by ANDREA SMITH
Hopefully Mama was still sleeping it off, and I could leave the house without having to deal with the usual bullshit that came with her hangovers: cleaning up puke, helping her out of her soiled clothes and into clean ones, and tucking her in to her bed while listening to her rants.
I grabbed an apple out of the bowl on the kitchen counter, shrugged on my backpack, and headed down the hallway towards the front door.
That’s when I saw her bare feet, sticking out from the arched doorway that led into the living room.
Crap.
So much for getting a clean break from the insanity. I dropped my backpack to the floor and tossed my apple on top of it.
“Come on, Mama. Let’s get you into bed,” I said, walking through the doorway of the living room and bending down to shake her.
But she didn’t move; didn’t make a peep. Her arms were sprawled out in front of her, palms down on the hardwood floor. I noticed a piece of the broken bottle near the fingertips of her right hand.
My eyes quickly moved to her other arm, where blood from her left wrist pooled around it.
“Oh my God! Mama!” I screamed, scooting over to grab her wrist to get a better look. She had gouged it good with the piece of glass. Dried blood was caked on the wound, and then I heard her moan. I jumped up and grabbed the phone, dialing 9-1-1.
“Oh Mama,” I said with a sob, “what did you do? What the hell did you do?”
Chapter 3
Three Years Prior
July 3, 1993
Malibu, CA
“Don’t tell me you’re going to waste a perfectly good holiday weekend sitting out here painting some stupid cliffs, Tennessee,” Seth said, coming up the steps to the back of our yard where I was perched on a stool, canvas and watercolors at my fingertips as I continued painting my landscape abstract.
I glanced over at him, seeing that he’d brought a beach towel, was wearing his bright red swim trunks, and was palming his Nerf football in one hand.
“I’m painting today,” I answered, looking back out over the horizon.
“Yeah, well you painted yesterday, too. You’re letting some prime swim time slip through your fingers. Those cliffs won’t be going anywhere soon. Come on, let’s swim.”
I felt the color rise to my cheeks. Why couldn’t Seth just let me be? I would much rather be swimming, but I couldn’t for another couple of days. I’d just gotten my period for the first time. Mama had explained what I needed to do, and that swimming was off limits until it stopped.
This whole menstruation thing was going to be a drag. I could tell already that I wasn’t going to like it one little bit.
“Are you sure that’s what this is, Mama?” I’d asked when I saw blood. “I’m just fourteen, maybe I should get another opinion.”
“Oh for heaven’s sakes, Neilah Grace! Of course that’s what it is. You ought to be thankful you haven’t started before now. I was barely twelve when I got my first period.”
And so I had resigned myself to the fact that, for the next thirty or forty years, this would be my monthly burden. It totally sucked during the summer though.
“I can’t,” I sputtered, dabbing my brush into the magenta paint.
“Why not?” Seth pressed, scrunching up his forehead.
“Because I just can’t!” I snapped, flashing him a dirty look.
And in seconds, I saw the flash of comprehension as it flickered across his face. “Oh, ragging it, huh?”
“Do you really need to be so crude?” I replied, looking away from him feeling totally embarrassed.
“Hey, Tennessee, relax. I get it. So, we can do something else if you want. Hey, I could have Rita drive us to the Santa Monica Pier.”
Rita was the Drake’s full-time housekeeper.
“What for?”
“To hang out. Maybe drop a pole in the water. Ride the Ferris wheel. Whatever.”
I stopped mid-stroke and gazed over at him. He had his crooked smile going which deepened his dimple even more.
It seemed like Seth had sprouted at least a foot taller since the previous summer. I glanced down at where he had one foot resting on the Nerf ball and noticed his legs were starting to get man hairy. And then, for some inexplicable reason, I quickly looked back up to where I caught him gazing at me with a half-smirk going on.
“Well,” I replied slowly, “this picture is almost finished. I guess I could. But doesn’t Rita have to stay with the kids?”
“Nope, Laura took them with her to the set today. Said she needed more bonding time with her ‘baby girls,’” he finished, rolling his eyes.
Seth called his mother ‘Laura,’ which I found very strange, but then, people did a lot of things differently in California I’d come to realize. He also called his dad ‘Kent.’ That’s just how he was with his folks I guess.
“Okay,” I relented. “I’ll meet you over at your place in about fifteen minutes. You aren’t wearing your swim trunks to the pier, are you?”
He cocked a brow. “Why not? It’s Cali. It’s all good.”
“Whatever,” I mumbled, gathering up my stuff. “See you in a bit.”
And we’d actually had a blast at the pier. Seth had brought some of his fishing gear and actually taught me how to stick the bait on the hook so that we could fish off the end of the pier.
It was just us with a bunch of old guys who chewed tobacco and spit the juice out over the side of the railing with enviable precision. Their skin worn and weathered, as if they’d spent hundreds of hours of their lives fishing, just like they were doing that afternoon.
“This isn’t half bad,” I commented to him, as I’d felt a pull on my line. “Hey, I think I caught one!”
He’d immediately dropped his pole to come help me, instructing me how to reel in my catch, which, as it turned out, was an old black leather boot.
“Aww, that’s a bummer,” he consoled, “But you never know what you might pull out of the ocean I guess.”
Later, we’d ridden the Ferris wheel about four times, got some ice cream, and then walked over to where some street musicians were trying to lure a totally fake snake out of a big, black urn with their flutes. I walked over and stuck a dollar bill in their glass jar.
“What’d you do that for?” Seth asked. “That’s all fake, you know.”
“I know,” I replied, “but still, I was entertained so why not? I believe in supporting the arts, which includes musicians, Seth.”
He rolled his eyes, and shook his head. “I don’t consider that crap music or art. You’re kind of weird, Neely.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I reckon that’s because I’m artsy. At least that’s what my daddy says.”
Seth studied me quietly for a moment as if he was considering what I’d just said. “Yeah. I guess you are at that. But you’re okay anyway,” he finally said. “Come on, let’s go put our feet in the sand.”
And, for the rest of that afternoon, we made wet sand pictures with our toes. Mine were so much better than Seth’s even though he wouldn’t admit it.
To make up for it, I pretended I couldn’t grasp the knack of skipping stones on the lagoon that was on the other side of the beach. Seth patiently explained what I was doing wrong; and that it was all in the wrist snap at just the right time if I wanted to achieve multiple skips, but I just never seemed to manage it.
When Rita dropped me off at home later, Mama gave me what for because I hadn’t taken my sunscreen with me. She made me stay inside for the rest of the afternoon, but that was okay, because I’d decided to work with my charcoals in my room. I loved sketching and shading with them.
By suppertime, I had a fairly good sketch of Seth standing against the rail of the Santa Monica Pier, with his fishing pole over the side and his ball cap on backwards. I pinned it to my bedroom wall that had been paneled in cork board from floor to ceiling.
It was where I displayed all of my exc
eptional work.
Chapter 4
Present Day
I paced back and forth outside the double doors that led to the ER. I’d been told to stay put after the paramedics had wheeled Mama in there, her face covered with an oxygen mask, and her left wrist wrapped in layers of gauze. It seemed like it had been hours, but the clock on the wall said it was more like thirty minutes since she’d gone in there.
I finally collapsed down on one of the chairs that lined the hallway outside of the emergency room. I buried my face in my hands. I needed to call someone. I didn’t want to be here by myself in case…well, in case the news was bad. The medics hadn’t told me anything. I’d had to ride up front with the driver who just kept telling me to stay calm.
But I had been calm. Almost too calm. At first, it was if I was watching it all unfold from someone else’s eyes, not my own. I’d made the call, given the address, and described Mama’s injury in a very calm manner.
The 9-1-1 operator had been really nice, telling me to find something clean to wrap around my mother’s wrist, which I had done.
Before I knew it, I heard the screaming of the sirens down our street. The police had come too because they had to take a statement. I told them everything I knew up to the point of finding her there on the floor this morning before I left for school.
They’d asked me if I needed to call someone before we even left the house for the hospital. I had stared at them blankly. “There’s really nobody to call,” I explained. “I’m all she has.”
“I meant for you,” the officer had clarified.
“She’s all I have,” I responded before walking out the door behind the paramedics who’d placed Mama on a gurney.
But sitting here now, I knew that wasn’t altogether true. I still had my father even though we hadn’t talked to one another in ages.
And I still had my grandmother.
My grandfather had died last year, and when Mama and I had gone to the funeral home, it had been the first time we’d all seen each other in nearly a year.
Grandma hadn’t approved of Mama’s lifestyle, and made no bones about it even there that day.
“You smell of booze,” she said after Mama had pulled her into a hug. “Drinking already and it’s not even noon.”
She’d pulled away from Mama and reached for me. “Neilah Grace,” she said with a sigh, “why’d you let her drink before coming here to mourn her daddy?”
It took me a moment or two, but when I realized she actually wanted an answer to that, I was dumbfounded. I simply stared at her wrinkled face and wondered when I’d become the parent and Mama the child.
Mama proceeded to show herself once the minister began the prayers. She cried and sobbed, and dropped down to her knees in front of Grandpa’s casket, clawing at it and asking “Why, Daddy, why?”
I had no choice but to intervene, going over to where she was and whispering to her to please get up and not make a scene.
“He’s my daddy!” she had wailed, “I’ll make a damn scene if I want to, Neilah Grace!”
Finally, the minister came to my rescue. He bent down and talked softly to Mama, telling her that her father was home with the Lord now and wouldn’t want her grieving like that for him. She’d finally nodded and allowed him to help her back up to her feet, where she got a fit of hiccups that lasted throughout the prayers.
At the cemetery, there’d been more of the same and my grandmother had finally broken down as well, sobbing into her black lace handkerchief.
Afterward, Mama and I had stayed a bit so that she could say her final goodbyes. I had thought about my father. I hadn’t seen him since the summer before. But it seemed longer than that. Much longer.
I heard the swish of the double doors leading from the ER, and a man with a starched white coat, and turquoise-colored scrub pants looked around. “Who’s here for Nina Evans?”
“I am,” I said, standing up. “I’m Neely. I’m her daughter.”
“Dr. Reynolds,” he said, holding his hand out for me to shake. He sized me up for a moment, probably trying to figure out how old I was and then he lowered his head and sifted through a couple of papers that were attached to the clipboard he held. “She’s lost a lot of blood, but thankfully, she didn’t hit an artery. I’ve stitched up the cut, and given her something for the pain. We need to keep her seventy-two hours for observation.”
“Observation?” I asked.
He cleared his throat as if he was uncomfortable continuing the conversation with me. “Well, Neely,” he began slowly, trying to select the least offensive words I imagined, “there’s the matter of her injuring herself—”
“You mean trying to commit suicide?”
He nodded. “Yes, well, by state law, these attempts, when brought to the attention of medical practitioners and law enforcement, must be handled per the legal statute—”
I interrupted him. “Only seventy-two hours?”
He stopped mid-sentence and looked at me, clearly puzzled by what I’d just said.
“Doctor,” I continued, “my mama tries to commit suicide every damn day of the week. Maybe not with a piece of cut glass, but with something nearly as lethal. She’s a raging alcoholic.”
He was still watching me, totally befuddled, if I was reading his expression correctly.
“She goes on benders for days, sometimes weeks at a time,” I said, enunciating my words for clarity. “Her cutting herself? Well, that’s just her way of trying to speed up the process since the alcohol is taking its good old time, I guess.”
Dr. Reynolds looked shocked, but as I stood there staring back, I double-dog dared him to blame me for any of it.
“So, what you’re saying is that you feel she needs longer term treatment?”
“Bingo,” I replied. “She needs to dry out and talk to a shrink. Now, can you or can you not make that happen what with these legal statutes and all?”
Again, he cleared his throat. I was pretty sure I’d thrown the good doctor a curve ball. But this was my chance to make something happen. And Mama’s chance to survive.
“How old are you, Neely?”
There it was. I wasn’t surprised. I knew that question was coming.
“Seventeen.”
“Ah. I see. Let me ask you this, is there any next-of-kin of your mother’s that might agree to sign on as her legal guardian?”
I contemplated his words, wondering if, in fact, Grandma would step up to the plate on this one. “My grandmother…my Mama’s mother is all there is. They don’t get along. I’m just not sure…”
“Listen, Neely,” the doctor said gently, “it’s her best chance for recovery.”
“I’ll make the call,” I replied solemnly. “All she can say is no, I guess.”
I phoned Grandma and explained the situation. I was surprised when she started crying. I guess I’d half-expected her to say it was my problem now, but she didn’t. She actually broke down.
“Of course, Neely. I’ll be there right away, honey. I…I just don’t know what’s wrong with me that I didn’t see this for what it was. Please forgive me.”
“It’s not for me to forgive, Grandma.”
I hung up the phone and turned around to see Dr. Reynolds studying me thoughtfully. “She’s on her way,” I said. “She’ll sign the papers to commit Mama for treatment.”
“That’s good,” he said. “What about you?”
I gazed up at him, confused. “I don’t think I’m ready just yet for that.”
He smiled, “No, I meant who’s going to be looking after you, Neely?”
I shrugged. “I’ve pretty much been looking out for myself since we moved back.”
“I also have a legal responsibility to report minors who are left without care once your mother is taken in for treatment. That’s all I meant. If you’re not eighteen yet, I have to notify the Department of Human Services to intervene.”
“No,” I snapped, “there’s no
need for that. I have my father. He’s in California, but he’ll take me. I’m sure of it.”
He nodded. “Good. You’ll need to contact him and he’ll need to contact social services to authorize assuming legal custody of you. I’m sure it can be handled by phone and fax, but it has to be approved by the court. Until then, I suggest you stay with your grandmother.”
“Got it,” I replied, getting ready to place that call to my father. The sooner the better. I wasn’t up to having to put my grandmother back together. It was just too much. I wanted my old life back, and I wasn’t too proud to admit it.
I prayed my father would want me as much as I wanted and needed to be there.
Chapter 5
Two and a Half Years Prior
Malibu, CA
Thanksgiving 1993
“I don’t know why your father couldn’t put off this meeting in New York,” my mother said, leaning against the kitchen counter and sucking down her third—or was it her fourth—martini?
“Mama, something smells like it’s burning,” I remarked, walking past her where the double decker built-in ovens were located against the wall. Both lights were illuminated, and I bent down to peer into the bottom oven.
“Oh, Mama,” I said, quickly grabbing a couple of the potholders from the counter and opening the oven door. “The turkey is burnt to a crisp!. See here?”
She glanced over at the pan as I set it on the counter and then started giggling. “Oops,” she said, covering her mouth with her hand, “I think I’ must’ve mixed them up. The turkey should have been roasting at 325. The other stuff at 425. Why that bird’s been in there for five hours.” And then her giggles segued into a fit of pure, maniacal laughter.
I reached up and turned both ovens off. “Never mind, Mama. I’m not in the mood for Thanksgiving anyway.”
Her martini routine was getting out of hand. The more Daddy was gone, the more martinis she seemed to down. This was not like her, or at least it hadn’t been except for the past several months.
“Listen,” I said, taking her arm and pulling her out of the kitchen and toward our family room, “why don’t you just relax. Watch some television. I’ll fix us something to eat, okay?”
