A Fistful of God

by Therese M. Travis

  Joyce could get a lot drunker than Mom before they both passed out. I’d seen it, all those lovely times Joyce came to our place so Mom wouldn’t be leaving me alone and neglecting me. I’d be cleaning up after Mom or covering her with a blanket wherever she’d passed out, and Joyce would manage to slosh another mouthful from the bottle. I could just imagine what I’d find in the morning.

  Mom must have had a lot to say about me because the conversation went on and on. Blah, blah, blah.

  I didn’t ask her to think about me!

  It wasn’t my fault.

  I listened to her voice, the long pauses in between. I hated the pauses most, because at least when she was talking, she couldn’t be drinking. But the pauses grew, so many, so long, that I finally cried myself to sleep.

  2

  Saturday Mom started nagging about the stupid Alateen meeting before I rolled out of bed. I staggered after her to the kitchen and watched her slug down orange juice like it was her favorite scotch.

  “It’ll help both of us if you go,” she said. Crooked strips of sun pierced the closed blinds and stabbed her face. But the dim room shadowed her eyes, and I figured they had to be bleary and swollen. I grabbed the cord and snapped up the blind so light flooded the room.

  Mom winced and covered her forehead with her hand. “It’s at three this afternoon.”

  I slammed my glass onto the table and juice sloshed over my hand. “Did you even think I might have something to do then?” I shouted and struggled to lower my voice. “I’m supposed to babysit.”

  “Aidyn.” Mom waited for me to look at her. “I didn’t know. You don’t need to change your plans. There’s always next week.”

  “What if I’ve got something next week?”

  “You make it sound like I’m forcing you.” Mom sighed and shook her head like she thought she could convince me how wrong I was. “You have to be ready for it, or it won’t help.” She took another drink and her hands shook. She had been talking to Joyce last night, and now she had a hangover.

  Yeah, and she probably had vodka in that juice.

  “Just like me.” Mom’s voice came soft and patient, as though she loved this deep, touching subject and knew I cared just as terribly about it. “If I hadn’t been ready to quit, I wouldn’t have been able to.”

  Just like her—she thought I was like her? “I don’t have anything to quit!”

  She raised one eyebrow at me, as though I had no idea what I was talking about.

  “I’m not the one who drinks!”

  “I know.”

  “I’m not the one who throws up because I drink. I’m not the one who forgets stuff like birthdays and promises and field trips and teacher conferences because I drink. I’m not the one who pretends to quit and then lies and lies.” I jumped up and backed away, my fists pressed to my stomach.

  “I did quit.” Mom stood, too.

  I backed farther away. “You’re lying.”

  “When did you think I was drinking?”

  “Only last night,” I snarled. “Only when you were talking to Joyce. Only when you weren’t talking I knew what you were doing.”

  “I was talking to…I was listening, Aidyn. That was my sponsor.”

  “Was she drinking, too?”

  Mom gasped. “Of course not! I swear. I haven’t had a drink since Sunday.”

  “You’re lying!” I flailed my arm, grabbed something, and threw it. Orange juice sprayed my mother and the kitchen. “I hate you!”

  She put her hands over her face, and I did the same, cowering, sure last Sunday would happen all over again.

  “Oh, dear God,” Mom whispered. But I knew she wasn’t talking to me. For once, she was really praying.

  I lowered my arms. She slumped against the warped counter, juice dripping off her chin, and she shook. “I don’t need this, Aidyn. I’m having enough trouble trying not to drink.”

  We stared at each other, blame separating us.

  “I’m sorry.” Mom swallowed. If she went on swallowing her anger, she’d make herself sick. “For what I said, and for Sunday.” She looked away.

  “I thought you blacked out again.”

  “I wish I had.” She looked up at me then. “Aidyn, I am so sorry.”

  Her tears mixed with the juice, but she still didn’t wipe her face. I grabbed a towel. Too rough, I dragged it across her face until she snapped it away. I didn’t care. She must be half drunk already, slobbery, sentimental, maudlin. She took the towel from me and clutched it to her chest. “Did I hit you?”

  I shrugged. “You were too drunk to hurt me much.”

  “You have no idea how sorry I am.” She turned, wiping the sticky juice from the table and cabinets. I leaned against the table and watched her.

  She tossed the sopping towel in the sink. “I was out of control, and I hurt you, and I’m sorrier than you can imagine.”

  Mom never talked this way. That meeting must have affected her. That or the booze. Maybe she could hold it better now, but she still had to be drunk.

  She pointed to the juice pooled on the edge of the sink and dripping to the floor. “You’re out of control, too.”

  I snorted. “I’m not the one with the hangover.”

  Something sparked in her eyes. “For once, neither am I.”

  “That’s ‘cause you’re already half bombed.”

  “No, I’m not.” She shook her head. “I know I’m shaky. I’m getting rid of years of booze. I can’t expect to feel great overnight. But I am feeling better.”

  Something hot and acid crept up my throat. She always said that. She’d stumble through the door, shaking with need, then she’d hug that first glass and say, “This has been the worst day, but I’m feeling better.”

  Now she held out her arms like she wanted to hug me, too. I purposely flinched, but it didn’t work that time. “I’m sorry I hit you, baby. I know you hate me because I didn’t love you enough. I’m sorry I was always drunk when you needed me.” She gave up reaching for me. “I’m so tired of being sorry.”

  “I have to get my shower.” I turned away, as much to hide my shock as to leave. “And then I have to go to the Donaldsons’.” I glanced around. I tried to keep the kitchen clean, though how many times had I spent all my energy cleaning up her mess instead? “If you’re so wonderfully sober, maybe it’s time you took over the housework.”

  Mrs. Donaldson opened the door when I knocked. “They’re still napping. You can take them to the park after they finish their snack, but be home by five. We’re going to my in-laws’ for dinner.” She made a face, and I laughed. She hated taking her kids there, but it was family so she felt obligated. “My husband should be home by then so you won’t have to stay.” She bustled off to her room to finish getting ready.

  I sat at her kitchen table with my history book. I had to study for a test on Monday, but the words went blurry. I yanked off my glasses and rubbed away the tears.

  “Aidyn?” I looked up. Mrs. Donaldson’s pale face had gone red. “Is your mother all right?”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Why?” She hated attitude, but I didn’t care. Why should I have to tiptoe around her feelings, too?

  She bit her lip. “Lucas heard you yelling again and it scared him.” She watched me for a minute, but I stared at my history text. “You know, if you need to talk, I’m here.”

  I shrugged.

  “It can’t be easy with your mother the way—” I jerked my head up and she stopped. “Oh, Aidyn.”

  Everybody in the apartment building knew about Mom.

  She glanced at her watch. “I have to go.” She sounded like she had a time bomb ticking off her last minutes. “But I’m usually here when you get home from school.” Her face went red, but I was just as mortified.

  I said, “OK,” and we both knew I’d never confide in her.

  By three I had the boys at the park. My watch must have broken. It stayed three o’clock for the longest time, only inching to one minute past, then two, after wh
at seemed like hours of agony.

  Mom’s meeting started at three. My world would stay riveted to three in the afternoon for the rest of my eternity. What did I know about AA meetings? People introduced themselves, said what they were—the one word that defined them all. I tried to imagine Mom saying, “My name is Beth, and I’m an alcoholic.”

  My mind could not grasp that last word. I’d never heard her say it, and I’d never said it about her. Knowing is so different. You can know something and never have to admit it out loud, and that makes it bearable.

  Maybe it was easier for Mom to say she was a drunk. Maybe it was easier for her to tell strangers what she was.

  If I’d gone to the stupid meeting she wanted me to go to, I’d have ended up having to say practically the same thing. I shook my head. How could I say that about my mother? How could I ever admit to that horrible, stinking shame?

  I tried to move my lips across the words. “My name is Aidyn and my mom—”

  Lucas tugged my arm. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.” The park, crunchy with leaves and full of Saturday visitors, came into focus. Andy held his arms out for the swing. These kids needed me.

  I pushed Andy and wondered if Mom had really gone to that meeting. Maybe she’d gotten too caught up in being an alcoholic to tell a bunch of losers she was one.

  I yanked Andy out of the swing and onto my back. “Race you!” I yelled to Lucas, and I started around the edge of the playground. I ran away from the voice that accused, if she’s drinking right now, it’s because you made her, Aidyn. It’s your fault!

  Halfway around the edge I saw them, a bunch of boys from the high school, with Jackson right in the middle. I stopped and Lucas slammed into me. I grabbed his shoulder to keep my balance while he screamed, “I caught you! You’re it!”

  “We’re not playing tag.” I set Andy down and pretended to tie his shoe while I watched the boys.

  I knew almost all of them. Miguel, the clown, and Wallis, the best basketball player the high school team has had in years. But I couldn’t tear my eyes from Jackson. I tipped my head at a neck-wrenching angle to see him through both my hair and glasses. Jackson, with his ice-blue eyes and straight black hair. Everybody’s friend, except mine. He didn’t know me, but every other kid in high school got to call him a friend.

  My feelings for him proved I was just like any other girl, didn’t they? Those eyes, that smile, the one he gave to every person he saw. Not to me. He wouldn’t see me, but I responded like a real person. At least he gave me undeniable proof that I was alive, that I could be normal. If only…

  “Aidyn, come on,” Lucas yelled. He grabbed my hand and jerked, and I landed on my knees. Gritty sand dug into my skin, and I bent my head in pain. I heard the older boys laughing. I tried so hard not to look, but I had to. Jackson stood a little apart and stared at me, his eyes shadowed.

  Great. He had noticed me this time; he knew me now. He wouldn’t know my name, unless he’d heard Lucas, but he’d know me as the klutz.

  He turned and melted into the group, and I finally noticed Lucas. “Did I trouble you?” he asked.

  I laughed. Where had he gotten such an old-fashioned way of talking?

  He touched my cheek with butterfly-wing-fingers. “Mommy says you’re troubled. We say God bless Aidyn every night.”

  I sat down flat on the sand and gaped at him. So Mrs. Donaldson taught these little kids how to pity me. I didn’t need it! And if I didn’t need the money, I’d quit babysitting. But it wasn’t Lucas’s fault his mother was a busybody.

  After a minute, I pulled my head from my bent arms and took a breath to settle my thoughts. “I’m not troubled. Just don’t pull on me like that, OK?” By then Jackson and his friends had disappeared. It didn’t matter.

  I walked through our apartment door a little after five, and there was dinner on the table, heaping plates of spaghetti smothered in sauce, and salads. Balanced and healthy. Wow. And to round things out, a tumbler of wine at Mom’s place matched the cup of milk at mine.

  At least we weren’t pretending she wasn’t drinking anymore.

  My stomach knotted but at least I knew what to expect.

  Mom finished off that first glass before she even took one bite. I wondered if she’d eat at all, but after she refilled the glass from a pitcher in the fridge, she sat down and motioned me to join her.

  “How was your day?” she asked.

  I picked at a string of pasta with my fingers.

  She took another drink, then a bite. Maybe she thought I wouldn’t notice how she’d polished off that first glass. Maybe she thought she could fool me into thinking she had Kool-Aid in there. Maybe she was too far gone to care.

  When Mom first started drinking, I saw nothing wrong with it. I was only nine and as miserable as my mother, and I felt so safe when she relaxed and smiled and sometimes laughed. I’d missed her laughter the most since Dad died.

  But she never stayed—safe.

  Now, she couldn’t stop drinking. Her words slurred. If she tried to walk she’d stagger, and if she dropped something she wouldn’t notice until it hit the ground. If I told her she was drunk or asked her to stop, she’d get mad, tell me I was only trying to ruin her good mood.

  “Remember we’re going to Mass tomorrow,” Mom said.

  I stared at the stringy pasta in my sauce-stained fingers.

  “Aidyn?”

  I shrugged.

  Another long drink. “Set your alarm. We’ll go to the nine o’clock service.”

  I glared at the glass. “You’re going to have a hangover,” I told her. “You’ll never make it.”

  Her face went tight. “I’m not drinking.”

  “What about that?” I pointed.

  “It’s juice. Did you think I would drink in front of you and lie about it?”

  Think? I knew. “Yes.”

  She blinked. “Yeah, well, maybe last week I would have.” She pushed the glass across the table. “Smell it.”

  “No thanks. You probably got vodka or something like that.” I pushed it away, glad to see some slosh onto the table. “If you’re up, why don’t you wake me? That way I won’t end up setting my alarm for nothing.”

  I ran to my room. No matter how much I hoped, nothing would ever change.

  Especially me.

  3

  Sunday morning I checked the clock as soon as I woke up, and groaned. Not even seven yet. I had more than half an hour to wonder if we were going to Mass or if Mom had blown it the night before and couldn’t face the world today.

  I stared at the gray light that sneaked through the blinds. I’d left the window open and now the cold seeped in. I’d forgotten my heavy blanket even though the last few nights had been chilly. One more thing I’d screwed up. I couldn’t get anything right, and terror struggled in my chest. I told myself that blankets aren’t a big deal, and then realized I already knew it. I was scared about Mom. And if Mom had stayed sober, that left me free to panic about Mass.

  I used to believe what they told us at church. I used to pray God would make us be just like the Holy Family, because they were three people and my family had three people, and the only difference I could tell was that I was a girl. Only Dad died, and Mom wasn’t anything like Mary. And me—well, I wasn’t anything good, not like their kid. Still, even after Mom got to being regularly hung over on Sunday mornings, I’d go to Mass. With the church just a few blocks from our apartment, I’d walk. I’d find myself a seat and feel, just for a little while, as though when I got home everything would be OK. After all, I kept praying. God wouldn’t tell me no again, would He? Only He did. But I kept going until the Sunday after the Shannon thing.

  One night, her parents went to a party, and Shannon came to our apartment. Mom joined us as we hunkered on my bed. Shannon and I each had a soda; Mom had her bottle. She was great, at first, telling us stories that made us howl with laughter. But the stories got scary. Not ghost-and-monster scary, but confusing-scary, and way too
grownup for a couple of twelve-year-olds. Rather than stare into Shannon’s confused brown eyes, I studied my hands, my ragged cuticles.

  Mom’s drunkenness froze both of us, and we listened like mute toys plunked down after playtime.

  When Mom threw up, Shannon called her parents. I had things cleaned up by the time they came to get her, but I couldn’t do a thing about Mom.

  At school Shannon told me, “I’m not allowed to be friends with you anymore.” She looked like she’d been crying, but she didn’t look sorry. Mom scared her, and anyway, Shannon had plenty of other friends.

  The next Sunday, there I was, sitting in the stiff pew while the church filled, watching people give each other hugs then find a seat and pull out the missalettes or a Rosary for meditation. And then I heard a familiar voice. Shannon’s mother said, “No, let’s not sit there.”

  I turned. Shannon’s little sister argued with their mom and pointed at the long stretch of empty pew next to me. But the woman just shook her head and dragged the kid to the front of the church.

  I got up and walked out. I didn’t have any friends left, not even God. Why should I go talk to Him when all He did was ignore me?

  Shannon’s family probably still went. They were the good kind of people. I bet they’d be really happy to see Mom and me.

  I heard Mom bumping around in the bathroom, and my stomach clenched. Then a crash. I pulled the sheet over my head. We weren’t going to church after all. I knew that before I even got up, but I’d probably get to do a lot of cleaning.

  A few minutes later Mom tugged the sheet out of my fingers. “Come on, Aidyn. You get up earlier than this for school.”

  Something about her eyes and her voice startled me. She wanted to take me.

  “Aidyn?”

  “What broke?”

  “Did that wake you? Sorry. I tossed an old bottle in the trash and missed.”

  I didn’t think she was lying, but I couldn’t tell.