I come back down to earth when I enter the cabin and smell the unmistakable smell of a party gone bad.
For a moment I check to see if Midnight is somewhere down here, laid out on the floor after getting into something she shouldn’t have eaten. But no—it’s as I thought. As I feared.
The stench comes from my mom’s bedroom.
I walk in and see the bathroom light on. For a second my heart and stomach drop, and I rush over to look at the sink. I open the cabinet doors and look at the piece of plywood at the back that I recently nailed shut.
It’s still there. Hasn’t been touched.
My heart is beating fast, and I go back into the bedroom. Mom is lying on her back. The sheets and comforter are all on one side of the bed, like she was wrestling with them. I pull them down and then see it.
See and smell.
Mom got sick and threw up on her bed. On herself.
I swallow and then shudder.
I think of a kid who did this back at our high school in Libertyville. The kid died on his own puke. A senior who had too much too soon and then choked in his sleep.
My hand reaches out toward Mom. I’m scared. I don’t want to touch her, not because it’s gross but because I fear the worst.
But she’s warm. Too warm, in fact. I see her mouth move up and down. It sounds raw and dry.
Now that I know she’s alive, I’m furious with her.
For a while I just stand there, thinking of what to do.
Leave her there to wake up in her own mess.
But I can’t. I can’t and I won’t.
I know I have to clean her up.
Even if she’s unconscious.
I see a bottle of vodka on the dresser. It’s empty.
I stand there and look at it. I look a long time.
Trying to understand.
Trying to fathom what exactly was in that bottle—in every bottle—that Mom is looking for so desperately.
I don’t have a future in the field of nursing.
Nope. Definitely not.
It takes me a very long and very hard hour to clean up my mom. She’s not dead, and I’m thankful for that—yes, I am—but she might as well be dead since she’s limp and totally gone. I call out to her and nudge her and then use a damp rag to clean her, but she doesn’t wake up.
I don’t change her—nope, can’t do that.
But I manage to wipe up the mess mostly. I pull the sheets and blankets off of her. Leaving her on a bare mattress that’s still a bit stained. I wipe off the mess as best I can, knowing she’s going to wake up with crusty clothes that she passed out in along with a crusty mouth.
She does manage to sip a little bottled water, but that’s it.
I find another blanket in the closet and put it over her, propping her up on the pillow she didn’t throw up on.
Then I toss the empty bottle of vodka into the garbage can and turn off the lights in her room.
In some weird way, this is normal. It’s not shocking, not like the quasi-date with Lily. It’s just the sad reality of my life.
I think of Dad and wonder whether it’s time to call him.
No.
But somehow, this life is not working out. Not for Mom.
Whatever she’s trying to do to herself—whatever she’s feeling—whatever she’s trying to run away from—this isn’t working.
And as hard as I can try to ignore it, just like I’m ignoring everything and everyone else, I can’t overlook this nightmare at home.
In my bedroom, holding Midnight by my side, I think of Lily. The memory of tonight makes up for the mess I came home to.
Even in my thoughts and dreams to come, I’m able to escape for a while.
Escape the darkness and downward spiral that wants to suck me under.