Old Enough

by Charmaine Pauls

  Brian turns to me. “Do me a favor. Can you check if the bed is clean? The first door on the left after the kitchen.”

  Happy to be of use, I rush ahead of him down the corridor. The room smells of cigarettes, and the sheets are tangled, but they seem clean. I pull them straight as fast as I can and fluff out the pillow so he can lower her onto the mattress. Sam leans in the door, watching us.

  “Go dress and brush your teeth,” Brian says. “I’ll make breakfast.”

  His sister obeys wordlessly. When she’s gone, he sits on the edge of the bed and softly slaps the unconscious woman’s cheeks.

  “Wake up, Mom. Come on,” he coaxes gently. “Open your eyes.”

  Her long lashes flutter. A few more taps on her cheeks and she lifts her eyelids. Her voice is croaky. “Brian?”

  “Do you mind fetching me a glass of water?” he asks me.

  I scoot to the kitchen and go through the cabinets until I find a glass, which I fill up under the tap. Brian takes the glass from me with a grateful smile when I return. If she’s cognizant of my presence, she doesn’t show it.

  “Here.” He supports her head. “Drink.”

  It takes a while for her to empty the glass. He leaves it on the nightstand and lowers her head to the pillow.

  “Go on. Sleep it off.”

  He pulls a sheet up to her chin and covers her feet with a comforter. I stand lamely at the side of the bed in the small room while he opens a window and draws the curtains against the bright sun.

  A tilt of his head toward the door indicates that we should go. Leaving the door open, he leads me back to the kitchen where he fills a bucket with soapy water, and gathers a sponge and disinfectant.

  “Thanks for your help.”

  “Of course. Will she be all right?”

  “Yes.” He sighs. “And no.”

  Without elaborating, he carries his supplies to the lounge and starts cleaning the mess.

  I’m standing to the side, feeling both useless and in the way. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “If you prefer, you can wait in the kitchen. I’ll be done here in no time.”

  “That’s fine.” I motion at the soiled sheets. “I can remove those.”

  “Not a chance, but thanks. I appreciate the offer.”

  He shoots me a dimpled smile before continuing with his scrubbing. He doesn’t apologize or make excuses. He’s not ashamed of what’s happened or the poverty that screams from the sparse and worn furniture. His self-esteem is too strong to grovel and cower in shame. He’s bigger than that. He’s bigger than this house and whatever causes his mother to drink, because his reaction tells me this isn’t a first. He takes the lack of money and the mishap we walked in on in his stride, dealing with the crisis as the consequences demand, and this makes me fall in love with him a little more.

  Done with the carpet, he rolls the sheets into a ball and pops them into the washing machine. I follow him around like a puppy, not sure what else to do. I definitely don’t want to wait in the kitchen like someone who’s afraid of barfing at the sight and smell of vomit. God knows, I’ve cleaned up enough of Abby’s.

  I watch him with no small amount of fascination wash up in the kitchen sink. The house is sorrowful in its lack of decoration and warmth, but it’s clean. I don’t have to guess thanks to who. That explains my spotless kitchen and neat garden. More questions swarm in my head, but now’s not the time to ask them.

  “Breakfast,” he announces as he dries his hands.

  The meal consists of toast and Rooibos tea. We eat at the kitchen table. When the dishes are done–Brian washes and Sam and I dry–he gives Sam permission to watch television. Taking my hand, he pulls me to the porch. He settles on the wall with his back against a pillar and pulls me between his legs with my back resting against his chest.

  I drag my hands over the golden hair on his forearms. “For how long has it been like this?”

  His chest rises as he inhales deeply. He holds the breath for a few seconds before letting his torso deflate. “If you mean the drinking, since after Sam was born. The real problem started long before that.”

  If the drinking isn’t the real problem, what is? “Have you tried getting help?”

  “No.”

  It’s not the answer I expected. “Why not?”

  “We all have our coping mechanisms.”

  He’s right. Mine used to be hiding in a flatline relationship with Francois. No highs, no lows. Maybe it’s sex, now. I’m not going to argue that one is worse than the other, but alcohol can kill you.

  “There are other ways.”

  “What other ways?”

  “Therapy.”

  “To do what? Replace one addiction with another?”

  “You said yourself, we all have our coping mechanisms. Some addictions are healthier than others.”

  “Her life is tough enough. I’m not going to pile onto it.”

  I twist in his hold to look at him. “Are you condoning the drinking?”

  “Don’t judge her, Jane. You don’t know what she’s been through.”

  “I’m not judging. I’m concerned. Aren’t you?”

  Letting go of me, he swings his legs over the wall and dangles them down the side. “More than you can ever know.”

  “I’m sorry.” I place a hand on his arm. “That was an unfair question.”

  He nods in silent acceptance of the apology.

  Dare I ask? “What happened?”

  He fixes his gaze on a point in the distance, but I’m guessing he’s looking inwardly at a painful memory.

  After a long time, he says, “My father walked out on her. Had an affair with one of her friends. He came home one day, packed his bag, and that was that. She just sat there on the couch, smoking a cigarette while he dragged his suitcase to the door. I remember how much her hands were shaking. She couldn’t even tip the ash. I clung to his pants, begging him to stay.” He swallows loudly. “He told me to grow the fuck up and be a man, so that’s what I did.”

  Oh, Brian. Hugging him from behind, I place my cheek on his back. My heart throbs painfully for the boy he’d been and the hurt he’d suffered. “How old were you?”

  “Nine.”

  Oh, my God. Answers to my questions fall into place. He’s been taking care of his mother and sister since his father left when he was supposed to still be a child. No wonder he’s so mature for his age. With his mother’s drinking, he needs a friend to sleep over when he isn’t home. His anxiety this morning to check on his family now makes sense. So does the fact that he never mentions his dad.

  “How are things between you and him?” I ask carefully.

  His voice is emotionless. “I haven’t seen him since that day.”

  My chest clenches harder.

  “My mother was four weeks pregnant with Sam when he left.”

  If that’s the case, Brian could’ve been nine or ten when Sam was born. That makes Brian nineteen or eighteen, not twenty as he’d said, but this isn’t the issue. The issue is something far more shocking.

  “Your dad left when your mom was pregnant?”

  “I’m not even sure I blame him.”

  There’s so much implied, I’m afraid to ask.

  He wipes his palms over his thighs. “One night, my mom came home late from work. She was six months pregnant, two weeks away from maternity leave. Like every other night, she parked in front of the house to open the gate.” His voice is factual, as if he’s reciting a news article. “As she got out of the car, two armed men jumped from the bushes. They shot her in the stomach and took the car. She survived. My baby brother didn’t.”

  Oh, God. My throat constricts. I can’t imagine the trauma of being shot in the most horrific way and surviving only to lose a baby and a husband. I glance in the direction of the bedroom window where the frail woman is passed out on the bed. Brian is right. I have no right to judge her.

  “After that,” he continues, “she wanted to fall pregnant at all costs to r
eplace the baby they’d lost.”

  “Sam?”

  He nods. “Only, things started getting worse. Mom started having panic attacks, first at work, and then in the shops. She developed a fear of public places. It escalated to a level where she couldn’t do her job. Her employer dismissed her for medical reasons. The severance package wasn’t even two months’ salary, but the company knew she couldn’t afford a lawyer to fight them. Her condition got progressively worse until she couldn’t leave the house.” He points at the top step. “This is as far as she can go.”

  Agoraphobia. “Did she seek help?”

  “A psychologist did a couple of house calls, but stopped when we could no longer afford the fee.”

  “What about state assistance?”

  He scoffs. “When was the last time you read the news? There is no state assistance. The government pension and medical funds have been bankrupt for years. Do you honestly believe there’ll be money for psychologists when the masses in our country are dying of hunger and AIDS?”

  It’s all true, but I can’t give up. I can’t believe there’s nothing to be done.

  “Don’t you think I would have slaved night and day to pay for a private clinic if I’d thought it would make a difference?”

  “You don’t think it’s worth another shot? There are excellent clinics, places she could–”

  “She doesn’t want it, and I don’t have the heart to have her forcefully removed from the only place she feels safe. She’s suffered enough. She deserves to be cut some slack, even if it comes in a bottle.”

  I don’t know what to say. I can’t even begin to imagine–

  “All she has now is me.” He straightens, his body lean and imposing as he towers over me. “I’m not going to let anyone hurt her again.”

  That’s why he’s working his backside off at the building site. He’s not only paying his way through university, but also taking care of his mother and sister. Thanks to Francois’ occupation, I know the wages the manual workers and bricklayers are paid. Peanuts. Hardly enough to support a family of three and afford a tertiary tuition, let alone wine and dine a woman–a very lucky woman–at Oscars. However did they survive when his mother’s payoff ran out?

  “Did your father at least help financially?”

  “For a couple of years. When he stopped sending money, I packed groceries at the store after school, but we basically lived off the charity from neighbors. The house belonged to my maternal grandfather. He left it to my mother, so we didn’t have to worry about rent. It got easier to find odd jobs when I turned fourteen.”

  I want to help him, but he’s proud. Money isn’t something I can throw in his face without offending him. A man like Brian will want to earn his own way.

  An idea crosses my mind. Why haven’t I thought about it sooner? I’ll take it up first thing tomorrow morning, but for now the most pressing issue is still the fact that his mother is an alcoholic with agoraphobia.

  “You could stop buying her alcohol,” I offer gently.

  “I’m not the one buying the alcohol. She orders our groceries online and has it delivered.”

  “What if you take away the credit so she can’t do the online orders?”

  “Stop it, Jane. She’s my mother, for God’s sake.” He points at the bedroom window. “Do you know what her life must be like? What the hell else does she have to look forward to but forgetting every once in a while?”

  I want to argue, but it’s futile. He’s doing what he can to make his mother’s life the least miserable possible. He’s turning a blind eye, hoping it will diminish her suffering. It’s wrong, but I understand. I understand the unshakable, deep-rooted sentiment that makes us sacrifice pieces of justice and our very souls for our loved ones. Haven’t I done the same for Evan and Dorothy? Am I not trapped within the walls of my past, unable to set a foot over the porch step? I’m no different than Mrs. Michaels. I’ve only suffered less.

  “Brian, I–”

  “Brian–”

  Sam and I speak simultaneously.

  She stands in the door with a hairbrush in her hand. “Can you braid my hair?”

  “What’s the magic word?”

  “Please.”

  Brian goes to his sister and takes the brush from her. “How about burgers on the barbecue for lunch?”

  “Yay.” She jumps up and down. “With fries?”

  “You’re on a diet, remember?”

  She makes a face. “You’re mean.”

  “Making you eat the salad you’re supposed to would’ve been mean.”

  “Are you staying?” Sam asks me.

  “Yes.” He looks at me over his shoulder. “She’s staying.”

  Despite the way the day started, I enjoy myself with Brian and Sam around the portable barbecue set up in the backyard. While we wait for the coals to be ready, Brian takes my hand and leads me to the far corner of their backyard.

  “I want to show you something.”

  He bends down next to a green hatch hidden in the grass. When he throws it open, a security grid fastened with a chain and lock is revealed. The bars are made of thick iron and the space between them is narrow. It’s clearly designed to keep people out. Below is a dark hole.

  I peer inside. “What is it?”

  Taking his phone from his pocket, he activates the light and points it down. Makeshift stairs lead to a small room with earthen walls strengthened by unevenly spaced planks. The floor is bare soil.

  “It’s a cellar,” he says. “Dug it out myself.”

  “You dug this?” I’m astonished. “By hand?”

  “Took me two years.”

  “Why do you need a cellar?”

  “When it’s finished, it’ll be more of a den than a cellar. I saw this movie when I was a kid about a boy who had a secret den under the ground. Ever since, I dreamt of building a den like that. It started out as a silly project, but as the hole grew bigger and I gained building experience, it turned into a reality. It won’t be the cave-room with the treasure chest I imagined, but it can be a place to chill when I need space.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “The house sometimes gets crowded.”

  “I can’t believe you’re able to build a cellar by yourself.”

  “Brian,” Sam calls, “I think the fire is ready.”

  “Hungry?” Brian asks.

  “Mm.” Not so much for food.

  As if reading my thoughts, he leans in for a kiss, sucking my bottom lip into his mouth. He lets go slowly, his eyes dark with passion that reflects in my belly.

  He lowers his voice, loud enough for only me to hear. “When the cellar is finished, I’m going to fuck you down there. I’m going to fuck you everywhere I can.”

  Joy infuses with the heat building in my chest and cheeks, because his words imply that he wants to continue seeing me for a considerable time to come.

  “Brian,” Sam calls again, her tone impatient.

  His dimpled smile turns from hot to teasing. “I guess someone is hungrier than us.”

  Their mother doesn’t wake for lunch. He dials someone called Tron to keep an eye on Sam and his mom for the time he’ll be absent to drive me home. By the time we go, Mrs. Michaels is still knocked out cold. It leaves an uneasiness in my stomach and worry for Brian, the kind of worry you only feel for people you truly care about.

  The heatwave finally breaks when I pick up Abby at Debbie and Francois’ in the late afternoon. The weather is back to a normal spring temperature. Abby meets me at the car before I have my door open. From the look on her face, something momentous happened.

  “Hey, honey.” I give her a hug and hold her at arm’s length. She’s wearing eyeshadow and lipstick. She’s too young, but I’m not going to make an issue out of Debbie giving her make-up. “You look beautiful.”

  She bounces on the balls of her feet. “Guess what?”

  “What?”

  “My period started.”

  Her first period. My throat clogs up with emotion. She’s gr
owing up so fast. She should’ve been with me. This is something I was supposed to go through with my daughter.

  “I haven’t told Dad, so I’ll appreciate it if you don’t mention it.”

  “Oh, honey. Having your period is nothing to be shy about. It’s natural. Your dad’s not stuck-up when it comes to women’s issues.”

  “I know, but still. It’s kind of embarrassing.”

  “If you didn’t talk to your dad about it–”

  “Don’t worry, Mom. Debbie got me everything. She took me shopping to celebrate. I got this really cute toilet bag with glitter and a pink flamingo for you-know-what.”

  “Tampons. They’re called tampons and pads.” I’ve always taught Abby to call a spade a spade.

  “Whatever. I had a glass of wine–real wine–at lunch with Debbie, because she says I’m a young lady now.”

  “That you are, although still too young by my standards for wine.”

  “It was only a quarter of a glass.”

  How cruel of nature’s timing to take this privilege away from me. Debbie shouldn’t have been the one. As quickly as the nasty thought rears its head, I push it down. Abby is happy. That’s what matters.

  “Well,” I give her my brightest smile, “shall we get going?”

  “I’ll get my bag.”

  Debbie waits alone at the door.

  “Hi, Jane. Francois says hello. Sorry he couldn’t be here. He had something urgent to take care of at the office.”

  “Thanks.”

  I’m about to turn when she stops me with a hand on my arm.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute while Abby gathers her things?”

  “Sure,” I say, reluctantly staying put. “If it’s about Abby starting her period, she already told me. Thanks for being there for her.” I want to add that she should’ve called me, but think the better of it.

  “Of course. I was going to mention it, but that’s not what I wanted to ask.”

  “Go ahead, then.”

  “Abby’s thirteenth birthday is coming up.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you mind if I host the party?”

  Did the woman who cheated with my husband just propose to organize my daughter’s first teenager party?

  “Francois and I talked about it,” she continues. “I think it’ll be a good idea for me to plan it, seeing that we’ll be in the house by then. I’m not sure where you’re planning on moving, but wouldn’t Abby like to have her party in the house she knows?”