Page 52 of Call You Mine
“For fuck’s sake, Mom. Will you please shut up and let me speak?” I finally say, snapping right back at her. “If you took your head out of your ass for just a second, you might see that the world doesn’t revolve around you. The second you decided to pick the bottle up again,youlost Georgie.”
“Youdid this!” she spits, and it sounds like she’s struggling to get the words out, her mouth probably numb from all the alcohol. “Youtook her away from me!” She’s getting hysterical, and I’m about to lose my shit.
The way her words melt into each other brings me back to moments just like this. I can picture her face perfectly, red and splotchy, her breath smelling of acidic hunger and stale vodka. I can see her bloodshot eyes and her messy hair.
I remember being ten years old, sitting on the floor of my bedroom with the door locked, trying to feed Jasmine a bottle while she hiccupped against my chest. Phoebe sat beside me, hands clamped over her ears, even though the shouting had already stopped.
The crash had come first. Glass exploding against tile. Then my mom’s voice—thick and slurred—swearing at the cabinets as though they’d offended her.
All I’d asked was if she’d picked up groceries for dinner.
I remember scooping a four-month-old Jasmine up from her play mat on the kitchen floor, grabbing Phoebe by the hand, and locking the door behind us. Sitting with my back pressed against it like I could hold the whole apartment together if I just stayed still enough.
I remember counting Jasmine’s swallows. Listening for footsteps.
I remember feeling Phoebe’s head fall onto my shoulder when she finally drifted to sleep and counting her exhales.
I remember being twelve, bent over the kitchen table with Phoebe’s math worksheet spread out in front of us, the overhead light flickering because the bulb hadn’t been changed in months. Jasmine—two years old and sticky with applesauce—kept sliding off her chair and crawling under the table.
Mom was asleep on the couch. Or passed out. It was hard to tell the difference anymore—if there even was one.
The TV was on, some late-night rerun laugh track playing to an empty room, and a half-full glass of clear liquid on the coffee table. It looked like water, but it smelled like nail polish remover.
Just carry the one,I told Phoebe, trying to sound patient, trying not to snap when she started to cry because she didn’t understand.
I remember glancing at the clock every five minutes.
Not because I cared what time it was.
Because I was calculating how long it would take to get Jasmine bathed, how quickly I could get Phoebe in her pajamas, whether Mom would wake up angry or stay unconscious long enough for me to get them both into bed without her stumbling down the hallway, and when I could finally get my own homework done.
I remember being fourteen, standing at the bus stop in stained sweatpants and an old camp T-shirt.
Mom hadn’t come home that night, or the night before.
I got both of my sisters onto the bus—Phoebe pretending not to notice that other kids’ moms were standing there in workout clothes and clean ponytails. Jasmine, clutching the straps of her little backpack, like she might float away.
The bus doors folded shut, driving away and disappearing around the corner. The soccer moms chatted with each other as they walked back to their respective white-picket-fence homes without a glance in my direction.
And then it was just me.
Fourteen years old. Still in pajamas.
Trying to figure out how I was going to get myself ready, how I was going to get to school without a ride, how I was going to stay awake through first period when I’d been up half the night listening for the sound of my mother throwing up in the bathroom that never came.
I remember realizing, awake and anxious in my bed, that no one was coming to help.
And that if lunches got made, if homework got done, if permission slips were signed, it would be because I did it.
Not her.
“You know what?” I cut off her drunken monologue of hysterics. “You’re right. I did take Georgie away from you, Mom.” I grit through my teeth, trying to muster any patience I can. “But I didn’t take her to hurt you. I took her so you’d stop hurting her.”
She tries to say more, but I don’t let her. Keeping my voice even, I tell her carefully, “And now, I’m done with this conversation. From now on, if you want to talk to Georgie or me, you can do so through her social worker.”
I hang up, blocking my mom’s contact before setting my phone back down on my desk. The stillness of my office makes it feel like the world has stopped spinning.
But it hasn’t.
