So the Season's Changed Your Face

Three antique shops and one Taco Bell run later, I returned home with one antique tablecloth for which I paid much more than I should have and a bag of burritos, sans onions.

The house was still quiet and Dad had still not come home. I set aside two burritos for myself and crept grudgingly toward my mom’s bedroom. I knocked on the door; I could hear faint voices coming from the television. My mom shut it off, and feebly told me to come in.

She looked a mess, with her hair sticking out in every direction and a half empty bottle of wine on her bedside table. I also noticed that her Valium had finally come out of hiding, and I made a mental note to sneak into her room later and confiscate it.

“I brought you some burritos,” I told her, handing her the Taco Bell bag. “I thought you might like some dinner.”

She smiled sleepily at me, and I assumed her mild manner was caused by the Valium she had washed down with cheap Pinot. “Thanks, Vivi,” she slurred. She attempted to focus on me, but she failed miserably.

“I also bought you a new tablecloth,” I added, holding out the plastic bag to her. “It’s not identical to Grandma Ruth’s, but it was the closest I could find.”

She took the tablecloth out of the bag and examined it with her dopey eyes. Again, she smiled, though her smile was not warm and comforting. It was dazed and lazy, and quite frankly, it made me loathe her.

My mom rubbed the tablecloth against her cheek. “Thanks, Vivi,” she said again. Her words sounded sincere, but I had a very hard time believing her. “I’ll put it on the table now.”

She tried to get up, but I rushed to push her back into bed. “No, mom, I got it. I’ll put it on the table. You just…you just stay in bed.”

I don’t want you knocking shit over.

“Thanks, sweetie,” she said, nuzzling deep into her pillows. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

I was barely at the door when deep snores emanated from her throat.

I shook my head, tablecloth in hand, and shut off her overhead light. She’s not going to work tomorrow, I thought morosely, heading to the kitchen to put the new tablecloth onto the table.

I returned to my room, where my homework had been left neglected. While I would much rather take a nap, I reached for a pencil and my calculator and hacked away at my Trig homework, which was more tedious than anything else.


I was not surprised that I had awoken at one in the morning, seeing as I had crawled into bed at six or so. I rolled over to discover a pile of dirty gym clothing on top of the hamper. I groaned – mom was stoned all weekend and had clearly forgotten to do the laundry (or chose not to).

Groggily, I shuffled out of bed and gathered my dirty clothing, resolving to do a load of laundry before falling back asleep.

A tiny voice in the back of my head told me the washing machine might wake up my mom, but then I remembered she was inebriated beyond all belief, and that the Valium was probably still fogging her senses. I wasn’t too concerned.

I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich as the washing machine agitated my dirty clothing. I guess we’re back to PB and J, I mused, picking morosely at the crust.

I wondered where my dad was and what he was doing. I figured he would have called – if only to make sure I was okay – but he didn’t; I hadn’t seen or heard from him since Friday evening. I was irritated with him. Sure, I always knew my dad was one to avoid sticky situations, but I never imagined he would actually run out on mom and me.

But he’ll come back, I told myself as I poured myself a glass of milk. And everything will be perfectly okay.

Perhaps saying it enough will be enough. Maybe I can will everything to be alright.

I finished my pathetic dinner and snuck silently into my mom’s bedroom. Her body was twisted in the sheets, her unruly hair sticking out from underneath a pillow. Careful not to trip over her slippers, I edged to her bedside table and stole the Valium, knowing full well that she was only using it to numb her pain, rather than for its intended use. She hadn’t needed Valium since I was in middle school – and the circumstances were much different then.

Without hesitating, I dumped the blue little tablets down the garbage disposal and flipped the switch. The garbage disposal rumbled to life and ate the Valium. Normally, I would feel guilty for throwing away someone else’s medication, but truth be told, I do not like how Valium affects my mom. It makes her docile, which most people would consider a good thing, but I feel it makes her a tad too docile. Zombie-like, really.

If she really feels she needs Valium, she can go visit her therapist and request a new bottle. But I am not going to let her eat Valium like candy – not this time.

An infomercial later, the washing machine beeped loudly, shaking me from my sleepy stupor. I transferred my laundry from one drum to another and returned to the couch, barely hearing Jack LaLanne plug his power juicer before drifting off to sleep.


“How is everything?”

“Mike, isn’t your locker three hallways in that direction?” I asked rudely, jabbing my thumb over my shoulder.

“Yes, but I already got my things,” he answered, referring to his Music Theory textbook. “How is everything?” he repeated, his tone very serious.

“Fine,” I responded, slamming my locker shut, “Just fucking peachy.”

Mike dropped his voice to a whisper. “Has your dad come home yet?”

“No,”

“I’m sure he’ll come back today or tomorrow,” Mike said, offering a friendly smile. “He has to get clean clothing sometime, right?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it, Mike,” I snapped at him, rubbing my eyes with my free hand. “I really don’t.”

Mike’s face fell. “Oh. Sorry.” And he left without another word to me.

I sighed, knowing I had no right treating Mike in such a way. I chalked it up to being tired and noted vaguely that I should probably apologize when I next saw him, which would be in PE. The warning bell sounded.

I didn’t even muster up the energy to rush to my second floor English class. I trudged glumly through the halls, wishing I was in bed rather than at school.