Backwards

Her mouth is curved up as she sleeps, not because she's dreaming but because she probably passed out drunk some time before noon. Typical. The nearly empty bottle of whiskey is still gripped tightly in her thin hand, with about half the contents spilled onto the floral printed bed spread she's had for twenty years. I lose my breath for a moment, taking in the smell that was once something so natural. Now the smoke infused carpet and bitter smell of alcohol stained everything hits me like a brick wall as soon as I walk through the door but after a few deep breaths of stale cigarette air, nostalgia slaps me in the face with a somber welcome.

I nearly trip on an empty forty of Olde English, but catch myself on the side table. The chipped wood is faded and old, much like it was years ago. I can't remember anything new being brought in here unless it was something given to us, but even those things were hand me downs, worn out from their previous owners and weren't treated any better once they entered this house.

Two white lines of powder that never made it up her nose are clumped together in what looks to be a rush before the black out. This right here is why I should've never left, but it's also why I had to. I wipe the coke off the table with my hands, smearing it clean. Brushing my palms together furiously, the powder dissipates into the air and it almost looks pretty but the sight beyond the white flurry is anything but.

In my strongest voice I try to wake her, but she hardly stirs. Only a small flair of her nostrils gives way. She doesn't move when I push her shoulders either, but the green bottle loosens from her grip and rolls into the fold of the blanket.

"Get up." I say again louder, pushing her with a little more force than before.

She groans and rolls onto her back. The dark brown hair that mirrors mine is stuck to the side of her face, hiding her pasty cheeks. One of her eyes opens for a quick second to glare at me in warning, red veins sprouting around her dark iris. Almost demonic, her body arches up as she stretches, but then comes crashing back down.

"Cara. Up." I kick the side of the bed now, losing patience fast.

Both of her eyes open and after we stare at each other for what I hope are a few minutes of life choice contemplation on her part, she lifts her head up and asks, "Where did you get that dress?"
Also typical.

I groan. "Can you get up please? You're going to be late."

So much for reflection. I hold my hand out to help her up but she just slaps it away and searches for the whiskey. A sudden burst of desperation hits and her hands start to move faster, pulling at the damp blanket. The bottle finally frees from the folds and flips onto the floor landing straight up. I grab it before she can and stash it behind my back.

"Up. Now."

She wants to say something. I know it. But her eyes dart to the table and where the coke should be.

"Something wrong?" I ask trying to hide the smile I usually save for small victories. She reaches a bony arm over the table, her hand lingering over tiny particles that didn't get swept away, before extending her fingers to set a picture upright.

"You look like me here." She says, raspy from years and years of smoking and the hours she must have spent drinking just today. Aside from having the same dark hair and pointy nose, we look nothing alike. My eyes are lighter, skin tanned and toned. I look healthy and she looks faded, thin and brittle in the rough world she attempted to raise me in.

"I don't." I regard, taking the picture in my hand. Frame-less, a glossy rectangle with empty smiles forced to appear at someone saying "cheese". I'm eight, dressed in a shirt too big and pants too short. Cara looks as glassy eyed as ever, smiling in a cloud of smoke with a cigarette stuck between her fingers. Our whole lives summed up in one photo - an unfit pair holding onto something so hazy.

"What are you doing here Riley?" She asks, pinching the ends of my hair and twisting the strands to the side.

"I was in the neighborhood." I smooth my hair back to the way it was, loose and free.

"You’re never in the neighborhood." She says without a hitch, sliding a short, hot pink skirt up and under the long t-shirt she passed out in. She rifles through a pile of clothes at the foot of the bed, tossing neon colored rags into the air until she finally finds what she’s looking for.

"Well I am today. Am I wrong or don't you have to be at work in an hour?"

"You're wrong." She faces the other way and swaps her rumpled shirt for a zebra print halter. Her ribs look brittle even through the tight spandex material of her top. The ends of her collar bones protruding like twigs over her shoulders. "I should have been there an hour ago."

"Wow. Guess I got my promptness from my father. Whoever he is."

"Don't start with me. I'm not in the mood."

"Clearly." The subject of my father is never discussed. It's the giant elephant in the room that's usually shunned to the corner and ignored and we've been doing it since I can remember. She won't even lie to me and make up some story about how he was a war hero, killed in action or a sleaze ball that dropped her off at a Wal-Mart and never looked back. I think I would be fine thinking my father was at the very least a common criminal, but no. According to Cara, I was an immaculate conception and instead of a blessing, I was a complete fucking burden.

Actually, there isn't much I know about her life before she had me either. Other than what she yells at me during drunken tirades, I've been mostly subjected to how great her life was before me. Once, she did admit to robbing her parents of a couple thousand dollars - before running away - because they wouldn't accept her as a pregnant teenager, which she of course turned on me since everything is apparently my fault. This made me realize that not even my father was there to help her if she had to resort to stealing, but I can only hope that it's because he had no idea of my existence. Otherwise I came from douche bag loins, and I just can't have that.

Cara did, in her defense, bring plenty of men around to give our "home" a weekly dose of testosterone. More men than I can name, more faces than I can recognize, but they played their parts, teaching me valuable life lessons before leaving her as they all did. Mostly, I got slurred lectures on why I should never trust their sex. Men are manipulative and perverse. Scoundrels and rodents. And that would come straight from the horse’s mouth.

Ironically, the men she would bring home would be all of these things and more, but never to me. For some reason I was untouchable, saved from the evil that could have so easily been brought to light. I must have had one hell of a guardian angel.

Then she met Trent, who she married for the benefits I'm sure, but by then I was old enough to know what I could get away with and spent as much time away from this hell hole as humanly possible. He was more of a father than I have ever given him credit for and honestly, it takes a special type of strength to deal with Cara every single day.

"Where are you going dressed like that?" She asks, trying her best to sound motherly.

"Out."

"With Corey?"

"Corey?" She must still be on something. I don't know anyone named Corey and even if I did I doubt I would ever bring him up to her.

"Last time you were here you had a date."

"You mean Charlie? That was months ago, and it was terrible. Wait, how did you know that?" I ask slowly, knowing that I probably won’t like the answer.

"I read the messages on your phone."

"You went through my phone?" That means she went through my bag... I knew I was missing money.

"I have every right to." A point she tries to make but won't get. Ever.

"Pretty sure you lost that once I turned eighteen." I roll my eyes and like a dog that knows it has done wrong I squint and flinch just as her hand smacks the back of my head. Funny, she never cared to instill any sort of rules, but won't think twice about taking disciplinary action for whatever wrong I've done. To her, a mom meant a swift smack whenever I talked back. Not praise nor lecture, not even food on the table. Being a mom was the easiest job in the world. After all, she paid her dues. Nine months of carrying me when she was fifteen which was enough to damn me to a life of self sufficiency. I should thank her. Without the struggle I would have never fought my way out of here, or worked my ass off to get my own car, my own apartment, my own life. But then again, she'd probably take my gratuity the wrong way and slap me.

Even though I shouldn't care, I do. I left the minute I could, but still find myself coming back time after time. Maybe I miss her. Maybe I feel bad for her. Or maybe one day I know that I'll come in and find her face down on the kitchen floor - dead.

"Do you need a ride to work?" I ask, suddenly feeling heavyhearted. A rare emotion, especially around her. She perks and eyebrow, waiting for me to request some form of payment, but I won't ask her for anything because she'll hang it over my head for years.

"It's the least you could fucking do. I only carried you around for nine damn months."

And there it is.

The room in the back of my head is crammed chock full of shit like that, things that she's told me in drunken tirades or moments when she's doped up out of her mind. Those things get locked away so I don't have to deal with them, so I don't have to remember and so I can live my life without the weight of the bullshit dragging me down. But twenty one years of stuffing hate and deprecation into a tiny room has its effect, like knowing that it'll burst open at any minute.

Suppression is only good in the moment and for now, it'll have to do.

"You know I can try to get you a job at the diner with me." I cringe as I offer the option, but pulling up to a grimy strip club to drop off my mom, even if she is only a cocktail waitress, kills me.

She laughs, "Oh honey, all that grease would kill these pores."

I look away to roll my eyes. She calls me honey in the way a cashier handing back a declined credit card would say to ease the embarrassment. And her pores? Please. She looks way older than she is, thanks to all her recreational drug use. The unmistakable crow’s feet that sit at the corner of her eyes add about ten years, and the dark spots that taint her cheeks and chin add the rest of the aging years.

She laughs again to herself, who knows why, and throws something in her mouth, swallowing hard. A flash of red catches my attention but vanishes into her pocketbook just as quick.

"What was that?" I swear I should have searched her.

"My salvation." She checks her extremely overdone make up, sliding her tongue over her teeth and smearing the fifteenth layer of bright pink lipstick around her lips.

"You're getting stoned before work." I comment, deadpanned, not sure if I expected anything different.

She smacks my cheek softly, giving me a little pinch. "Loosen up. God, you're so uptight. Have fun on your date and try not to bore the guy to death."

"I'm not going on a date." I point, not bothering to touch on the other crap she's giving me.

"You're twenty one, honey. If I were you, I'd be seeing as many guys as I could. Have fun. Lighten up. Here." She holds out the bag of bright red pills like she's offering me candy but I push her hand away. Unbelievable.

"Don't give me that. Jesus."

"Fine. More for me."

My mother, by blood, not by choice, stumbles out of the car and hikes her skirt before slipping in between the dark doors.