When I woke I had to pee so badly I nearly cried, and I ended up squatting in a bush and wetting my jeans. After I struggled out of them and into the dry ones, I stuffed the nasty ones behind a bush. If someone found them—well, they’d never know they were mine, would they? They’d probably imagine a couple of kids out screwing around, doing stupid stuff and leaving the evidence behind. As I stood up, daylight showed my hiding place hadn’t been as protected as I’d imagined. It didn’t matter. I was safe, and I wouldn’t be there the next nightfall.
I headed north under the freeway, along the main street lined with houses and hedges. It took me hours to find a restaurant cheap enough to suit me. I bought a breakfast burrito because it reminded me of Miguel. I sat at a small table and held my backpack under it. Hunkered down, so no one could see, I counted my money.
Enough for two crosses for Mom. Forget her. It would feed me for a week at least, long enough to find Miguel. After that, I wouldn’t need money. I’d be in paradise.
After a visit to the restaurant’s real, bush-less bathroom, I marched out to the street. Now I could find Miguel. I had all day, didn’t I?
I stood on the sidewalk, tears pouring down my face, fogging my glasses. In the daylight, in this real, huge town, I knew I’d never find Miguel, even if I was right and he was there. He and his mother wanted to hide; they wouldn’t wait out in the open for me. But I needed him. Who would hold me? Who would tell me it wasn’t my fault?
I’d come this far, and I had no choice but to go on. I’d wander around Pasadena for a few days. Maybe I’d see Miguel anyway. Maybe he’d see me. Maybe he’d be looking out the window as I passed by, and he’d run out and grab me in one of his crushing hugs. Then he’d take me inside to his mother, to where we would all be safe.
I went to the fast food places with the cheapest food, just for the chance to sit in their warmth and use their bathrooms. Each time it took longer for the needles to prickle out of my feet, and longer still to make myself get up again. I must have formed a thousand blisters and burst them all, but I wouldn’t take off my shoes to look.
When I stopped for dinner, a small boy edged up to me, offering me a smile. Just as I grinned at him, his mother jerked him out of my view. I gaped at her. I’m a babysitter, I wanted to say, and a good one! Andy and Lucas love me, and they know I’d never hurt them. I would never hurt any kid.
Who’d believe me? I needed a shower and a comb, or at least a washcloth for my face.
I needed Miguel.
If he was hiding, where would he go? Not any place his father might drive by and catch sight of him. He’d be tucked away in some deep corner, someplace along with a thousand other kids who needed to hide from their monsters.
Yeah, I needed to find him because I had a monster, too.
I forced myself outside and got myself thoroughly lost. If I stayed on the same street, I was bound to run into some place familiar, and figure out where I was, wasn’t I? Just because I didn’t want to be found didn’t mean I wanted to be lost.
Wait. That was Miguel and his mom who wanted to hide, not me. Right? I couldn’t remember anymore.
Was anyone looking for me? Not Mom. She wouldn’t notice I’d gone. If she did, she’d be glad. Elaine? If she’d taken Mom to the hospital, she might notice I still wasn’t home when they got back, but she’d probably decide I was sulking somewhere and not worry about it. She’d just plan how she’d chew me out for deserting Mom when she needed me.
Don’t think about deserting Mom. Don’t think about Mom at all.
The sun set by the time I came to a busy street lined with the hulking skeletons of bleachers. I stared, mystified, until I spotted an ad for Rose Parade seating. I must have found Colorado Boulevard. The city erected bleachers long before New Year’s Day. Across the street, behind another bleacher, I saw the city college. Security lights spotted the buildings, and I knew where I’d spend the night.
I scouted the wide-open quad and decided against its unprotected state. Raindrops pelted my face. The campus must have plenty of hidden places where I could stay dry. I slipped my backpack from my aching shoulders and wriggled them. Maybe I had blisters there, too, to match the ones on my feet.
Only the thought of Miguel, or no thoughts at all, had carried me this far. How long could I go on looking for him? Until I ran out of money? Until the blisters got infected and I couldn’t stand? Until I couldn’t hope, couldn’t lie to myself, couldn’t seduce myself with dreams that I knew would never come true?
By the time I reached a ramp that twisted and curled on itself, providing another concrete cave, I was sobbing. Across a short corridor I saw the doors to an auto shop, and the scent of grease and tires filled the damp air. Under the ramp redolent of cat pee and garbage, I found a hollowed out cave. I wondered if some other runaway had hidden there, and what had happened to her. I wondered what would happen to me. I curled around my backpack, crying from pain inside and out and wondered if I’d give up the next day.
I don’t know how long I’d slept when something slammed me awake. I screamed and something rolled on top of me, pinning me with the smell of booze and unwashed body. I gagged and tried to push it off.
“What you doing here?” the monster asked.
His voice, heavy and slurred, spurred me. I pushed him away and made it to the bottom of the ramp before he caught me.
“You’re just a kid.” He fell against the rail, pulling me off balance. “What you doing squatting in my place?”
“I’ll leave. Just let me go.”
He snorted, and his hand stroked the arm of my coat as he swore at me. “You lyin’. Gimme something to drink. Gimme your money.”
“I don’t have any.”
He swore again and threw me against the rail, then his hand clipped my jaw and my knees collapsed. As I fell, he grabbed my arm and jerked up, and my whole back burned.
“If you’re lying to me, I’ll kill you.” He said it so casually I knew he meant it. “You get out of my place, and I won’t bother you none. Hear?”
I nodded and tried to stand. But I couldn’t leave. I needed my backpack but I’d left it on the ground behind him.
“Go on,” he snarled. “You oughta be peeing your pants now. Don’t you have any sense?”
He staggered a bit, lurching in laughter, and stopped. “This yours?” He leaned over, swiped at my backpack, and finally snagged one of the straps. It took him a few minutes to work the zipper, and I could only watch, pain and fear rooting me. When he pulled out my roll of bills, I knew I’d lost. I’d never find Miguel now.
“What you doing with this? This is gonna buy me some good stuff. Oh, baby, you made my night, lemme tell you.” He rumbled toward me, and I jumped out of his way, holding my arm so the jolts wouldn’t hurt so much. “Sweetest thing in the world.” He wasn’t talking to me anymore.
I backed away. I should have run when he let go of me instead of wishing after my backpack. Would I die now over such a stupid mistake?
But he staggered past me, dragging my backpack with him, chortling.
I was safe again.
I wanted Miguel so bad I could taste his hugs. I could hear his voice telling me he loved me and would take care of me forever.
No. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He couldn’t save me from this drunk who slept in cat pee and robbed kids. He couldn’t save me from Mom’s drinking, and he couldn’t save me from my own mistakes.
I crumpled to the bottom of the ramp and cried. I wanted Miguel, and I couldn’t have him. I wanted Mom. I wanted her—sober, drunk, passed out, never able to help me, I didn’t care. I wanted her. I closed my eyes, rubbed my aching shoulder. OK, I wanted Mom, and I knew where she was.
I wiped my runny nose on my jacket sleeve and pulled myself up and out of the concrete cave. The rain washed over me, poured down my neck, and soaked my hair. I tipped my head back and let it mix with the tears and wash them away. I’d given up on Mom for the last time. From now on, I’d just wait her drinking out. I
would wait forever, if I had to. If I got home. If she let me come home. If she hadn’t bled to death.
Elaine would have taken care of her, wouldn’t she?
I planned every inch of my life from then on as I trudged to the street. The morning mist lit the way though the sun hadn’t risen yet, but enough that I could see where I was headed. As soon as I got home I’d check on Mom. I’d get rid of all the booze she’d stashed and as soon as she sneaked more in, I’d find it and pour it out, too. And as soon as she sobered up, we’d talk. It would be different this time, I swore to myself, because she’d said she didn’t want to drink anymore, because—
Because why? Because I’d force her to dry up? I couldn’t make her stop drinking, I knew that. I’d tried a million times in the first three years. Before I gave up on her the first time.
I took a break on a bus bench, stretching my legs and trying to stretch my shoulder and my mind. No, I couldn’t make Mom do anything. I couldn’t make her drink or not drink. But I could be there for her as she tried once again to quit. I just had to figure out a way to keep myself from going crazy.
That Alateen program that everyone pushed at me, the meetings they said were so great. Maybe, maybe I’d give one a try. At least there I wouldn’t be an outsider. Everyone else would be just as screwed up as I was.
I got up and limped closer to home. Was Mom looking for me? Why would she, though? I’d walked out on her when she needed me. She’d be glad to be rid of me, especially now that she’d decided to start drinking again. Would she care that I cared, that I wanted her? Would she care that I wanted to come home?
She knew she shouldn’t drink. She wanted to stop. I’d read her face when she said it. That wish was so true for her, it was her center. She’d promised me she wouldn’t lie and promised she wouldn’t make promises she couldn’t keep. She’d poured the rest of the bottle down the sink, and she’d said she didn’t want to drink anymore, and even though that wasn’t a promise, it somehow seemed stronger than any promise.
Well, hadn’t I made promises, too? Hadn’t I said I’d stay with her as long as she needed me? Hadn’t I broken it? And yet I still remembered how much I loved her when I said it.
She was the drunk, but she hadn’t broken any promises this time. I had.
Maybe she knew I needed her, but how could she know I wanted her? How could she know I loved her?
I’d left her with bleeding hands and a towel to sop the blood. I didn’t know why my mother had to be a drunk, or why I had to become a monster—a putrid, pus-filled, hate-filled repulsive nothing.
Oh, God, I’m sorry. Help me get home. Don’t let me be too late. Please! Oh, God, I want my mom!
16
Two days of walking had shredded my feet. By late afternoon, all I could think of was home, Mom, and, how much I hurt. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d find when I reached the apartment. And what could be, if we both could let it. And what ought to be, if things were as perfect as I’d imagined before. If Mom wanted to climb out of the muck and vomit of her drinking, who was I to stop her? But I couldn’t help wondering what state Mom might be in now. If she could give in to the bottle when she was upset but sober, what would she do when she was frantic and half-drunk?
Three times I stopped to make a collect call, but I never got through. Twice, the busy signal, once, no answer. The busy signal turned into a promise for me. Me, who’d given up on promises. But if Mom was home and on the phone, at least I knew she was alive. She hadn’t bled to death. I stumbled along the street, sobbing, not caring that I earned more strange looks than ever before. I clung to the sound of a busy signal.
“I’m not just a drunk,” Mom had said. And, “I don’t want to drink anymore.” I clutched those words and I hung onto my cross, too, my fist tight around it, dragging the chain against my neck. Please, God. Please, what, I had no idea, but God ought to be able to figure out what I needed.
I had hours more walking before I made it home, and my feet hurt so badly I didn’t think I could do it. But I had to. I’d gotten myself this far, and I couldn’t expect anyone to show up and stop me from making more of an idiot of myself. What if I made one more promise to God. Let me get home safe, and I’ll—what? What hadn’t I already promised?
Keep her sober, and I’ll never yell at her again. Keep her sober, and I’ll go to Mass every Sunday of my life. I’ll be good, and I’ll never whine about Miguel. I’ll stop lying even if it’s just to make her feel better. Keep her sober, and I’ll go to those stupid meetings.
And now, I promised God if He would get me home, I wouldn’t care if she was drunk or not. But no. I would care. I just wouldn’t whine.
As I trudged along Colorado Avenue, past motels and car dealerships and shoe stores, I thought of Andy, and the way he used to grab hold of my shirt even when he slept. He wouldn’t let me put him down. Maybe I needed to be like that little kid where it came to God. Maybe I needed to make sure I never let go of Him.
I refused to stop. If I did, I’d never start again. I dug my freezing hands in my coat pockets, wondering if I could come up with one more terrific bribe for God so He’d pick me up out of the stinking street and whisk me home without my having to take another step. What would Lucy say? Not about making bargains with God but about what God might want. I couldn’t remember anything she’d said. Wait. I remembered the day she’d told me to keep my thankfulness.
I snorted. What a stupid thing to remember. What did I have to be thankful for? My own stupidity? The fact that alcohol was invented? Mom?
What? God wanted me to be thankful for Mom?
And what if He said yes? What if that was His side of the bargain?
So I ought to think about Mom and be thankful.
In the middle of the next block, a sports car pulled a U-turn and squealed against the curb beside me. I bolted halfway across someone’s lawn before I heard him. “Aidyn!”
I spun around, hobbled back to the sidewalk and peered through the open window.
“Aidyn, it’s Doug Sharpell. Do you remember me?”
Mouse-fingers playing in his beard and laughing with Daddy. Mom’s face when she talked about him. I nodded.
“Mind if I give you a ride?”
I hadn’t even made that bargain with God, and He’d kept His end of it.
I collapsed into the seat and watched the electric window close me away from the cold. I tasted the warmth of his heater, and I settled into the soft seat, sighing.
“I’ll take you wherever you say, but I hope you let me take you home.”
“Oh, home. I want to go home.”
He didn’t start the car right away. When I turned to see why, I caught his grin. “I’m going to call your mother. Do you want to talk to her?”
“I do, but I don’t want to get out of the car.”
He handed me a cell phone and leaned his elbow on the steering wheel, waiting. I punched in our number and for once, Mom answered.
“Mom?”
“Oh, Aidyn. Oh, thank You, God. You’re alive. Are you all right? Where are you?”
“I’m with Doug. Mom, I’m sorry.”
But at the same time Mom was saying the same thing, “I’m sorry,” over and over. We were like a chorus that couldn’t get its tempo down. Then she said something I couldn’t catch and my heart broke again. But I’d made a promise. “Mom, listen, I’m coming home. Are you listening?”
“Yes.”
“I’m coming home.” I choked and couldn’t go on. Finally I got out, “Mom?”
“I haven’t been drinking. Not since you left, baby. OK? I promised I wouldn’t lie to you, and I meant it.”
“I know.”
“I love you, Aidyn. Maybe I can’t prove it but—”
“You don’t have to. Mom, I just want to come home now, OK?”
Doug took the phone then and told Mom how long it would be before we’d get there, then snapped it off and started the engine. I closed my eyes, playing the sound of Mom’s voice over
the phone, steady, serious, scared, loving.
“Aidyn? Are you asleep?” I shook my head and he said, “I don’t want to scare you, but your Mom’s hands are pretty bad. She needed a lot of stitches.”
“Did Elaine take her?”
“No, I did. She called me, and I came right over and took her to the hospital while Elaine and Jackson and a whole gang of people from your youth group went looking for you.”
“Really?”
“I have never heard such fear in anyone’s voice. Your mother was terrified, worrying about what you’d do.”
“She was drunk.” I slapped my hand over my mouth. What gave me the right to tell him that?
“I think,” Doug said slowly, “a lot of that had already worn off. Shock does that to you.”
I watched him for a minute. He kept his eyes on the road though I’m sure he felt me staring. Had I already ruined things for Mom?
“Did she tell you?” I whispered.
“That she’d been drinking again? Yes.”
“And that—”
He didn’t fill in for me that time.
“That she’s—”
Why couldn’t he make it easy for me?
“That she’s an alcoholic?” My stomach dropped when I whispered the word.
“She did.” He sighed.
“She was afraid to tell you.” I stretched, and my blistered feet pressed the insides of my shoes. They’d gotten to be so sensitive that it felt like flames licking the sores. I swallowed and tried to ignore the pain. “She wouldn’t have lied to you, though.”
Doug laughed. He stopped for a light and turned to me, his hand stroking his beard. “She certainly didn’t lie. She walloped me with the details. I got the idea she was trying to scare me off.”
“But she likes you.”
He turned forward again. “I’m glad. I like her, too, but I can see she’s very unsure of herself. That would be natural, though.”
“Why?”
He glanced at me. “Why do you think she started drinking so heavily in the first place?”
I didn’t answer. The car’s heat made me sweat and reminded me of how long it had been since I’d showered. I wondered if he could smell my stink. I wondered if I sickened him. But then, Mom hadn’t.
A Fistful of God Page 14