When I look up at her again, I realize that the light isn’t bright enough to be morning. It’s dull and fading.
I’ve slept the entire day, and night will soon be upon us again.
The night of the eclipse has arrived, and the flood of new, crippling emotions makes it impossible for me to hold my tongue.
“Why don’t you go ahead and tell me since I know you’re dying to let it all out,” I snap. “But before you do, why don’t you consider who I might be copying.”
She looks down at me, aghast.
“You haven’t exactly been here for me lately. Not for months,” I say, half sitting up. I have to stop myself thanks to the throbbing behind my temples. “Not since he came back. Though from the way you’ve been drinking, you’d never guess you invited him back.”
I’m well aware of the fact that we sound like the bitter old couple, not mother and daughter.
Her breath catches.
“I don’t even know where to start.”
She starts by climbing down the ladder, the closest thing to ‘storming’ down that one can on a ladder.
The silence is expecting. Waiting. I know this time she won’t just let it go, so with great effort, I follow.
I eye her carefully as soon as my feet hit the floorboards.
My mother is very predictable. She can handle things right up until the point that she can’t. Then she has a sort of catatonic meltdown like a child on the other side of a sugar high. This has happened throughout the course of my life more times than I care to remember.
More often now that she’s hit the bottle.
Her voice comes out louder, one octave below shouting, when she finally finds the words to speak again.
“You’re skipping school, acting like you don’t give a shit about anything anymore, and then disappearing for nights at a time. Now I find these in your things?”
She holds the crushed and crumbling remnants of last night’s mistake out on her outstretched palm. “Tell me now, what am I supposed to do about all that, Sabrina?”
The pain that’s replaced the numbness emboldens me.
“Nothing, Mom. How about you take care of your own life?” I shoot back.
Once again, the accusation silences her.
“It’s not like you’ve been home a whole hell of a lot lately,” I say. “Don’t bother telling me you’re busy working your ass off either, because if that was the case then we wouldn’t still be getting shut-off notices for the utilities.”
I pick up one of the unopened pieces of mail from the table that is marked from the power company with the big red words “DISCONNECTION NOTICE” stamped across the front of the envelope.
I slam it back down on the table, causing papers to scatter across the cabin’s tiny space.
“Don’t you dare lecture me,” she shouts, suddenly. “I’m the adult.”
“Yeah and you’re doing a stellar job at it, Mom, as always.”
I know that what I’m saying is hurtful, but I’m tired of treating my mom with kid gloves on all the time.
If she wants to claim bragging rights as being the adult, then she needs to act like one.
Yeah, I know I’ve been a bit much to handle lately, but parents aren’t supposed to jump ship when things get tough.
And that’s exactly what she’s been doing.
She might still be here, physically, but she mentally checked out the day my dad failed at kidnapping us.