A Fistful of God Page 13

  “I didn’t mean to.” I held her purse while she unlocked the car door. Behind us, the noise of the game shut off as if someone had slammed the door. I looked back.

  “They don’t even care.” I stomped around and got in the passenger side. “All they care about is themselves, not us. I don’t want to be a part of that kind of family.”

  “Aidyn, please.” Mom started the engine.

  “We shouldn’t have gone.”

  “You said that. Can you let it go now?”

  “Why? They’re all jerks. Grandma’s a drunk and Aunt Lena’s a—”

  “Aidyn!” Her hands clenched the wheel, and I stared at her. Behind her burning eyes her face went white.

  “And right now, my mom wants to get just as plastered as Grandma.”

  “Don’t start with me!”

  “Then stop wishing you had a bottle of booze!”

  “You don’t know what I want!”

  I cowered in the corner, terrified of both of us. “What, then?”

  “I want you to leave me alone.”

  Of course she did. I wasn’t helping her at all, was I? I fumbled with my hat, wishing it could muffle my sobs. When she stopped for a light I jerked the door open and tumbled out.

  “Aidyn!”

  I slammed the door. “You got what you wanted, OK? I’m gonna leave you alone.” I headed back the way we’d come, so she couldn’t follow me. If she went around the block and stopped for me, I thought, I’d get in. I’d apologize.

  She didn’t. I gave her enough time to circle the block twice, then gave up waiting and turned for home. I stayed on the streets she always drove to give her the chance to find me if she wanted.

  She didn’t. I rubbed the chill on my arms and stamped my feet. I hadn’t noticed the cold before. I trudged home, calling myself worse names than I’d called Aunt Lena. How could I be so stupid? Why couldn’t I have given Mom a break? Why hadn’t she come back for me?

  As soon as I walked through the apartment door, I knew why.

  I smelled the scotch.

  14

  Mom slumped on the couch, her coat half on, as though she couldn’t bear to waste time to shrug it off. Her face wore the worst look I had ever seen, as though she knew she’d done something wrong, something horrible. She knew and didn’t care. The bottle sat on the table in front of her, half empty. She’d guzzled it that fast.

  She looked up at me, swaying even while she sat, and raised her glass to me. Booze sloshed over her hand. “Oops.” She licked it off, spilling still more that she didn’t notice.

  I backed away. “No. No. I hate you.” Tears clogged my throat.

  Mom flinched.

  “You couldn’t leave it alone, could you? Grandma was having so much fun.” The smell and my anger ganged up on me, and I gagged.

  “She’s pathetic.” Mom sipped reverently. “That’s good.”

  “You’re worse than she is.”

  “You’re right.” She laughed, set the glass on the table, and tried to stand. She fell back twice and finally managed to get to her feet.

  This couldn’t be happening. This could not be my mom, the mom I’d finally started to trust again. This couldn’t be!

  “You’re nothing but a drunk.”

  Mom ignored that. “I should’ve gone ba-back for you. I knew that. You knew tha-that. I was just stupid.” Her face crumpled. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

  I slapped her face. I didn’t feel it at all, but she did.

  She staggered away from me, knocking into the glass and sending a golden arch to stain the carpet.

  “You’re nothing but a drunk!”

  Mom straightened and stared at me, tears pouring down her face. I watched the mark of my hand flame red on her skin. After a minute, Mom leaned past me to collar the neck of the bottle and carried it to the kitchen. As I stooped to pick up the glass she’d sidestepped I heard something clink. Another glass? She didn’t need it. She was drunk enough. I ran toward the kitchen, wanting to choke her, her addiction, her demons, anything.

  Mom held the bottle upended over the sink and poured the rest down the drain. The bottle slipped, and she jerked. Shattered glass rained into the sink. She tried to grab it, gasped, and in seconds her blood mixed with the booze.

  She looked at me. “You’re right, baby, I’m a dru-drunk.” She turned her hands, cupping blood and scotch and broken glass. “I’ll always be a drunk. Ca—can’t fix that now. But may—maybe I can be more’n that, you think?”

  But I didn’t want my mother to be a drunk.

  She moved toward me and scarlet ribbons streamed across the tiles and my stomach heaved.

  “I make m’stakes, Aidyn. I always do. But I don’t have to make—make the same ones, do I? Do I?” She swayed, her face white. “I don’—don’ want—wanna drink anymore.”

  I grabbed her wrist and twisted her hands so she’d drop the shards but her fingers wrapped tighter and still more blood oozed. “Let it go, Mom. Drop it.”

  “Yeah. Let it go.” She sighed and the last few bits of glass fell. She blinked at her hands and her eyes widened. She fell against me, and I had to push her against the counter so she’d stay put.

  I held her hands under the running water. She let me wash the blood off, swaying with her eyes closed, her lashes wet on her pale face.

  “Mom, I have to make sure the glass is out of all the cuts.”

  She nodded. I thought she must not have understood what I meant.

  “It’s gonna hurt, Mom, but you have to stand still.”

  “I will.” She leaned a little closer and propped her elbows next to the sink. I prodded her hands and her blood washed over my fingers. She moaned once then turned to watch my face as I worked. Neither of us spoke. Every time her blood gushed from a cut, the world paled and I shook harder. After I’d finished I folded a clean dishtowel around her hands and tucked the ends under to hold it in place.

  “Aidyn—”

  “I don’t want to talk to you.” I turned her and pushed her toward the living room.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I didn’t promise you I wouldn’t drink.” She stumbled, and I grabbed her elbow, jerking her up. I didn’t know how she could have had time, but she’d probably had way more than just that half bottle. That wouldn’t have made her so drunk so fast, would it? Used to be I could tell, but I’d let myself forget.

  “You were just waiting for a good excuse.” I spun her in front of the couch and shoved her down. Since I’d wrapped her hands together she couldn’t catch herself and sprawled across the cushions.

  She hitched up on one elbow, trying to yank her hands apart. “There is no good excuse.”

  “Yeah, well, you don’t need one, do you? All you need is a bottle.”

  “Baby, I’m sorry—”

  I swore.

  Mom winced. “Aidyn, please, don’t give up on me.”

  I left her and bolted for my room. After I dumped the books and pens from my backpack, I stuffed in some underwear, another pair of jeans and an extra sweater. I dug in a drawer and pulled out my babysitting money.

  I’d been saving to buy Mom a cross. Half an hour ago I still thought she deserved it, believed she’d understand all it would mean when she unwrapped it. That I was proud of her. That I appreciated all the stuff she’d done for me. That I wasn’t mad anymore.

  Half an hour ago, I hadn’t seen through her lies.

  My vision blurred, and I collapsed on the bed. Mom called me. I jerked up then made myself sit down again. I was done with taking care of her.

  The last two months had been so perfect. Mom had been perfect. She’d loved me. Why had she stopped? Why had I let her leave me on the street when I knew how crazy Grandma made her? No. I’d been the one to leave her. Why? Why had I ruined things? Why had she? And now everything was horrible. Nothing would ever be good again.

  I shoved the money in my backpack and threw in a few pairs of socks.

&
nbsp; In the kitchen I added a bottle of water and a couple of packets of cheese crackers. I went through the living room and Mom asked, “Where are you going?”

  She sounded scared. She’d pulled the towels loose, though not off, and tried to push herself off the couch. She couldn’t.

  I shrugged. “Out.”

  “Out where?” She jerked her arms and the towel unwound completely. The blood had already browned on the edges, though I could see fresh, jagged spurts on her hands. She leaned on the couch to help herself up and gasped with pain. “Aidyn, please, don’t leave me.”

  “What do you care?” I snatched up the towel and wrapped her hands again, pulling tighter than I needed to. “You’ve got your booze. You don’t need me.”

  “No, it’s gone. I only got the one bottle.” She raised her eyes to mine. “I swore I’d only drink one bottle.”

  “You can’t. You know that.” I turned away.

  “I know. Aidyn, please—”

  “Will you stop?” I pulled on my jacket and picked up my backpack.

  “Aidyn? I don’t want to drink anymore.”

  “That’s nice.” I slid the straps over my shoulders. “Don’t take the towel off. You’ll bleed to death.”

  I slammed the door and heard her again, not understanding her words, but her voice tore at my heart. Still, I went on through the empty courtyard and out to the street.

  I wanted Miguel. He’d understand. With a deep breath, I wiped the tears off my face and started to walk. Where could I go? On Thanksgiving, who would want me to show up on their doorstep, all packed up and ready to move in?

  Shannon? No. Shannon wouldn’t understand. She still thought Mom was wonderful—a scary drunk, but wonderful any other time. She thought my whole life could be solved with a pep talk. She’d give me one and convince her mom to give me a ride home. I shuddered. I did not want to face Shannon’s mother.

  If I went to Jackson’s, I’d have to face Elaine. She’d blame me. Again. I stopped for a light and wanted to collapse right there. Across the street, I saw people inside a convenience store, probably the one where Mom bought that bottle.

  She poured it out, a tiny voice said, but I told it to shut up. So what if she poured it out? So what? Mom was drunk, and I didn’t care if the world ended right there or not. Better if it did.

  I stared into the lighted window and hated my mother. Her drunkenness had always been a living thing, panting its sodden breath down my back, strangling me in booze-scent. I hated it, wanted to crush its power with my anger. But how could I destroy something that didn’t care what it hurt?

  I stopped to dig in my pocket and fished out enough money for a phone call, jammed it into the pay phone and, before I could change my mind, punched in the numbers. Jackson answered.

  “Hey, Jackson, it’s me.”

  “Aidyn? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Great, I was as big a liar as Mom. Worse. “I need to talk to your mom.”

  “She’s kinda busy with the turkey. You want me to tell her to call you back?”

  “No. Please, Jackson. It’ll only take a second.”

  “Wait a minute. Why do you want to talk to Mom? Something’s wrong.”

  I heard a scuffle, then Elaine’s strong voice. “Aidyn, what’s going on?”

  “It’s my mom.” I swallowed. Could I even say this? I never had, not like this, even though a thousand times in my head I’d played it out—how I would ask for help, if ever I found someone who’d care. “She started drinking again.”

  “Oh, Aidyn, I’m sorry.”

  “That’s not it. She got cut. She’s bleeding. A lot. I think maybe she needs to go to the hospital.”

  “I’ll be right there, but honey, you need to call the emergency number.”

  “No. I’m not home, OK? Can you do it? I don’t have any more change.”

  Then, before she could order me to do something I didn’t want to, I hung up and started to run.

  15

  The farther I ran from home, the more I wondered where I’d end up. I knew better than to think life for a runaway was wonderful or easy or even healthy. I could end up dead if I wasn’t careful, or even if I was. But right then, if I had to choose between dead and Mom…

  Well, I just might not pick Mom.

  The only person who’d understand was Miguel. Chills seeped under my coat and snaked down my neck. Where was he? How could I find him? I squinted into the sunset. Clouds billowed up behind the mountains, promising rain. I had to find shelter.

  I would not go back home. I thought of watching Mom weave around the apartment with the glass she couldn’t put down. I thought of listening to her heave over the toilet, or into the sink, or wherever she happened to be. I thought of the smell of vomit and liquor-laced sweat. I thought of trying to reason with someone who’d drunk her reason away.

  No. I wouldn’t go back to that. I wouldn’t give in to her again or let her push me around with her bottle.

  I needed Miguel. And Miguel might—just might—be in Pasadena. I headed west toward the sun. Pasadena was about ten miles away. It could be ten thousand, though, and I’d walk until I found him. But I’d probably get there in a few hours. If I walked fast and didn’t stop and didn’t get lost. I’d have to stay on the main streets to keep from getting lost.

  Walking warmed me, too much. Sweat soaked my sweater and when I moved, the cloth under my armpits chafed. I kept walking. I passed the high school and more houses. And the street fair, empty now, and eerie. I reached up and clutched my cross. Where had the silver lady gone? The same place Miguel and his mother had? But she wasn’t running away from her monsters, was she? Heck, she even thought I was good. I wasn’t good. I was selfish and stupid and stubborn, and I would not go back home.

  Don’t think about Mom.

  I imagined Miguel’s delight when I found him, how he’d fold me in his arms and kiss me before he’d take me to see his mother. Mrs. Rosas would cry, but she wouldn’t ask any questions. Instead, she’d give me clean clothes and let me take a long bath and then I’d share their Thanksgiving dinner. We’d all drink ginger ale, and after that Miguel would hold me, and nothing would hurt either of us ever again.

  Streetlights tricked me into seeing sidewalk cracks that weren’t really there, and I stumbled over nothing. The sun had given barely any warmth, but once it went down I started to shake. I needed to find a place to rest. Not stop. I wouldn’t stop until I found Miguel.

  Beyond the race track. Beyond the hospital. Was Mom there right now? I looked up at the windows and imagined her holding her hands out for the doctor to stitch.

  No! Don’t think about Mom.

  I saw the mall and decided I’d rest there, then angle north for a while and get past the freeway. Pasadena was only a few miles farther.

  Even though the mall was closed, cars were scattered in the parking lot. Why? I shook harder and realized I needed to walk farther to find a safe place. I didn’t want to go home, but I didn’t want to end up raped or murdered, either. I wanted to end up with Miguel and my everlasting happy ending.

  That made me smile for half a block at least, and then I realized I could barely put down my left foot. I must have walked a blister into my heel. I had to stop, but not in the open.

  Across the street I saw the huge swath of the Arboretum, a haven. Mom used to take me there on Tuesdays, when admission was free, and let me throw corn to the peacocks.

  Don’t think of Mom.

  I stumbled across the empty parking lot and under the trees to the main gate. Just before the gate, a path snaked to the gift shop, taking a dip and a turn. No one could see it, and I’d be sheltered. All I knew was that I couldn’t go any farther that night.

  Without the heat of walking I shook harder than ever. I opened my backpack and took out every piece of clothing I could add to what I was already wearing, but it was like adding cheesecloth. Nothing helped. I’d have to get up soon. I’d have to walk to keep warm. My feet hurt, but I was afraid to t
ake my shoes off to see the damage. My muscles twitched and stung. When I tried to shift to a more comfortable position I could barely move. I was such a wimp. A little bit of walking, a little bit of cold, and I was ready to surrender.

  My stomach rumbled. I dug the crackers out of my backpack and swallowed almost without chewing. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I drank the water in one long gulp and the mental picture of me, my head back as I drained the last drops, reminded me of Mom and her bottle.

  Don’t think about Mom.

  I felt better. The food warmed me just enough to think I could make it through the night without freezing to death. I’d find Miguel in the morning.

  I curled up and tried to get my coat and the extra sweater to cover my legs and head at the same time. The concrete under me shot needles of cold through me. I wrapped myself around my backpack, trying to keep as much of myself as possible off the ground. I needed Miguel. I needed his warmth.

  I played my imaginary movie in my mind again, paused on the look in Miguel’s eyes when he saw me, savored the way he’d treasure me and take care of me. I needed someone to take care of me, and I didn’t have anybody. I couldn’t count on anybody but Miguel, and he didn’t know I needed him yet.

  Yes, he did. But he knew his mother needed him more.

  The aftertaste of fake cheese filled my mouth, and I wondered what Mom had eaten. Probably nothing. She’d started a binge and that meant no food, just the booze, until she passed out. Her Thanksgiving feast had been a bottle.

  No. Don’t think about Mom.

  Half asleep, I jerked. Wine. I smelled wine. I sat up but only the scents from the few night plants still growing there surrounded me. It had been a dream. That was all, a nightmare starring Mom’s favorite thing in the world.

  Don’t think about Mom.

  I wrapped my fingers around my cross, my mouth trembling as I accused God. “Why did You let her start drinking again? Everything was going so good, and I prayed. You know I prayed. You must have heard me! You’re just like everyone else. You make promises and then You let people down.”

  He didn’t give me any more answers than usual, and I figured I might as well stop asking.