It was late when I finally crawled back home. No job. No Cora. How could I go from having the world on a string to this abysmal pit of hell in the span of forty-eight hours? It was a new record, even for me. The white vans parked on the street filled with cameramen and reporters had disappeared. Just like that, I became yesterday’s news, the kind that you line your litter box with and let your cat piss all over. I knew it couldn’t last forever, but if you’re lucky enough to land inside the fame bubble, trust me, you’d sell your soul to stay there. Your ego takes over and easily doubles in size as the rest of you shrinks, but when the adoration cools off and moves to the next shiny thing, you’re left behind wondering what the hell happened.
I stumbled to the flower beds and peeked in the windows. All was dark and quiet. Ma must have given up and gone to bed. Picking my way up the uneven stairs, I slowly turned the doorknob and eased the door open, then tiptoed past Alvin’s cage that was covered with a sheet, fascinated by the whirs and trills he made as he slept. Crossing the living room, I eased open the basement door, clutching my favorite sleep aid, a fifth of vodka in a wrinkled brown bag. I half-walked, half-stumbled down the stairs, humming softly to myself, clipping the edge of the wall as I ping-ponged down. The tune was an ear worm—it was a hauntingly familiar song I couldn’t place, and then it hit me square between the eyes. It was Sinatra from my ice-skating date with Cora in Rockefeller Center.
Shut up, Old Blue Eyes. There’s no more songs to be sung.
I didn’t feel young, I felt ancient and decrepit. I was used up and worthless.
Practically farting dust over here.
Toasting the memory, I tipped the bottle up and brought it to my lips, drinking it down until the notes faded away. A few minutes later, I passed out in a dirty, sweaty pile on my sheetless mattress.
A few hours later, my head screaming, I opened my eyes and had the spins. A wave of nausea sent me rushing to the floor, where I crawled on my hands and knees, searching for a trash can to puke in. I vomited until I was trembling, my nose running, eyes red, and hands shaking. Peering into the trash can, I tried to decipher what I had done the night before by the chunks of unidentifiable food and waste piled there. I was fuzzy. After my meeting with Paulie at The Punch Line, the rest of the night was blank. Black-out drunk makes your memory like Swiss cheese. It leaves huge, gaping holes in your space-time continuum that riddles your brain to fill. I scrambled to piece the night together but was so hungover I gave up. Maybe it would come back to me, maybe it wouldn’t, and the truth was I just didn’t give a shit either way. The only person that mattered was gone. Everything else was just details.
I climbed into the shower and let the hot water rain down on me, scrubbing at my forearms with a rough washcloth until my skin was pink. The cloth was like sandpaper, scratching me, yet I continued to rub until I drew blood, and even then, I couldn’t stop.
Two. Four. Six. Eight.
If I performed the action in perfect parallel lines in sets of two, I could move to the other arm when I got to twenty. I swatted at a tingling sensation running up the back of my arms. Huge black cockroaches and Daddy Longlegs with paper-thin appendages trekked up my body en masse. Running up and down my legs. I howled and screamed, swatting them away with the washcloth, only to see the numbers multiply and cover me. My hand was now black, completely covered in delicate insect legs that tickled the hairs on my forearms as they ran up my body. I started to scream, muffling it into my mouth, clamping my hand over my lips. The bugs wanted inside. They wanted to eat my brain and feast on me from the inside out. I pressed my lips together, swatting at them and scratching down my face with my fingernails as my heart hammered on.
Cold water. That will send them scattering. I cranked it to ice cold and they disappeared. Relieved and exhausted, I pulled my towel from the floor and wiped off, my skin tender and inflamed. I yanked on some wrinkled clothes from the pile on the floor and went upstairs, careful to only touch every even-numbered stair in search of breakfast.
Two. Four. Six. Eight.
At the top of the stairs, it was eerily quiet. No coffee brewing, no food being prepared, it was so out of character that the first tingles of worry tickled up the back of my scalp.
“Ma!” I shouted, looking at the clock; it was ten a.m. She was always glued to the TV with her sudoku puzzle at ten a.m. and never missed the 777 Club. Pulling back the curtain at the sink, I checked the driveway and saw her car was still parked in its usual spot.
“Not the Mama,” Alvin interjected from his fabric ensconced perch. “Bwawk! Not the Mama!”
I rolled my eyes and yanked off the sheet, and he rewarded me by shaking his tail feathers and squawking. His food tray was empty. “In a minute, buddy.”
“Ma! Where are you? We have to feed Alvin,” I shouted into the quiet. Getting no response, I walked down the hallway to her bedroom. At her door, I paused. “Mom, are you in there?”
Still silent, I knocked with two fingers, and the door slowly opened with a creak. She was still lying in bed.
“Ma? Are you sick?” I asked her, walking closer to the bed where she lay covered in a thick comforter and old quilt her mother had made. I shivered in the cold air.
“Ma?” I whispered extra sweetly, not wanting to jar her awake. I knew she deserved an apology, and I was finally ready to give her one and get out of the doghouse. She laid there facing the wall, sleeping soundly, unmoving. I walked closer and saw her mouth was slack. Her glasses sat on the nightstand next to a bottle of Unisom, and a pale blue glass of water. I reached out and touched her hand. It was cool to the touch.
“Ma?” I pleaded a little louder as I shook her gently. “Come on, Ma, wake up.”
My hands were trembling as I leaned over and touched her forehead, confused.
Why isn’t she moving?
Her skin was ice cold, buried under layers and layers of quilted cotton. I passed my hand over her mouth, hoping to feel her warm breath on my palm. My eyes fixed on her chest, willing it to move up and down, examining it for signs of movement. She was utterly still. Panic crept in slowly, then a bolt of knowing shot through me. She wasn’t breathing.
I pulled out my phone and dialed 911 on speakerphone and then desperately tried to recall the one CPR class I had lived through in high school. A, B, Cs was all I could remember. I checked her airway and then started compressions as the calming dispatcher gave me step-by-step instructions on how to perform CPR. Within minutes, I heard the sirens and ran to unlock the door.
“Hurry!” I shouted as I led them back down the hallway. “She’s in here and she’s not breathing.”
A capable bald man burst in with his athletic female partner and a gurney and asked me to step aside.
Relieved help had arrived and she was safe in their skilled hands, I slid down the wall onto the floor. Adrenaline had been surging through me, and now every sense was awake and alive. My hangover dissipated in the wake of terror. I disconnected, watching from a distance as they worked on her. His partner pressed two gloved fingers to her neck and wrist, feeling for a pulse. She shook her head, and her lips pressed together in a straight line. I knew then. It was the curt nod of her head and the pity filling her eyes.
“She’s gone. I’m so sorry,” she confirmed.
“No! NO! NO!” I popped up from the floor, pushed my way to Ma, and began giving her chest compressions again.
My cheeks were wet when they pulled me away from her. My arms were shaking and my chest was heaving from effort. A gloved hand pulled mine from her chest.
“I’m sorry, but there is nothing more we can do to help her. She’s been gone for a long time, likely passed peacefully in her sleep hours ago.”
My resolve crumbled, and I sank to the floor once again.
Was she still alive when I came home last night? Could I have walked into her room one more time and told her I loved her? Why did I run? Why didn’t I pick up even one of her calls? I would give anything to hear her voice one more time.
“I’m sorry, Mama. I’m so sorry,” I pleaded, fresh tears racing down my face. I sat up on my knees and leaned down to kiss her cold cheek that was already changing. Becoming hardened clay. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
“You’re so worthless, even your Ma left you,” a voice hissed deep inside.
“Shut up!” I said.
“Sorry?” the paramedic asked as the radio cackled in the background.
“Nothing,” I muttered and pulled her hand to my cheek, trying to warm it between my own. Studying the face of the only woman I’ve loved my entire life. Her eyes popped open, and I screamed.
“Don’t listen to them, Freddie. It was my time, I had to go. I didn’t want to leave you.”
“You were all I had left.” I gripped her hand more tightly in mine and smoothed the cold skin, not wanting to let her go. I blinked and she was once again immobile on the bed, eyes closed.
The metallic crunch of a gurney being rolled into the house jarred me out of my thoughts. Fresh tears fell like rain.
“Come back,” I begged, as I wrapped my arms protectively around her body, shielding her from the crew. “Please, Ma, I need you.” I swiped at the tears blurring my vision. “Please,” I whimpered. “Please.”
A black body bag was rolled out on the gurney and unzipped, the metal-on-metal zing of the teeth on the zipper a horrifying truth that made me cringe.
“NO!” I laid on top of her, tears coursing down my face. “You can’t take her.” I pulled her into my arms, willing her to hug me back, her body heavy, leaden, and cold. I bent to kiss her one last time.
“Sir, you have to let us do our job,” the attendant said gently.
“Goodbye, Mama. I’ll always love you most,” I whispered into her hair and gently laid her back down on the bed. I struggled to find my feet, swaying then righting myself. I leaned against the wall, letting the plaster and lath hold me up, and sobbed as they wheeled her away.
“You will need to make arrangements at a funeral home. We’re taking her to St. Anne’s. We are sorry for your loss.”
They quietly left, shutting the door behind them, and drove away with the lights and sirens deathly silent. Emergency over. No reason to rush back to the hospital.
I was alone. Utterly alone. No safety net. Everything and everyone I ever loved had been taken from me. The emptiness choked me. I gasped for air as a full-blown panic attack exploded from my core, making it impossible to breathe. Flushed hot, my skin was on fire, and sweat soaked my shirt instantly.
In and out, in and out. Slowly. Breathe.
Seconds felt like hours as I struggled for air, ravenous for oxygen, my heart pounding in my chest. I closed my eyes and begged it to pass. Finally, my heart slowed down to its normal pace and I exhaled a long sigh.
Why, Ma? Why did you leave me when I needed you most?
The quiet seeped into every nook in my brain as tears coursed down my face. Searching for comfort in the familiar, I laid down in her bed. The sheets still smelled like the knock-off drug store perfume she favored. I closed my eyes again, pressing the sheet to my face, inhaling the scent, pretending she was close, lying to myself. I pulled her quilts up around me and wailed until I was left hiccupping and shaking, and then fell into a tormented sleep.