Page 8 of Masquerade Mistake
My stomach twists as I near her house. In the months I haven’t seen her, the guilt has been a constant companion. She needs help, but I don’t know what to do for her. I’m mad at every way she’s failed me, and her current mental state is a part of that list. She did this to herself.
I slow to a stop, eyeing the home I grew up in as I fight my nausea. Besides the overgrown lawn and the dying plants out front, it’s still the same house. The peeling yellow paint on the siding. The white door with scuff marks at the bottom. The window covered with cardboard that had been broken by one of her old boyfriends during one of their fights. If I look long enough, I swear I’ll see a younger version of my mom—one that hid her drug use and alcoholism behind a wide painted smile as she greeted me after school. But I always smelled the skunky scent of old beer or the burnt plastic odor from the glass pipe she hid. Even before I knew what it was, I smelled it.
Mustering my courage, I walk the path to the door, stepping over weeds growing between the cracks. I used to keep up my mom’s front yard so that Finn had a place to play when we visited. But it’s been almost a year since I’ve brought him here, and almost as long since I’ve pulled any of her weeds or mowed the lawn. I don’t think anyone else has, either.
I hold my hand up to knock, but stop short, nerves twisting my stomach into a double knot. It’s just a place. It’s so silly I’m even affected this way. And yet, my insides don’t get the memo. I feel like I’m twelve all over again, unsure what I’ll see on the other side of the door.
I rap my knuckles on the door before I can lose my nerve. I never step inside without knocking first because I don’t know who else is here. I half hope no one will answer so I can leave while feeling like I tried my best to be a dutiful daughter.
Heavy footsteps sound on the other side of the door, and I sigh as I straighten up. The door swings open, and I’m surprised to see Duke is still here. My mom isn’t usually one to keep the same guy around for months at a time. With his grease-stained Henley shirt, leather vest, and long grey hair that matches his even longer beard, the guy looks something between biker and homeless—but not much different from any of the other guys she’s brought home.
“Is Mom here?” I ask, even though I know she is. She doesn’t have a car anymore, and there really isn’t anywhere for her to go. Not even the grocery store, thanks to the automatic delivery system I’ve set her up on. I still get billed, which has been my one way of knowing she’s alive. Or at least someone at the house is receiving them.
He opens the door wider, then nods toward the living room without saying a word. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard Duke speak, now that I think of it. He turns and walks away as I step into the house, just like he did the last time.
One whiff, and I know nothing’s changed. There’s a nauseating chemical smell, and smoke sits heavy in the air. When I turn the corner to the living room, my mom is still on the couch. If she wasn’t wearing different clothes, I’d think she hadn’t moved since I was last here. The TV is blasting away, and a slow trail of smoke rises from the lit cigarette on an ash-filled plate. My mom is passed out, her mouth open. I note the two empty beer bottles lying near the plate.
“Mom, get up,” I say, nudging her before snuffing out the burning cigarette. My knee bumps something on the floor, and I hear something roll under the couch. Leaning down, I fumble blindly until my hand closes around something glass and circular. My heart sinks as I stare at the crack pipe in my hand.
My mother makes a small noise, and I pocket the pipe quickly. Her eyes remain closed, but she smacks her mouth. She’s wearing shorts and a tank top, and I can tell she’s lost weight by the way her knees jut out and the gaunt look of her cheeks. Her sallow skin appears like worn paper and her stomach protrudes like a small melon, making the rest of her body appear that much more skeletal.
I turn off the TV and can suddenly think. It allows me the space to take in the mess around me.
“Mom,” I try again, this time shaking her shoulder. She’s so tiny now, her whole shoulder bone fits in the palm of my hand. I feel like I could break her. She remains asleep.
I leave her be and start picking up things in the living room. I only have a few more hours before Finn is out of school, so I don’t plan to stay long. But the least I can do is straighten up.
I bring the empty bottles and dirty dishes into the kitchen, and exhale at the sight. More dishes are piled in the sink, crusted with moldy food. To-go containers litter the countertops. The floor is sticky, and I regret the cute Mary Jane shoes I wore today. Grease streaks run down the walls, and something furry disappears behind the water heater. When I take a closer look, I see rat droppings and a hole that leads to the covered porch.
I get to work scraping the plates and stacking them, then scrubbing the sink before filling it with water. I work in batches—filling the dish rack with clean plates and then drying them before putting them away. I go through the fridge too, throwing full containers of food in the garbage as I hold my breath, then dragging the garbage bags to the can out back. Before I leave the can, I pull the pipe out of my pocket. I bury it down deep into the trash, hoping it will remain there until the garbageman collects it.
Back in the house, the dishes and counters are as clean as they’re going to get. I wring dirty water from the mop before tackling the floor one more time. By the time I’m done, the house looks somewhat decent, and my back and legs are killing me. I put on a pot of coffee, breathing in the earthy aroma while I wait. Then, with a steaming cup, I return to the living room.
My mom’s eyes are closed, but when I wave the cup under her nose, her mouth twitches. She opens her eyes partway, but it’s a struggle.
“Hey there, baby,” she slurs, then groans as she moves to sit up. Her thin hair is piled on the top of her head, with a few knots at the back. I hand her the cup, fighting the urge to run a brush through her hair. Like she’s the child and I’m the mom she was supposed to be.
“Drink. It will help.”
It’s black and probably too hot, but she drinks it anyway. After a few sips, her eyes cross a few times before focusing back on me.
“Did you bring Finn?”
“He’s still in school,” I say, even though we’ve had this conversation before. I told her to get clean and start taking care of herself, and I’d think about letting her visit Finn.
“Next time,” she says. I want to argue with her, to remind her of my boundary. But the state she’s in, I know it would only upset me more.
“So, you’re still with Duke.”
She makes a noise in her throat but doesn’t confirm or deny.
“He helps buy food,” she says. I shake my head.
“No, Mom. I buy your food. He just eats it.”
“He buys the beer and cigarettes, and sometimes brings food home from Pinko’s,” she says, then gives a throaty laugh. I don’t join her. She’s only just woken up, but I already want to go home. I pretend to look at the clock on the mantle, then stand and stretch.
“I better get going,” I say. “Finn will be home from school soon, and we’re headed to Hillside to see Maren sing. You remember Maren, don’t you?”