I moved on with my life, unaware that Kelly and her mom were still in the trenches, duking it out with addiction; Kelly was lying, and drinking, and cheating the program, and her mom, doing the only thing left in her power, was trying to believe that her lying, drinking, cheating daughter wasn’t.
It was a rainy day when some final straw, some new promise, was broken and Kelly’s mom Let Go. She watched her daughter walk out the door—no umbrella, no money, no car—not knowing if she’d ever see her again. Weeks later the doorbell rang and Kelly stood on her mom’s front porch, beaten down by whatever had happened and ready for help. She went to an inpatient addiction treatment facility, then on to a halfway house and has been living a healthy lifestyle ever since. Years later Kelly told me that she did whatever she was told because she knew if she listened to herself she was going to die.
Now, decades later, these memories are as present as the curlicues of my breath crystallizing in the winter air. I stand next to Joe, watching Joey close up the trunk of his roommate’s blue sedan. He has tucked our good-luck wishes in alongside our old toaster and is ready to go. Turning, he reaches out for a hug. With my mittened hands, I hang on extra-tight. For all the worrying I’ve done over Joey lately, the only result is a deep crease between my eyebrows. But reason melts in the arms of my child; I’m worrying about him already. I’m worried about what happens next.
Pulling a brush through my hair as I stand before the bathroom mirror, I see that I’m smiling. Joey has invited me to meet him downtown for an ice cream cone on this now-very-fine spring day! I slap on some lipstick and dash out the door. Last month Rick pretended to believe me when I said Joey couldn’t make it to his birthday dinner because of work. But the truth is he never bothered to return my calls. Or any calls since. Today, though, he’s called me!
With Joey at my side, I’m beaming as I order a strawberry double-dip. I try not to notice the trembling hand that may wobble the scoop of chocolate ice cream off Joey’s cone. I just want to have fun. We claim a small bistro table outside on the patio. I dole out a couple of napkins, talking happy tidbits of this and that. Joey cuts me off, voice rising.
“I’ve been talking to people and realize that you and Dad ripped me off. You owe me a thousand dollars since you claimed me as a dependent on last year’s tax return. I want my money back. I need it. There’s a cash machine down the street. Let’s walk over there now.”
The ice cream I’m swallowing curdles as it slides down my throat.
“But Joey, you were a dependent last year. We don’t owe you any money. This is absurd.”
As chocolate spittle and accusations of stealing fly in my face, I stand up to leave. I walk away from the barbs Joey hurls at my back, trying to appear normal, but suspect my smile looks as natural as lipstick on a corpse.
“I hate you! It’s your fault I can’t get ahead! Who fucking steals their kid’s money? And I’m not going back to college. Not to please you. Fuck that!”
Tossing what’s left of today’s sweet treat and now sour illusions into the trash, I walk back to my car. There’s an hour and a half left on the two-hour meter. Stunned by the dissonance between my expectations and my son’s audacity, I’m unable to move any farther. I’m unable to drive. I slump forward into the steering wheel. Oh, how I long for the simpler days. Those of scabby knees and Popsicle breath and easy answers.
It was so good to see my mom again. It means so much to her. And to me. I didn’t realize how much I miss my parents. They are so supportive of me and it’s really nice to have that. I feel sad cuz I feel like I’m letting them down you know? I just want to make them proud and I’m not. Someday I WILL. I can never be good to anyone I love unless I am good to myself. I have gone from being a spoiled little shit, who had everything, to someone who couldn’t support anyone other than myself and that’s not good enough for me. [Email from Joey to a friend.]
When Joey shows up at the back door, a few brown leaves from the walnut tree drift in behind him. A blotchy rash covers the parts of Joey not covered by his T-shirt, but he doesn’t want to talk about that so I give him a hug and pretend nonchalance at this rare visit.
Pulling a stool up to the kitchen counter, Joey leans forward.
“Mom, I need twelve hundred dollars. I quit my job at the restaurant. You wouldn’t believe the bad stuff going down over there. I’m starting a new job in a few days, but I need money to pay my rent and bills until I get my first paycheck.”
Setting aside the meatballs I’ve been preparing for dinner, I look at my watch. Rick will be home from school shortly; this little discussion will need to be quick.
“Okay, Joey, since you have a new job lined up, I’ll loan you the money. But. Don’t ever ask for money again. You need to learn from this and be prepared for when things don’t go quite right. You cannot expect to be rescued. This is not a gift. I expect to be paid back on a schedule and on time—and this will include the twenty-eight hundred dollars you already owe us for your health insurance since moving out.” Looking at his eager-to-please face, I see, and seize, an opportunity. “I’ll loan you this money only if you remove whatever it is that’s holding open the huge holes in your earlobes.”
You want money. I want you to look less scary. Win, win.
Moving into the living room, we sit down, stretch out our legs, and giggle at our sneaker collisions on the shared yellow tuffet. Together we map out Joey’s financial situation—he owes thousands of dollars in past-due bills and overdrawn accounts, but promises he will get and stay on top of things now—and then we gab. About nothing and everything. A pretty darn good moment.
When Rick and Joe get home, I tell them how masterfully I handled the situation. They both look at me like I’m an idiot. It does seem stupid to have loaned Joey all that money now that I see the transaction through less befuddled eyes.
Mother’s Day. Not even a phone call from Joey.
Holes—the things that aren’t—are every bit as real as mountains—and so, what isn’t happening is every bit as real, and significant, as what is. The phone that doesn’t ring, the missed birthdays and holidays, the no-show coffee dates, the end of the pretense of returning to college—these are the holes. The convoluted lies and excuses, the lost jobs, and the reports of unremitting disasters at Joey’s apartment—alcohol poisoning, shattered glass and gushing blood, emergency rescues, and an arrest—well, these are the mountains.
I don’t know why Joey was arrested, but I go to the courthouse to show him he’s not alone. A show of support. And hope. Joe would be here too, but he has to work. As I wait in the slowly moving line to be scanned for concealed knives, guns, and nunchucks, I’m caught between two giants wearing black leather, spikes, and razor-edged irritation. I’ve never been in a courthouse before (other than to get my marriage license, but that must have been at the happy entrance) and I feel ridiculous in my Petal Pink lipstick and matching handbag.
When I find Joey slouched on a bench in a crowded waiting room, I’m so relieved. He looks up, and I smile. But his face contorts as he leaps to his feet; on the verge, it appears, of vomiting out a rabid beast.
“What the fuck are you doing here? Go away. This is some stupid fucking charge by a stupid fucking cop. I don’t need you here fucking things up. I don’t fucking want you here. Leave me alone.”
So, that’s what I do.
Joe, Rick, and I have just finished dinner and are digging into dessert when Joey stops by the house with a bouquet of fall flowers and an apology.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I was