Page 20 of Call You Mine
“George,” I say, resting my elbows on the counter and leaning toward her. “When did she start drinking again?”
She pulls her knees up to her chest and rests her chin on them. Her eyes wander the kitchen, looking at everything but me.
“George,” I repeat, but she still doesn’t look my way. If she did, I know I would see my own eyes staring back at me, red-rimmed and puffy. Just like Phoebe’s and Jasmine’s, all of my sisters and I somehow got our mother’s hazel eyes.
“Georgina?” My voice is a little louder this time, but she still doesn’t move.
Georgie sniffles, wiping a stray tear that falls from the corner of her eye with her sleeve, the gray material darkening. She tucks a piece of hair that escaped her bun behind her ear—while I got our mom’s red hair, Georgie got her dad’s, along with his freckles and the way she scrunches her nose when she’s focusing hard on something. Or when she’s trying not to cry.
“I didn’t want you to worry,” she finally says, so quietly I can barely hear it. My heart breaks even more than it did when I picked up her phone call two days ago, hearing the sobs she tried to hide as she told me that Mom wouldn’t wake up.
“I’m always worried about you, kiddo,” I tell her, reaching across the counter between us to wipe another stray tear on her cheek. “That’s never going to change.”
Georgie sighs, putting her legs down and standing up from her chair as she takes in a shaky breath. “I started to notice the bottles in the trash around Thanksgiving.”
Thanksgiving?
That’s over two months ago.
I should’ve known not to trust my mom—if she couldn’t stay sober for me, or Phoebe, or Jasmine, how could Ihonestly believe she’d do it for Georgie. No matter how much I wanted her to.
Neededher to.
I try to keep my features schooled. Not wanting to show too much of my surprise or frustration because I don’t want Georgie to think I’m mad at her.
I’m mad at my mom.
I’m mad at myself.
I’ve been going through my own shit the last year and a half. Between everything that happened with my ex, battling my OCD diagnosis, my job, and then the fire eight months ago, I convinced myself that the bender my mom went on thirteen months ago was a one-time thing.
And I let her assure me that it would never happen again.
Yet here we are.
“Honey, why didn’t you tell me?”
Georgie sniffles, and another crack forms in my heart. “It was neverthatbad.”
“What do you mean ‘thatbad’?” From where I’m sitting, finding empty bottles in the trash is pretty fucking bad.
“Before Friday, I could always wake her up or help her get to bed. Or, sometimes, even get her to not open another bottle.” Georgie’s voice is pleading, like she needs to convince me she did everything she could.
“That isnotyour job, Georgina. Do you hear me? She is the adult, and you are the child. It is not your job to take care of her like that.” My voice is hard, but I need her to understand that she shouldn’t feel responsible for any of this.
Not one thing is her fault.
Georgie’s cheeks are wet, and she wipes at the skin with her sleeve. “If I didn’t sleep through my alarm, I could have stopped her before she drank that much.”
My eyes widen. “What are you talking about? What alarm?”
Georgie exhales, playing with her hands in her lap. Hernose twitches, but her tears still fall in a steady stream. “I have an alarm set for midnight. That way, I can make sure Mom is in bed. That’s usually when I dump out any opened bottles, too.” She sniffles. “She usually doesn’t notice the next morning. I think she just thinks she drank it all.”
“Georgie,” I pause, trying to keep my voice even, even though the emotion weighs it down. “She should have never put you in a position where you felt you had to do that.”
Georgie nods. “I think she thought she was hiding it, but I could tell she was out of it. Like not herself, you know?”
I do know.
