Everything Within and In Between

by Nikki Barthelmess

  “Maybe Mom wasn’t really leaving me but only trying to get away from you! You are a controlling liar who does nothing but make people feel terrible about themselves. But you know what?” I laugh coldly. “Soon enough I’ll be eighteen and I’ll be able to do whatever I want and see whoever I want, and at this rate, that probably won’t be you!”

  I slam the car door closed behind me and walk inside without a word. Grandma drives away, to bring Mrs. Reynolds her precious Cobb salad and to work late, like always.

  Grandma’s lying, and I can prove it. As soon as I’m in my room, I unlock my phone and google alcoholism.

  Symptoms to look for include broken capillaries—blood vessels pretty much—on your face or nose. Nope. Drinking in inappropriate situations. Never seen my mom drunk. Nope. Weight loss due to lack of eating in favor of drinking. Mom is just skinny, like me and Grandma. It runs in the family.

  Most of the rest of the signs, other than poor hygiene and smelling like booze, have to do with drinking interfering with work and relationships. Well, if you ask my grandma, she’d say that about anything she doesn’t want Mom or me doing. It says that many alcohol abusers start out experimenting in high school. Big surprise there. Practically everyone drinks in high school.

  I scroll through the website before searching signs of addiction. There’s more stuff about damaged relationships, but also about how biology can play a factor. Some people are more predisposed to addiction than others. So while someone can drink or even use drugs in moderation, others aren’t able to. They might start to feel like the only way they can feel good is if they’re using their substance of choice.

  Though none of this reminds me of Mom, my thoughts do turn to Amy and how she’s been looking pretty rough lately. Last time I got close to her in the hallway, her eyes were bloodshot. Maybe that’s what’s happening to her. . . .

  Luckily, I don’t feel that way. I tried coke with her for just a little fun, to forget my feelings of embarrassment and anger in the moment. And, if I’m being honest, I wanted to feel good. For once, I didn’t want to worry about what Brittany or my grandma wanted from me.

  So, yeah, addiction isn’t a problem for me, but maybe I should reach out to Amy and make sure she’s okay. I save the URL for the website, along with a phone number for a hotline to call for help with substance abuse. Amy and I sit next to each other during English—I can ask her how she’s been feeling there, just in case.

  My phone buzzes in my hand. Brittany’s calling.

  I don’t answer.

  I grab my headphones and blast music, not because Grandma’s home to complain about it being too loud, but because I need to drown everything else out. But I can’t stop my mind from going back to what happened this afternoon at the club. I screamed at Brittany for refusing to see what was right in front of her, but haven’t I been doing the same? What I saw with Grandma and Yesenia is how people are treated every single day. And Grandma is right about one thing: it’s something I don’t have to deal with.

  I plop onto my bed, open my journal, and start to write. I’ve been focused on finding connections to my culture. Because of Grandma’s choices and some of my own. But I don’t have to suffer from racism like she does and so many others do. I finally see what Grandma has been trying to protect me from. But she was wrong to teach me that it’s better to abandon our heritage and associate ourselves with whiteness. Just because I understand why she feels that way doesn’t make it okay.

  I push my pencil down so hard on the page that it breaks. I squeeze it in my hands. I have nowhere else to go with all that I feel right now. I don’t know one person who is a harder worker than Grandma. But I can’t not be mad at her either. All the things she taught me about turning my back on being Mexican were wrong. And she laughed, actually laughed, at my dreams of being a writer. She doesn’t want to see the real me. Not to mention she’s been keeping Mom away for years and will never admit it. She would rather lie about it, again.

  I can’t keep living in secrets like this. If I do, I’m going to explode.

  I text Mom and ask her to come pick me up. We need to make a plan to tell Grandma the truth, to show her that she can’t stop us from being together anymore.

  Chapter

  Seventeen

  I pull a kitchen chair to the living room window to watch and wait for Mom to come get me. I see her arrive from out the window, driving a rusty-looking brown Dodge Neon. As she steps out of the car, I open the front door.

  Once closer, Mom peeks behind me. Her eyes dart back and forth as if Grandma is going to pop out from a corner and yell, “Boo!”

  She sighs sadly, probably remembering when this was her home.

  “You haven’t been here in years,” I say. “Want to come in?”

  Mom takes a step forward, her eyes landing on the framed picture of her father on the mantel. She walks toward it and runs her finger along a small Mexican worry doll that Grandma has kept next to the picture as long as I can remember. She touches the doll’s red hair and the fraying edges of its pink dress, before running her finger along the edge of Grandpa’s picture. She stares at the gray urn holding his ashes for what feels like a long time.

  “I never meant for any of this to happen,” she says.

  “What do you mean?”

  Mom’s lip trembles. “Nothing.” She closes her eyes for a moment. “We better get going.”

  I follow her to the car.

  The passenger door squeaks open and the stench of concentrated cigarette smoke overwhelms me. I roll the window down before pushing a stack of grocery store ads out of the way with my foot.

  “Sorry about that,” Mom says. “You can throw it all back here.” She leans over my knees and grabs some of the papers in front, crumpling them slightly before tossing them behind us.

  “Do you mind if I smoke?” Mom takes a cigarette out from its box in the center console. I know she smokes because I always smell it on her, but that doesn’t mean I want to be stuck in a car with it. I nod slowly and Mom lights up.

  “I’m trying to quit,” Mom says after she takes a drag. “I smoke less than I used to, but what is it they say? Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

  Once on the freeway, I look out my open window. I want to tell Mom about the argument I had with Grandma, but the words aren’t coming out just yet. Instead, I stare at the Pacific Ocean on the other side of the fence. Waves lap over rocks on the shore. Purple and pink streams of light streak through the bright orange sunset, glistening over the water, as we cruise on.

  Mom pulls off the freeway and in a few minutes we’re walking from the parking lot to her apartment. A couple of kids on bikes pass us, their red safety lights glittering in the twilight, as Mom enters her apartment.

  She flips on a light and hangs her keys on a hook by the door. I look around. We’re in a small living room, with a brown recliner plopped in front of a big flat screen. A tan couch sits on the other side, across from a black wooden coffee table. Instead of family pictures like at Edgar’s house, or a makeshift memorial of my grandpa like we have at ours, the walls here are bare. A tinge of sadness hits me. By looking around, you wouldn’t even know my mom has a daughter.

  Mom smiles, not noticing my turn in mood, and holds an arm to the couch in front of her and I sit down.

  She hurries to the kitchen, on the other side of the wall behind the TV, and starts fumbling around in the fridge. “You hungry, baby?”

  “No, thanks, but can I have some water, please?”

  Mom sets a glass of water on the table in front of me.

  Mom joins me on the couch and looks around her apartment. “It’s not much, but it’s home.”

  Her home. Without me.

  I run my finger along the rim of my glass. “Where’s John?”

  “Out.” She twists her hands in her lap. “He should be back any minute.”

  I sip on my water, unable to stop myself from thinking of Grandma. If not for her, I wouldn’t feel so weird sitting in my mom�
�s apartment. I wouldn’t feel like I’m a visitor in her life.

  Mom scoots closer to me. “So, how’s Spanish class going this week? You seem to be a lot more confident about speaking it in front of me.”

  I blink, bringing myself out of my thoughts.

  “I feel like I’m getting better.” Think about Spanish. Think about normal stuff. “Thanks to my friend Edgar.”

  Mom gives me a knowing look. “Hmmm.” She lets the word hang between us.

  “Edgar’s been helping me study,” I offer. “He’s been really great. Making flash cards for me, asking me questions and having me answer like you do. He says my accent is improving a lot too.”

  “He sounds like a nice boy.” Mom smiles. “They’re few and far between, so be good to him. You learn that as you get older.”

  Before I get the chance to ask her what she means by that, or to tell her about my argument with Grandma for that matter, I hear keys jangling from the other side of the front door, right before it opens. John walks in wearing his usual uniform of baggy pants and a jersey.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he mutters. “My manager was all over my ass about my sales last month.”

  I give a little wave as Mom rises from the couch. “I’ll fix you a plate. We have some leftover pasta in the fridge.”

  “I’m good,” John says. “Spend time with your daughter.” He scowls as he sits on the couch and starts scrolling on his phone.

  John is clearly in a mood, so I decide not to press him for conversation. I finish drinking my water and take the glass to the kitchen to wash it, despite Mom’s protests.

  Looking around, I notice their kitchen’s small, but it doesn’t give the feel of being well-used like ours. Where Grandma has decorations for even the unlikeliest thing, like a dress cover for the dishwashing soap, Mom has plain bottles and only a few dishes and utensils. My eyes fall on the trash can against the wall, overflowing with large, empty liquor bottles. My stomach clenches. It could have been a while since they took the trash out, but that doesn’t explain why there was any booze in the house in the first place. Unless it was John’s.

  As I turn off the faucet, I flinch, feeling someone behind me. My mom’s throaty laugh puts me at ease. “It’s just me, baby.” She reaches to the cabinet overhead and pulls out a large bottle of Smirnoff vodka and sets it on the cabinet.

  My mouth dries as I watch her put ice in a glass and then mix in the liquor. “Oh, it’s not for me,” Mom says, as if reading my mind. “John had a hard day at work. This’ll help take the edge off.”

  I nod. Exactly what I thought, it’s for John. Sure, Grandma said Mom and the guys she dated drank and partied too much but it’s just a drink, not a big deal. And it’s late afternoon now, not like he’s drinking in the middle of the morning or something.

  I follow Mom to the living room, and she hands John his drink. He gulps a few times and half the glass, which Mom filled pretty generously, is already gone. My throat practically burns as I remember the times I’ve had vodka at Brody’s and imagine how smooth that must have not gone down.

  “Where’s yours?” John looks at Mom as she sits next to him. I freeze, like I’m a tree that’s grown roots right where I stand in the middle of the room.

  “Oh, well, you know me . . . I don’t really—”

  John snaps his head toward her. “Really, Marisol? Your mom still in your head after all of these years? You want to know your daughter,” John glances at me and then back to her. “Then she should know us, and the truth is, ain’t nothing wrong with a couple of grown adults who enjoy a drink after work.”

  Mom’s voice comes out quieter, softer. “Of course not, John.”

  My hands are cold yet slick with sweat. Mom won’t even look me in the eyes.

  John waves his arm out in front of him. “Why are you just standing there? Come on over already.”

  My feet feel like they are carrying cement as I take the few heavy, slow steps back toward the couch.

  “Sit down already,” John barks.

  I flinch. Mom doesn’t react as I sit on the other side of her, so she’s in between John and me.

  John downs the rest of his drink and then raises an eyebrow at Mom. “Go ahead and pour yourself one, too, Marisol.”

  I leap to my feet. “I’ll come with you,” I say to Mom. She rises and I follow her into the kitchen.

  I force myself to take a deep breath as Mom refills John’s glass and fixes herself one too. “I thought . . .” I lower my voice to a whisper. “I thought you said you didn’t drink anymore, Mom.”

  A hand on each glass, Mom lifts her chin but speaks quietly. “John’s right, Ri. I’m a grown woman and there’s nothing wrong with me having a drink when I want to,” Mom says with a matter-of-fact tone. “I’ve gone too long letting your grandma use guilt to control me. You should understand that better than anyone.”

  My stomach tightens. Mom has a point. I do understand that better than anyone. But then why does this still feel so wrong?

  I press on. “You said it wasn’t a big deal when you were a teenager, that Grandpa and Grandma were just being too strict, but after everything you gave it up anyway. So, if it’s not a big deal, why did you . . .” I don’t say lie, because I can’t form the words. “Why did you keep this from me?”

  “What’s all that whispering?” John calls from the living room. “You girls talking about me?”

  John grabs his glass from Mom when we return from the kitchen. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing in there. You gonna blame this on me, Marisol? Act like I’m some kind of bad influence?”

  “No, no, no,” Mom says quickly. “Never. You’re right, John. I shouldn’t feel like I have to hide this from my daughter. My mother kept me from her before because she said I was trouble. And fine, I was around bad men who did bad things. I got caught up, got in fights, stole, but only ever to make them happy. I was young and stupid.”

  Mom takes a drink of vodka and sets the cup on the table, before she puts a hand on John’s knee. “The men I saw before. The men I dated were often in and out of jail, Ri.” Mom looks at me. “But not John, he’s responsible, always holds down a job—he helps me. Neither of us have anything to be ashamed of.”

  At the compliments, John leans back to the couch, seemingly calming down. “Yeah, I’m no deadbeat. I pay my rent. I pay our bills.” He gives my mom a look.

  Mom nods and then, eying John the whole time, takes another drink. Like she’s doing it to appease him. My stomach lurches. I feel like I’m going to be sick. John lifts his drink in the air in my direction. “How about you, little Ri? Want some?”

  Mom stiffens beside me. “Baby,” she says, and it takes me a second to realize she’s talking to John and not me. I look at her as she’s looking at him.

  “I don’t think that’s the best idea,” she says. “She’s underage.”

  I’m struck by the intense urge to laugh. Mom’s loser boyfriend offers me booze; my mom says no because I’m too young. I’ve done drugs before. Cocaine. I thought it was fun, it wasn’t a big deal. Like Mom and her boyfriend are saying about their drinking.

  John is saying something, but I’m no longer listening to him. He goes to the kitchen and comes back with the whole bottle of vodka, pouring himself and my mom another drink. It’s like he’s trying to make a point or something. To me or to my mom.

  In my mind, I see this scene as though I’m someone else. It feels like I’m someone else. I’m not here, sitting on the couch in this apartment while my mom and her boyfriend get wasted in front of me. I don’t know what to do. I hold myself upright, clench my fists, keep control. If I let go, if I allow myself to feel, I’ll break.

  Time passes.

  John turns on the TV, to a rerun of the show Cops. As a man is chased out of an alleyway, thrown to the ground and cuffed, John barks with laughter. “Damn! Shoulda run faster!”

  The sound of Mom’s slurring words pulls me out of my thoughts. “I’ll be right back, mija. I
have to use the bathroom.”

  Sitting on the couch, alone with John in the living room, I realize I need to get out of here. I don’t want to be here. I text Nina and ask if she’s busy.

  A screech comes from the TV as a police car skids to a stop, the flashing red and blue lights holding my gaze for a moment. Even though there’s a couple of feet between me and John on the couch, I scoot to the farthest edge away from him.

  My phone buzzes. Hopefully, it’s Nina. But I can’t check because John’s scooting closer. He leisurely throws his arm around me. His hand feels heavy around my shoulder.

  I need to move, start to, but John’s hand holds me steady. “Relax, Ri. Why are you so uptight?”

  I try to take a steadying breath. But it comes in short, jagged.

  My phone buzzes again. I move to check it but John grabs my hand tightly. “Who are you texting, your boyfriend?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I lie. “Actually, I’m supposed to meet up with him soon so—”

  John scoots closer and breathes his sour breath in my face. I look away, anywhere but at him. The apartment is tiny, too tiny, and the walls are trapping me here with John. This is how he and Mom spend most of their time, getting drunk. I can feel it.

  John pushes a strand of hair away from my eye. “You look a little like her, you know. Beautiful. And all grown up.”

  Mom opens the bathroom door just as I jerk my face out of his grasp. Mom stops for a second when she sees John has his arm around me, but she recovers quickly and strides over, sitting on the other side.

  She saw my face, she saw him touching me, and she’s doing nothing about it. I want to scream at her, to shake her, to make her see that this is seriously messed up. Finally, I find my voice as I shove John’s arm completely off me. “Don’t touch me.”

  John smirks. “Got a little bite to you, don’t you? I like that in a woman.” He leans toward me, and I can feel his hot breath on my face. “But you are in my house. You might think about showing me some respect.”

  I want to stand, to run, but something about John’s glower, the tone of his voice, makes me realize I have to be still.