“It’s a disease.”
Dad tries to explain things to me more the next morning.
“It’s called alcoholism,” Dad says. “It’s a condition that makes it hard for Mom to stop drinking once she starts.”
I’ve heard about alcoholism, of course. That famous actor that Claudia thinks is sooooo cute was in a movie about it last year. He moped around looking all tortured, sang a few songs, and pushed his greasy hair out of his eyes. Then, all of a sudden, he got better. His girlfriend told him he had a problem and that she loved him and BAM! he got better.
He got better because he chose to. That’s what the movie made it seem like, at least. But Dad is saying something different—he’s insisting that there’s something inside Mom that makes it hard for her to stop drinking. That just like she was born with blue eyes and blond hair and a hatred for broccoli, she was also born with a gene that made her more likely to become an alcoholic. With a switch that got flicked on sometime after she had her first drink.
I hate that switch.
I wish I could flick it off, like the guy in the movie seemed to do.
That’s another thing Dad says, though. That for most people, it’s not that simple at all. That sometimes, the disease becomes more like a runaway train, with every drink adding to its speed. With every sip making the person want more.
That’s where rehab comes in.
“So what’s rehab all about anyway?” I cross my arms in front of my chest, staring down at my bowl of oatmeal. I put cinnamon and sugar on top, just the way I like it, but it looks like a bowl of mush this morning. “Why can’t you get better here?”
My voice is raspy, probably because I spent half the night crying under my covers. I’m not going to hide it, though. I want Mom to see how she’s affecting me.
I want her to feel as bad as I do.
“I guess I need space,” Mom says slowly.
“From me?”
“Oh, honey, no. Not from you.” Mom casts her eyes around wildly, like I’m a teacher and she’s a student with no idea of the right answer. Tears shimmer in her eyes. I probably should feel bad for her—after all, parents are supposed to be strong. They’re not supposed to cry in front of their kids. I can’t let myself sympathize with Mom, though.
Then I’ll start to cry, too.
“I guess I need to be on my own for this,” Mom says. “To work on myself and figure out why it’s so hard for me to stop drinking. I need time to be in my own head and to talk to people who are trained to help.”
“Your mother will talk to a therapist and go to special groups,” Dad pipes up. “She’ll have people there who will understand her struggles.”
Unlike us.
But I weirdly don’t feel bad about being left out of the “Understanding Mom Club” today. After all, I don’t want to understand struggles like this. I just want them gone.
“Those are the rules, anyway,” Mom adds. “That we can’t have visitors for the first month.” Mom has a half-eaten bagel in her hand that I can’t stop staring at. Do they have bagels at rehab? Comfy beds? Windows?
“There’s something called Family Weekend after a bit, too,” Mom says. “You can visit then. I’ll be feeling better then. I promise.” Mom scoots her chair closer to mine. I scoot mine away again. I don’t want to hear about how Mom is going to get better and things will be so wonderful that we’ll all dance upon rainbows on the backs of unicorns.
She hasn’t gotten better here yet. For me. And that’s what matters.
“I don’t want to visit.” A hurt look flits across Mom’s face, but she covers it up quickly. But I still see it. It satisfies me, in the very best “I’m a mean daughter” kind of way.
“That’s fair,” Mom whispers.
I take a bite of my oatmeal and avoid Mom’s eyes. It tastes as mushy as it looks.
Mom takes a bite of her bagel and stares around the kitchen. Her gaze flicks to the wine racks above the refrigerator. Or what were once wine racks, before Dad emptied them all out awhile back.
“Maybe I don’t have to go,” she says suddenly. “I already feel better this morning. I don’t want a drink at all.” Her voice sounds like mine did the time I tried to convince my parents that I didn’t eat the last slice of leftover birthday cake.
I had chocolate all over my face at the time.
And right now, I can hear the naked longing in Mom’s voice.
Of course she wants a drink.
She always wants a drink.
Way more than she wants me.
“You’re going.” Dad crosses his arms over his chest. I feel like doing the same. Why is she backing out of our deal? How could she want to?
“But—”
“You. Are. Going.” His words are steel. Nothing Mom can say will break them. She must realize that, too, because she slumps in her chair and pushes her bagel to the side.
“I’m going,” she whispers. “For eight weeks.” She blinks. “But no more.”
Dad sighs. “I’ll take what I can get.”
Maybe Dad will, but I won’t. I’m still mad. I’ll be mad forever.
And that’s when I realize another thing Mom’s alcoholism is ruining.
“Wait.” I hold up a hand. “You’ll be in rehab for eight weeks. Softball tryouts are in three weeks.”
Mom grimaces. “Yes.”
“The tryouts you said you’d help me prepare for.” My face is frozen in shock.
Another grimace.
“The tryouts for the All-Star team that I’ve been waiting to be old enough for since I was basically born!”
“Yes, but it can’t be helped…”
“The rehab facility has an open bed for your mother now,” Dad interrupts. “The lady I spoke to on the phone this morning said that we’re incredibly lucky there’s a bed open. They’re usually very busy this time of year.”
“Right. Lucky.” I glare at Dad. “I’m so lucky to have a mom who’s an alcoholic.”
Mom’s face is pale, and she buries it in her hands. Her elbow jostles her plate, and her bagel drops to the floor, cream cheese–side down. I know I’ve hurt her, but she’s hurt me, too. I think about how happy I felt just yesterday as I raised my arms in triumph after completing that double play.
Victory seems far away right now.