"Hey bubba, it's Scotty," he said when I answered.
"I know it's you Scotty. I have caller ID," I said.
"Oh... Well, I never hear from you. Didn't know if you had my number," he said, sounding like he genuinely thought that made sense.
"I don't ever hear from you either, Scotty," I replied curtly. "Do you need something?"
"I... no," he said, sounding disappointed.
"Scotty, what?" I insisted.
"I, um, I just wanted to see if you'd come for Thanksgiving this year," he whispered. "Mark can come too. Everybody will be real nice. I promise."
"You want me to come for Thanksgiving?" I asked incredulously. "And you wanted to ask me that at 6:01 am? Is this a prank?"
"Oh shoot," he said. "I'm sorry Adam, I forgot about the time difference."
Scotty and I had never been particularly close. There were 15 years between us in age, so we'd mostly grown up separately. He, like the rest of my brothers and our parents, had been very vocally against me marrying Mark. I tried not to hold it against him, because he was young, but we never really bonded. I cared about him, but I never felt close to him or like I particularly liked him. But I'd never heard him sound as sad as he did on the phone. I suppose whatever shred of empathy my binge drinking hadn't washed away kicked in.
"No, don't be sorry. It's okay," I said with a sigh. "I'm sorry. I just... had a long night. That's all. Look, are you absolutely sure you want me to come?"
"I'm sure. I swear," he said, his voice returning to normal.
"Then I guess I'll see you in a couple of days," I said and hung up.
I spent the day packing, deciding I'd take enough to last me through Christmas if things went well. Not having a job makes it pretty easy to keep your travel dates flexible. I was a bit nervous that Mark would block my credit cards and I wouldn't be able to get a flight. But I should have known that that's not who he is.
I flew in on Wednesday and, on my way through the airport, caught a glimpse of my reflection. Saying I looked like complete ass would be too kind. Aside from my clean clothes, I looked like I had been living on the street. Scotty was supposed to pick me up at the airport, and I couldn't let him see me that way. I was already dreading having to explain the divorce and my still broken arm to my family. The last thing I needed was to have to tell them about getting my ass kicked in a bar. My other brothers, the twins Drew and Mitch, would never let me live that down.
I bought some very overpriced toiletries and makeup in the gift shop and ducked into the bathroom. I did my best with one arm to cover up the visible bruises that remained, shaved, and fixed my hair. I stared at myself for a moment and realized just how different I looked. I'd lost weight, presumably from replacing several of my meals over the last month with liquor. My eyes had dark bags under them that even the makeup did little to conceal. My hair had grown longer than I'd ever had it before and even after styling it, it was a mess. But I knew that this would have to do.
I made my way outside and found Scotty waiting in a small, beat up, early-90s Toyota. I hadn't seen him in a few years, and was surprised to find that as he matured he was starting to look like me - at least, how I'd looked before all of the mess I'd gotten myself into. He had the same slightly crooked nose structure, the same square jaw. Even his hair, which had been much lighter before, had darkened to almost match mine. As we drove the 15 miles from the city to our tiny hometown, I asked him cursory questions about school and his life. When he asked, I explained that my broken arm had come from a car accident with as few details as possible.
He had a nervous energy about him for the entire drive that was making me feel almost as carsick as his erratic driving. I tried to put it out of my mind and just focus on the road. But the empty West Texas skyline didn't offer much in the way of distraction, beautiful as it may have been.
When we finally arrived at my mother's house, I was surprised to see that there were no other cars.
"Are Drew and Mitch driving in tomorrow?" I asked.
"They aren't coming this year," he said, after a long pause.
"Oh. Well, it's not because of me, is it? Because I don’t mind going to a hotel. I don't want to intrude on whatever you guys normally do," I offered.
"No... no. It's not because of you," he said, a solemn look coming over his face. "It's because of me, and a little because of Momma. But mostly me."
"Oh," I said, unsure what else to say. My brothers had always been very close to my mother. I couldn't imagine what would make them miss Thanksgiving with her. "Is everything okay?"
He took a breath, started to speak, then stopped. I felt bad for him, but he was also making me intensely nervous, which was making me crave a hard drink.
"Hey, look," I said. "I know we're not close. But we're still brothers. You can talk to me. Or don't. Either way, it's up to you. But I am a lot older than you. So chances are I've got some life experience that might help me help you."
"That's sort of the problem," he said, looking at me directly for the first time since we left the airport. Then, very rapidly, almost in a panic, he blurted, "I came out to Momma and the boys at my birthday party last month; and I’m so sorry for the things I said when you got married. I was just a stupid kid and I didn't know any better. Anyway both of the boys got mad and they haven't talked to me since then. And they got into a huge fight with Momma when she tried to talk to them about it and now it's probably her last Thanksgiving and they aren't coming and-"
“Whoa, whoa, Scotty, slow down” I said, trying to process all of the information he'd just dumped on me and decide which shocking revelation to cover first. “I definitely want to come back to you coming out. But first, what do mean when you say it’s probably Momma's last Thanksgiving?”
“Oh, crap. I wasn't supposed to say anything. She wanted to tell you herself,” he said, a terrified look spreading across his face. He looked conflicted. He clearly wanted to tell me, but felt like he couldn't. I put my hand on his arm to try to reassure him. "Momma's got cancer, Adam. It's bad. They gave her six months and it's already been four."
I sat back, stunned. It had been a long time since I'd been home, and even longer since I had a good relationship with my mother. But I'd always thought I had time to fix our relationship if we wanted to.
"Is she inside?" I asked, holding my breath. He shook his head solemnly.
"She's in the hospital right now, recovering from pneumonia," he said. "Hoping she'll get discharged in the morning."
"Take me there, please," I said, my chest tightening. He drove me toward the hospital in complete silence. I wanted to talk to him about his own issues, but my head was spinning. "Wait," I said, noticing a bar. "Stop here first."
Scotty eyed me dubiously as he pulled into the bar's parking lot. I invited him in with me and he reluctantly followed.
"I don't really drink, Adam," he said sheepishly. "I read a study that says you can be genetically predisposed to alcoholism and, well, you obviously remember Dad."
"That's nonsense," I said. "I have a drink every once in a while and I'm fine."
He eyed the cast on my arm as if he knew I was lying, sighed, and sat at the bar next to me while I ordered. One drink quickly turned into many, until I felt buzzed enough to handle what was coming. As I drank shot after shot of tequila, and he nursed a single soda, we discussed his coming out.
"I'm really sorry I wasn't supportive when you married Mark," he said. "I think I already sort of knew that I was – am – gay too, and I was so ashamed of myself. But it was easier to take it out on you."
"Well, Scotty, I hope you know now that there's nothing to be ashamed of," I said, my words already beginning to slur. "And for what it's worth, I forgive you. You were just a kid. Drew and Mitch, on the other hand, are assholes. And I'm sorry they treated you the same way they treated me." I drank another shot, numb to the burn on my throat at that point. "But I've been through all of this before. So if you need advice or anything, I'm here. I'll tell you one thing
's for sure. You're lucky Dad is dead. He was the worst part for me."
He seemed hurt by that last bit, and I might have felt bad for that if I had been able to feel anything. I paid our tab and we finally headed to the hospital.
As we entered, I felt like the hallways were closing in on me. Every noise sounded like it was being funneled through ear muffs. I looked over at Scotty and saw that he looked scared. Instinctively, I offered him my hand and he took it. Like a zombie, I walked what felt like miles down the small corridor until we finally reached my mother's room.
Scotty entered slowly and quietly, but I remained at the doorway. Hattie King had always been known around town as a strong woman. She'd had to be. When my father was at his most drunk, he'd beat her badly. When we were old enough to try to defend her, he'd beat me and my brothers too. But she always got the worst of it and kept carrying on.
But lying there in that hospital bed, she was almost unrecognizable. Normally a robust woman, she looked thin and frail. Her trademark blonde hair was gone, replaced with a scarf wrapped around her bald head. I felt like I was frozen to the ground. No matter how much I told my feet to move, they wouldn't carry me forward.
"You gonna stand there all day or are you gonna come give your momma a hug?" she asked, surprising me. She'd appeared to be sleeping until then. I finally stumbled toward her bed and leaned in to hug her. "Oh baby, it is good to see you, but you smell like a distillery."
"Sorry," I whispered. "Are you... How are you feeling?"
"Well, I've been better, but I've been worse," she said with a weak smile. "But what on earth happened to you?" She rubbed the cast on my arm, shaking her head.
"Let's just say it's been a rough few months," I said, trying to dodge the subject.
"Scotty, how much did your brother here have to drink before you brought him here?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at me.
Scotty looked down at his feet and hesitated. I could tell he was trying to talk himself out of selling me out. But he still said, "A lot."
"Mmhmm," she said suspiciously. "And how long have you been drinking this way?" she asked, turning her attention back to me.
"I don't know," I lied. "I just have a drink here and there to take the edge off. What's the big deal?"
"I think you know damned well what the big deal is," she said, raising her voice. That seemed to strain her, as she then erupted into a long coughing fit. Scotty rushed to her side and helped her sit up into a more comfortable position.
"I didn't come here to talk about me," I said. "Scotty told me, mom. I know you're... dying." It was difficult to get that last word out. My mouth fought me hard on forming it.
"Well, I'm still gonna be dyin' tomorrow, son," she said. "You, though, are gonna sit your little butt down and tell me what's been going on with you."
I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to come up with an explanation that made me feel better. But at a certain point, lying to everyone including yourself wears on your soul. I was undeniably exhausted of pretending to be fine. So, I told the truth – about Mark and the divorce, about my job, about Aaron and the accident. Most importantly, I told her about the drinking, and finally admitted to myself that it was a problem. I felt like a weight had been taken away. But a scary amount of uncertainty at how I would fix it replaced it.
"Listen to me, boy," she said sternly as she clutched my knee when I was done. "I know you remember how much of a son of a bitch your daddy turned into when he was drinking like this. I still wish to God every day that I could go back in time and find a way to get us away from him without worrying that he'd find us and kill us all. Now I know you don't have that kind of hate in your heart, but I don't want to see you throw your life away the way your daddy did. You had a good career and a good man. Don't you want that back?"
She laid her head back as she began coughing again. I knew I wanted my career back. There was no question about that. But I had no idea if I wanted to try to win Mark back, or if I even had a chance with him again after everything that had happened. I didn't answer.
"There's an AA meeting at the Methodist church every Friday morning," she said when she caught her breath. "We're going this week. All three of us, as a family. Your brother and I will help you through this."
Scotty smiled a full smile at me for the first time since I'd arrived, and my mother squeezed my hand tight. I agreed to try AA on the condition that no one say anything about it to Mark. Things were too uncertain between us for me to drag him into it.
We sat with her for a couple of hours until she fell asleep, then I went back to the house with Scotty. He stayed awake to prepare parts of the next day's meal, but I crashed on the couch as soon as we were settled.
The morning of Thanksgiving, we got a call that our mother could come home. So we picked her up and helped her get settled at the house. I helped Scotty make the meal and had a surprisingly fun time bonding with him. I had to admit it was nice to finally feel like I actually had a real brother.
I had such a nice time, in fact, that I almost didn't crave a drink. Almost. By the time we finished, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I wasn't proud of it, but I rummaged through the kitchen in search of any alcohol. All I found was an old bottle of cooking wine. I didn't even care what it was. I drank most of it, then ate little bits of leftovers to try to mask the smell on my breath. That managed to get me through the rest of the night.
The next morning though, I woke up with an even more intense craving. I went to the kitchen looking for the rest of the cooking wine, but found the bottle sitting empty by the sink.
"You're not as sneaky as you think," Scotty said, suddenly entering the room behind me with his arms crossed. Without a car of my own there, I was left with no choice but to try to ignore the craving. Much easier said than done. I kept thinking about the sweet burn and merciful numbness that alcohol brings throughout the morning.
We ate breakfast in silence and then Scotty drove us all to the Methodist church across town. Despite being in a more worn down neighborhood, the building was well kept. The interior appeared to have been recently remodeled, except for the large basement room where the meeting we were attending was to be held.
There was a distinct dust smell that permeated the air as soon as the door was opened. Instead of the new carpet that covered the main floor, this room had stained old cement. There were plastic chairs lined in several rows in the center of the room and a few tables in the back that housed sad-looking refreshments.
I argued with my mother until she finally agreed to let us sit in the back. I was shocked by how crowded the room became as the meeting began. For such a small town, I hadn't expected such a large turnout.
We watched as the organizer of the meeting read off a few announcements, then the 12 steps of the program. Then, one by one, people began stepping to the front of the group and telling their stories. It was rough. Many of them mirrored my dilemma – excessive drinking triggered by some sort of personal life problem that had gotten far out of control.
But many of the stories were much worse, some even tragic. One woman told the group how she'd driven drunk with her infant in the car, got into an accident, and lost her baby. A young man who looked younger than Scotty detailed a car accident he had caused that killed an entire family in the car he hit. I cringed at the thought of how much worse my accident with Aaron could have been.
I was so shaken up that I raised slightly off of my chair and almost asked my family to leave with me. But I saw a familiar looking man approach the podium and sat back down.
Eric Jackson had aged quite a bit since we'd secretly dated in high school, but I still recognized him across a crowded room without a problem. His formerly jet black hair had begun to gray, and he was much stockier than the last time I had seen him. His wrinkled face showed signs of a difficult life, but he appeared to be in good spirits on this day.
"Hi everybody. My name is Eric, and I'm an alcoholic," he said almost cheerfully. The group greeted him as they'd done
everyone before him, and he continued. "So, I've been sober now for almost six months, and I feel great. But I gotta say, I almost stumbled last week. Some of you know I finalized my divorce recently. It was a lot harder than I expected. My wife -ex-wife- is still my best friend, I think. But she knew something about me that it's honestly taken my all of my life to admit – I'm gay."
It was oddly cathartic for me to hear him say those words out loud. Eric had married his college girlfriend a few years after he and I broke up. I had wanted us to keep seeing each other after high school, but people around town were starting to whisper and Eric could never quite bring himself to admit his sexuality. Not that I could blame him. His father owned the biggest farm in town and his mother was on the city council. So the name Jackson carried a significant weight - one I could never hope to understand as the son of a known abusive alcoholic.
"Oh jeez," he continued. "I've never actually said those words to this many people before. That feels strange... but good. I think that's part of why I drank so much, you know? If I was drunk, I didn't have to face myself or the truth. Anyway, it wasn't fair for me to keep anchoring her down when I could never give her a full marriage. So I let her go.
"And now I am learning how to be a single gay father with an ex-wife. Let me tell you, that is no small task. But I'm learning that for the most part, no one is judging me as hard as I judge myself. So I'm trying to give myself a break. But, as I'm sure most of you know, it's not always easy. So, on this day after Thanksgiving, I just want to say that I'm really thankful for all of you. Thank you."
He moved back toward his seat and there was scattered applause from the group. As he walked back I saw him notice us and a small smile flashed across his face. I sat patiently through the rest of the speakers, then immediately went looking for him while my mother took Scotty and chatted with a few members of the group who she knew.
How We Love Page 11