badthings

your mother is drunk. what's strange is that your father isn't, nor your brother. you can see the rawness of lucidity in their eyes.

your mother stares blankly at the cloth napkin your father hands her. "you dropped it," says your father.

"what the hell am i supposed to do with this?" she demands, shaking the napkin. his mouth twists into a snarl, but he bites back his response. your brother is trying not to make any asshole comments; it's hard, he's seated across from her. "let it go," you beg him with a long-used look. he grimaces.

you glance at your nervous boyfriend. he's staring awkwardly around the restaurant, trying to comment on the decorations. he looks like he should be whistling obliviously. try to smile at him. he asks you questions with his eyes, you only shrug.

pat your mother on the hand, ask her how her salad was, tell her a story. any story. she smiles at you, smiles and smiles and smiles, glassy-eyed. the skin on her face seems to hang in folds, even though she isn't fat. she looks so old, with a little girl's empty smile on her face. swaying like a drunk teenager.

your dinner finally arrives, breaking the tense silence. four sighs of relief are probably audible. but your mother is staring at her food, confused. "what's going on?" she asks, angry again. your brother snaps something obnoxious, but you really can't blame him.

she turns half away from the table. "i feel sick," she mumbles. you haven't babysat a drunk friend in years, and this doesn't seem quite the same anyway. ask if she's okay. she shakes her head, still leaning away. your father looks from her to you. you shrug with your eyes, a raised eyebrow.

"i feel sick," she says again, louder. her hand over her mouth. you're the only other female at the table. "take her to the bathroom, your father growls. you've already pushed your plate away.

put your arm around her. you're four inches taller but she's dead weight, like trying to guide a sack of sand on legs. she won't go around the table, so you have to maneuver her between the next tables. she almost falls into them, but you make it. people are watching you all around the restaurant. you hear whispers of "is she okay?" from different sides. maybe some of them think it was the food, except the way she sways and stumbles. you only look like your mother sometimes, and you wonder if you do today, next to her.

safe in the bathroom. there are two women at the sink, they stare at her, at you. you take her purse and sit down on the bench. she can't quite latch the stall door, but it's mostly closed. ignore the women, they resume their conversation, sounding forced. you listen to the sound of the restaurant outside; your throat tightens.

no sounds of sickness from the stall, at least. silence, rustling for a few minutes. she comes out, washes her hands and sits next to you, stooped over. you squeeze her hand a little.

"i'm so messed up," she whispers. you look away. "i'm so messed up. my whole life, i'm so messed up. i'm so sorry." you're finally crying. "do you think i have a problem?" you don't answer. "i'm an alcoholic. i can't control this. i make excuses, i say it's my childhood, my life that i drink. i can't justify it. i need help."

you finally nod. you try to comfort her. you try not to remember this conversation. she isn't a bad mother. but what can you say? tell her you love her, tell her it's okay.

she gets up eventually, washes her face. your waitress opens the door, you see your boyfriend standing uncomfortably in the hallway. "is she okay?" she whispers. you nod, gesturing towards the sink.

finally you help her back to the table; she's walking a little bit straighter. your food is cold, but you can't really taste it anyway. your father thanks you with a glance, your boyfriend squeezes your hand and looks at you questioningly. you look at the table, at your mother. this is you in forty years. go outside, smoke a cigarette.