Page 45 of Draft Pick
A piping cup of coffee lands in front of me, and I send a small smile to Wynonna in return. “Thanks, Mrs. Nonna,” I tell her just above a whisper, and my mother doesn’t miss it. “Who was that? It’s nearly six o’clock in the morning there. Are you not at home, sweetie?”
I roll my eyes, picturing the motherly concern across her face now. “No, Mom. I’m actually at a cute little diner I found.Reminds me a lot of the one we used to go to when I was young. Remember?”
“Broken Egg,” she mumbles, and I hear shuffling in the background. “We made lots of good memories there, didn’t we?”
“We really did. When do I get to see you again, Mom?”
“Come up any time. Everything’s still the same,” she reminds me, the vivid picture of filth and clutter clouding my thoughts. “You’ll have to sleep on the pull-out, but I know you don’t mind.”
Oh, but I will. Ever since moving to Atlanta, I think my feelings on the way I was raised have only amplified. I’m not angry like I once was, but more so hurt knowing I have parents who saw nothing wrong with the condition of our living.
Trash piles everywhere, stacks of old newspapers and Coke boxes lined to the ceiling, rat feces fallen in corners, unwashed clothes thrown into piles, and my dad’s favorite records thrown in disarray.
The pollution had no end. In my heart of hearts, I believe the only good thing I gained under that roof was an incredible taste in music. My parents may have been chaotic and incompetent, but they knew good music when they heard it.
The Beatles. Billy Joel. Fleetwood Mac. The Eagles. The list goes on, and I’m convinced those classic troubadours saved me. And not just as a way to get by. They molded me into a woman who could live amongst an army of madness—in this case, my home—and still find joy to cling to in the morning.
Were they bad parents? Absolutely not.
But theywereblinded by their own fixations. A mental illness that stole the show and left me in the dark more times than not. It was more my mom who did the hoarding after the death of my aunt, and my dad who learned to tolerate it because he loved my mom.
Loved her with an unshakable passion. So much so that the only thing that mattered to him was her processing her grief. Whatever she needed to do to stay the same woman he loved.
If only that were the case.
I learned quickly that although having a beautiful love story is the goal, love also doesn’t enable wrong. Love calls out faults even when it’s hard. And by dad not constructively supporting Mom’s irreversible depression, he fell victim to it right along with her.
Now, they’re simply existing. Same place. Same home. Same conditions. And zero ambition to change it.
Moving away was for the better. But it doesn’t mean I don’t still miss them.
“Oh,” I respond, realizing I mentally disconnected for a moment. “I was kind of hoping you and Dad would want to visit Atlanta? You know, let me show you around the city. Give you a tour of my new practice. I’ve got lots of space at my place. Promise you’ll be comfortable.”
I can predict where this will go, but I still wanted to give it a shot.
“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. The chickens have been quite needy for our attention lately. I’d hate to leave them.”
Add chickens to the list of responsibilities they’ve taken on, only to have zero drive to actually care for them. They introduced me to the first three before I moved, and since then, another five have been added to the coop.
That’s eight chickens who will likely be denied a clean living space. Mom will surely feed them, but it’s the maintenance that will suffer.
I’ve reached a point where I accept that they’ll never change, and I can’t wait around for that to happen.
However, this is where I feel pressured to compromise. I love my parents, no matter how much I disagree with how they live. Their hearts are good, and I can’t take that for granted.
“Your neighbor can’t watch them for a few days? I remember you guys used to watch their golden retriever all the time before he passed. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”
“Phyllis and Stuart don’t talk to us anymore, honey. Stuart had a conniption fit when your father refused to cut the backyard trees. Something about them scratching the hood of his RV camper across the fence.”
Sounds like Dad. And looks like I’m taking a trip back home sooner than planned.
“You know what?” I reassure her. “That’s totally fine. I don’t mind visiting. It may be a while, though, since I’m just getting settled with work. Can I let you know in a few weeks?”
“Sure. That will be just fine. Looking forward to it. I’ll even make the baked ziti I know you love.”
My stomach churns, remembering the last time Mom made me dinner. I couldn’t see past the stack of ancient Tupperware littering the countertops or the thick layer of dust across every surface.
There was a time many, many years ago when my stomach soared at the thought of her home-cooked meals. That’s how far out of touch she is with reality. It’s heartbreaking.
