Blazed (41 page)

It's the drugs and the booze taking over again. Now this is the same woman I remember.

Shrugging, I go, “I guess once I get settled in we can figure it out.”

She presses her lips tightly together and forces a smile. “Sure. Okay.”

“Mom,” I blurt out. “Are you going to be okay?”

She lets out the fakest laugh I've ever heard and says, “I will be totally fine, Jaime. I've got a great doctor now that I get to see tomorrow. He's gonna make sure everything's okay, and then I'm gonna focus on the dance school I'm gonna start. I can see it all right now. Opening night,” she says. “And you'll be there, your girlfriend, and maybe even your father and his family. Everything will be so perfect. Everything will be in bright lights again. Especially my name. Everything I ever wanted. Life will finally be perfect again.”

She looks so dazed right now. It makes me sick. God, she's not well. She's still living in this fantasy world, and it's so sad and so disheartening and I wanna help her but what am I gonna do? It's been years of us all alone and I've never been able to figure that part out.

And maybe someday I will.

Maybe someday I'll be able to really help her instead of cleaning up all of her messes.

“We need to go. Did you make the reservations?”

“No.” She smiles. “We'll be able to find a table, though.”

“Sure.”

She stands up and walks over and grabs her purse. “Why don't you drive?”

“Why?” I go.

“Cos I like it when you do. Please drive us there. One last thing for your mommy.”

I take the keys from her. Once again, I can't say no. She's obviously trashed.

DINNER AT MICHAEL'S PIZZA. I
reluctantly tell my mother details about the band and the show, and she takes credit, of course, for getting me into the guitar.

I also tell her about making music with Dominique, and she takes credit for that too because of all the time she had me spend practicing the piano and buying me a keyboard, then buying me the software to make my own music.

Basically, she takes credit for everything. “I always knew to give you a rounded view. To get you interested in other things besides sports or just trying to get into a good college.”

“Whatever happened to kids just being kids?” my father says. “Letting them choose what they want to do.”

“Well,” my mother says. “He wouldn't have this band, he wouldn't have this girl and the music he makes with this girl if I hadn't pushed those things on him. So all the stuff he fell in love with in San Francisco, which just happen to be the reasons he wants to live there now, he wouldn't have these things if it wasn't for me.”

“Wow,” my father goes. “You'll not give him any credit, huh.”

“I wasn't saying that at all.”

“Sure you were.”

Her face gets red and she drops her fist against the table. “You think you know everything. You always have. You've been with him for what, eight days, and you think you've got the last thirteen years figured out and that you know him.”

“I think I'm getting a pretty good idea of who he is, yeah.”

“Bastard,” she says.

“Here we go,” my father snaps. “Here comes the psycho I remember from all those years ago.”

“Just stop, you two!” I snap. “Please. Stop.”

My mother, she rips, “You think you can just take my boy. Just take what I've made, the only thing I've loved for the last fourteen years.”

“He wants to go, Morgan. I'm not taking him from you at all. It was his choice.”

“How many lies did you have to tell him about me to make him turn on me?”

“Oh, this is rich,” my father says.

“You're a monster.”

“Just stop!” I snap again, only this time I scream it. “Jesus Christ. Just stop and shut up. Both of you.”

“Hey,” my mother snorts.

But my father, he goes, “Just let the boy talk, Morgan.”

“Fuck,” I go. “You two are ruthless. Jesus. Making all of this about yourselves. Why is it that I've always had to act like an adult my whole life?”

“And what's wrong with that?” my mother snaps.

“I'm fourteen,” I go. “I shouldn't have to be picking you up from bars. I shouldn't have to be driving you to the store cos you're too drunk to drive. I shouldn't have to pick you up off the couch and carry you to bed at night. I should've never had to feel guilty when I asked to go do something with the kids in the neighborhood. Jesus. You've been the kid, Mom. Not me. You've been the child, and I don't want to be the adult anymore. It sucks. I hate seeing you lose it. I hate seeing you sick. But I can't be your caretaker anymore. I'm happy in San Francisco. I love you. But I was more happy in the last eight days than I have been in the last fourteen years.”

Even though that felt so good to say, I still feel like shit. Sometimes, though, that's the way it has to be. Sometimes, you just have to put somebody else's feelings aside and do what's right for you.

My mother, she starts crying. She covers her mouth and bawls. Nodding slowly, she goes, “Okay. At least I know now. I never knew you felt this way. You've never told me.”

“Cos I didn't want to hurt you.”

“But it's okay to now since you don't have to deal with me anymore?”

“You tried to kill yourself, Mom.”

“What?” my father goes.

“You started this whole thing by hurting yourself.”

She stands up. “I'm going to leave.”

“Morgan,” my father says. “Just sit down.”

“Fuck you,” she snaps. “Just fuck you! You finally got what you wanted. You finally have your son.”

“This isn't fair to him,” my father goes.

But I turn to him and tell him to stop. Cos he needs to. This isn't his battle. It's mine.

“Mom, I'm coming with you,” I say. “I don't trust—”

“Trust what, Jaime?” she snaps. “That I won't have another accident?”

“Yeah, Mom. I don't trust that.”

“Then come with me. I'm just going home.”

“Okay,” I go. “I'm coming too.”

Glaring back at my father, she goes, “It was nice to see you, Justin. If you weren't such a prick, you'd be the greatest person I've ever met.”

“Good night, Morgan,” my father says. “I'll be over at eight to pick up Jaime.”

“Bastard,” she grumbles as I follow her outside.

BACK AT THE HOUSE NOW,
I'm in my room, doing one last look around to see if I forgot to pack anything. I haven't. I'm all set to go.

As I'm walking downstairs, I hear a cork popping out of a bottle of wine in the kitchen.

I walk into the practice room and sit down at the piano. Sitting upright, I put my hands on the keys.

From the kitchen, I hear my mom snort something and then giggle. Closing my eyes, taking a deep breath, I go for it. I start playing.

Schumann's op .9. The last piece I was working on earlier that night when she hit me.

I haven't forgotten a note. Furiously slamming the keys, I make magic with my fingers. The rust doesn't exist. This right here, it's as good as I've ever played it. Less than a minute into it, my mother is in the room dancing on her toes, twirling around with the biggest smile in the world on her face.

It makes me so happy to see her dance, even though she's wasted and high. She looks like my pretty angel, just so happy and so great. Just me and her. And when I'm done, she leans against the piano and goes, “That was perfect.”

I almost fall off the bench.

“That was so perfect, my perfect little man. I'm so proud of you. How did I dance?”

“Like you always do, Mom. Like the best ballet dancer in the world.”

“My boy,” she says. “I just hope that girl knows that she's getting the best boy in the world.”

“I know she does. Here,” I go. “Wanna see a picture of us?”

My mother blushes. “Really?” she goes. “You want me to see her?”

“Of course, Mom. I love this girl so much.”

I bring up the picture of me and Dominique in her room.

“Oh my,” she goes. “She's beautiful, Jaime. How old is she?”

“Sixteen.”

“And older,” my mother says. “Look at you. I always knew you were going to be a little heartbreaker, a little charmer.”

“I won't break this girl's heart, Mom. There's something between us. I don't know exactly how to put it into words. It's so unique and special. We're perfect together. I know that doesn't mean much cos I'm fourteen, but she's made me love life in a way that I didn't think a fourteen-year-old kid could.”

Sitting down next to me, tears rolling down her face, my mother, she goes, “I'm sure gonna miss you.”

“I will miss you, too, Mom.”

She puts an arm around my shoulder now, and she goes, “Listen to me.”

“Okay,” I whisper.

“I know I've never said this to you before or if I have, I know it's been awhile.”

“Okay.”

And she says, “I'm proud of you, son.”

Water fills my eyes.

“I'm so proud of the boy you've become. And I'm happy for you. I can tell you're happy. And I'm sorry I put you through all of this.”

“Then why are you drinking again?”

“Because I'm gonna be completely lost without you. Absolutely just lost, and I don't know how to handle it.”

She begins bawling and buries her face in her hands.

Me, I hug this fucking beautiful person, this amazing angel I have the honor to call my mother, and go, “It's all right.”

“No, it's not,” she says. “I've caused a lot of damage. So much of it. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, but now I look at you, I see you smiling and so full of life again. My boy, my sweet guy is happy, and you've been the best son. I don't know where I'd be without you. That's why I'm terrified. I don't know how to live without you.”

“You'll have the dance school, ya know.”

“Bullshit,” she snaps. “Bullshit. I'll have nothing.”

“Yes, you will. Just get off this shit. Quit using the drugs and booze to escape. Face the world.”

“What are you talking about? I'm not using.”

“Bullshit,” I snap. “You've been using all day.”

“No,” she cries.

“I saw the pills.”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“Cos you need to stop it. Just stop and be sane again. Please. It's killing you.”

“You're killing me,” she snaps back. “You're the one leaving, not me. You're gonna be the one who kills me.”

“Don't say that,” I plead. “Don't do this to me.”

“So you want me to lie then,” she says.

“You just did when you said you haven't been using.”

“Screw you,” she goes.

“Mom,” I say, grabbing her. “I just want you to feel life again.”

“I can't,” she sobs. “I don't want to. I won't be able to if you're gone. Don't you understand?” she says. “After all these years.”

“What?” I go.

“You are my life. Without you, there is no life.”

I have nothing to say to that. Never, ever, ever will I be able to fix her.

After a few more minutes of her crying, I say, “Let me play you something.”

“What?” she goes.

“How about the
Black Swan
intro?”

She looks at me and smiles. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh wow,” she goes. “Thank you. I'd really love that.”

“Okay.”

Right before I start, she stands up and goes, “Play it perfect.”

“I will.”

And right as I begin, she starts to dance around the room. It's an insane scene. But the crying has stopped and she's smiling and she looks so happy.

It's the only thing I can do for her now.

And when it's over, she walks over to me and kisses my forehead and goes, “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

“I'm going to bed now.”

“Mom,” I say.

She turns around.

“Wanna watch a movie with me? Maybe an Audrey Hepburn one?”

She shakes her head. “Not tonight, sweetie.”

“Are you sure?”

Pause.

“Mom.”

“Yes.”

“I'll play anything you request right now. Anything.”

“Thank you,” she goes. “But it's okay. I need to go to bed. We've got an early morning coming.”

“Fine.”

She leaves the room and then a few seconds later, I hear the drawer open again. I hear pills shaking around and then I hear her walking up the stairs slowly and then I hear a door shut.

WHEN I OPEN MY EYES
in the morning, my mother is standing over me. It's hazy in my room. Like everything is kind of fuzzy and gray and yellow. It's like a strange twilight. It's like a dream, but it's not.

My mother's face is all done up, like big-time, like she's about ready to take the stage in New York or something. My heart, it slides slowly down my chest.

Her hair is done up too, into these two pigtails, and she's wearing this long brown trench coat and pink pajama pants.

“Hey there, sleepyhead. Come on . . . let's go.”

For real, I think for a moment that I might still be dreaming, but I'm not. I can touch her and she's cold. She's so cold.

Yawning, stretching my arms, I go, “Where are we going, Mom? Where's Dad?”

“He's not here yet. We still have time. Our time.”

“What are you talking about, Mom?”

“Remember those drives we used to take through the country?” she goes.

“Yeah.”

“How about another one with your mom, sweetheart? Just one more. One last drive.”