods, his eyes glassy from unshed tears.
“Then you know being around other people drinking could trigger a relapse.”
“I didn’t think it would be that bad. She’s around worse stuff with some of the clients she works with, helping them cover up their own
alcohol or drug abuse issues. I thought she could handle it.” He blows out a long breath. “I guess I was wrong.”
“Ya think?” I glare at him, a tightness in my chest. “Do you have any idea the damage this has caused?” I manage to say through the frustration building in my throat.
“But I read that most alcoholics who suffer a relapse come out stronger afterward.”
“That would be true if her boyfriend hadn’t been giving her the goddamn alcohol!”
“I wanted to tell you a few months ago, especially when the occasional sip turned to drinking half my glass, then a full glass, but I didn’t want you to hate me. I care about your mother. You need to believe I’d—”
“You have a funny way of showing that.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, his jaw tightening. “I know I fucked up. And I don’t expect you to forgive me. That’s not what I’m asking for.” His eyes float to mine, imploring. “I love your mother. Tell me what I can do to make it right. To help her get back on track.”
I stare at him, sick to my stomach. “You want to know how you can make it right?”
“Yes.” He clasps his hands in front of him. “Anything. Tell me and it’s done.”
“Leave her alone.”
My words cause him to instantly straighten. “Wha— ”
“You are her trigger.” I lean as close as I can in the hospital bed, my gaze unwavering. “If you really do care about her, you’ll keep your distance. She needs to get sober, something that won’t be easy if the person who constantly fed her alcohol is around.”
“I…,” he stammers, chewing on his bottom lip. “Do you think that’s best? Won’t that upset her? Make it even worse?” He blinks repeatedly, grasping at the last straw he can pull. “Getting her sober again will put enough stress on her. Shouldn’t she—”
“Not have a daily reminder of the man who gave her alcohol? Absolutely. She may love you, but now you’re just one giant alcohol vending machine. And that’s all you’ll ever be to her. That’s all she’ll ever see when she looks at you. A man who will cave and feed her addiction when the people who truly love her would never have even imagined giving her so much as a sniff of their wine. So if you truly do love her, you’ll walk away and let her heal.”
Jaw tight, I glower at him, my chest heaving. I’m sure this conversation isn’t good for my blood pressure. This entire scenario is shit for my blood pressure. Briefly closing my eyes, I suck in a steadying breath before looking back at him.
“I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to,” I continue, my voice softer, more controlled. “I can beg for you to walk away, but you’re two adults. It all comes down to how much you love her. Are you selfish enough to stay with her, knowing you’re a crutch? Or are you selfless enough to allow her the opportunity to recover, something she’ll never have otherwise?”
He stares at me for what seems like an eternity, indecision flickering in his gaze. My heart thrums in my chest, my breathing echoing in my ears, my lips pinched tight.
Finally, he lowers his head, nodding in resignation. “Okay.” His agreement comes out as a strained whisper.
I offer him a compassionate smile. It doesn’t go unnoticed how difficult this must have been for him. I hate that I even had to force him to make this decision. But he forced me to put him in this position.
I just pray my mother understands why this was the only option.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I stretch my leg out in front of me as I work on the couch Saturday evening. It’s been an interesting couple of days since the incident in my mother’s basement. Upon being discharged, she apologized profusely, even went so far as insisting I stay at her house that night. I took her up on the offer. Partly because I was recovering. Partly so I could keep an eye on her.
To my surprise, the instant we got back to her place, she cleaned up all the empty bottles, then proceeded to pour every last drop of alcohol down the drain, all without me asking her to. The following morning, she was up bright and early, getting ready for work. She even attended an AA meeting on her lunch break. It gave me hope that this little relapse may not be as bad as all the others, which was why I felt comfortable enough to stay at my apartment tonight, since the weekends tend to be busy in my line of work.
If my mother weren’t coping as well as she is, I would have been at her place. But she went to her normal Saturday Book Club meeting with some of her other AA friends, then texted afterward to say she was crawling into bed and relaxing for the rest of the evening. She even sent a photo as proof. I hate that she thinks she has to provide photographic evidence to back up her statements, but there’s a certain level of trust that’s broken whenever she has a relapse. She’s used to it as much as I am.
Just as I’m about to stand and hobble into the kitchen to make a coffee, my phone rings, a number I don’t recognize appearing on the screen.
“No rest for the weary,” I murmur to myself before answering. “Chloe Davenport.”
I’m instantly met by loud music, coupled with raised voices. “Is this Chloe Davenport?” a man practically bellows.
“Yes,” I respond hesitantly.
“I need you to get to Spring Lounge in SoHo. There’s a woman here. Very intoxicated, argumentative. I was about to call the cops when she begged me to call you instead. I’m assuming this is your mother since you have the same last name. Short. Silver hair. Mouth like a trucker.”
With a heavy sigh, I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting against the frustration filling me. Like the other day, I start to blame myself for this, but I can’t keep doing that. I can’t keep putting my life on hold to babysit her. When will it end?
“Yes. That’s my mother.”
I briefly entertain the idea of not bailing her out this time. Maybe a night in jail and criminal charges are exactly what she needs. But what will that do to her career? In her line of work as a crisis management specialist, they deal with enough scandals from their clients. The last thing they’d want is a scandal from one of their employees, as well. And I refuse to go back to the way things were years ago when I had no choice but to find more creative ways to earn money to help her pay the mortgage. It takes everything I have to afford my own rent.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Don’t take all night. There’s only so long I’m willing to babysit her.”
“All right. All right.” I jump to my feet, wincing from the pain. “I’m on my way.”
Yanking on a pair of sneakers, I limp out of my apartment without grabbing a jacket, despite the snow beginning to fall, and hail a cab. The drive takes a little longer than normal, thanks to the weather, but after fifteen minutes, the cab pulls up in front of the neighborhood dive bar.
When I step inside, I’m grateful to see my mother sitting at the end of the bar, a full glass of water in front of her, seemingly calm. I limp toward her, doing my best to forget about the pain shooting through my leg.
“Mom?”
Her movements are slow as she lifts her lazy eyes toward me. Then a wicked smile curls her mouth. “There she is. The prodigal daughter. This is her, everyone!” she shouts.
Several people look in my direction, more out of curiosity than interest. And maybe a little pity.
“My lovely daughter who asked my boyfriend to break up with me!”
“Mom,” I hiss, grabbing her arm in an attempt to yank her to her feet. But my injury prevents me from being as strong as I usually am. I wish I’d taken this into consideration and called someone for help. But who? This has always been my burden, and mine alone.
“You just can’t let me be happy, can you?”
“Come on. Let’s get you out of here.” I ignore her statement, attempting to pull her off the barstool, to no avail. “The bartender was nice enough to call me instead of the cops. The second we’re outside, you can tell me all about how I’m a horrible daughter for asking the man who provided alcohol to an alcoholic to keep his distance if he rea
lly cared about you and your recovery.”
“Well, your little plan backfired,” she sneers.
“You’ve got to get her out of here,” the bartender warns as his eyes float to patrons who start fleeing in droves. “I’m losing customers because of her.”
“I’m sorry.” I wrap my arm under her shoulder blades, but she’s dead weight. There’s no way I’ll be able to get her out on my own. “Can you help me get her outside? Please. She has a problem—”
“No, I don’t,” my mother interrupts. “You’re the one with the problem.” She shoves a sharp finger into my chest. “You can’t stand anyone being happy.”
I clench my jaw, drawing in a deep breath before I do or say something I’ll regret and make an even bigger scene, resulting in both of us getting arrested.
Looking back to the bartender, I implore one final time. “Please. I’m begging you.” My voice trembles, a lump forming in my throat. I’ve been in this situation with my mother more times than I can count. I’ve had to drag her out of numerous bars before they called the cops. But I’ve never felt as helpless as I do right now.
The bartender blows out a long sigh, throwing the dishtowel hanging over his shoulder onto the bar. “Fine.”
Gratitude fills me, the bald man akin to a guardian angel at this moment. “Thank you.”
He simply nods, then comes out from behind the bar and hoists my mom to her feet with ease. Thankfully, she doesn’t fight it. Once we’re outside, I gesture to an empty bench at a nearby bus stop, and he brings her over, depositing her onto it.
“Thanks,” I say again.
“You bet.” He begins back inside before pausing, looking over his shoulder. “You did the right thing by asking that guy to stay away from her. I would have done the same.”
I smile, savoring his words. It may not seem like much, especially considering he’s telling me something I already know to be true, but living with an alcoholic, loving an alcoholic is a constant battle of doubt, second-guessing yourself, and wondering if you handled a situation correctly.