7. Chapter 7

Mama was high again.

Most kids my age wouldn't even know what that meant, much less be able to recognize it.

But this has been my reality for as long as I can remember.

It took me a long time to understand that there were different types of addicts in this world.

The high-functioning types that were able to get through everyday life while simultaneously touching the clouds, and the types that hit the ground hard and stayed there.

Mama had started out the first type.

She took her "medicine"

every day.

Little white pills that, over time, had become yellow and were now red.

When I was younger, I thought she got them from her doctor, and maybe she did in the beginning.

But now, I know she buys them illegally.

Doctors don't meet you in empty parking lots and accept only cash.

These days, Mama wasn't so high-functioning.

She slept a lot, and the small house that had always felt like a home was falling apart around us.

I loved my mother but didn't know how to help her anymore.

There used to be a time when I was younger, she'd look at my face and just start crying.

I'd think I'd done something wrong, but then she'd pull me in for a hug and tell me how much she loved me.

I believed her.

When she says it now, I still do.

Though, sometimes I can't help but wonder which she loves more, me or the pills?

It didn't used to be like this.

Sure, we've always been poor, always had to scrape by on the rent, electricity, and other bills.

But Mama always made sure I had food and clothes.

When summer breaks ended and school time came back around, she'd find money to get me pencils and paper and new shoes.

Granted, they weren't brand-name shoes but they were still new.

Over the years, though, our life seems to have begun to crumble, and now I don't even think she knows what day it is most of the time.

It scares me.

I know I shouldn't be scared because I'm 12 and about to be a teenager, but I am.

I've tried to talk to her about her medicine, but whenever I do, she just brushes me off or says everything's fine.

But it's not fine, and I don't think it ever will be.

That thought scares me, too.

Because Mama isn't capable of providing for us the way she used to, I've begun to do things.

Things I know aren't strictly legal.

I was good with computers.

Better than good, actually.

I knew how to do things that most grown adults working for the government couldn't do.

When I'd figured that out, I'd started taking money from places I shouldn't.

Skimming small amounts from bank accounts that belonged to God only knows who.

Just enough to pay the bills and get food.

I knew I wouldn't get caught.

I was good at covering my tracks.

But no amount of money would fix what was wrong with Mama.

Sure, there were places she could go to get off the pills, but I knew she'd just end up going back to them.

Mama's problems were in her head.

Unless she could get rid of those, she'd never stay clean.

And I had a feeling that, just like the pills, I was both the cause and cure for that problem.

I knew just by the way she looked at me when she was sober … and the way she looked at me when she was high.

I wondered more and more if it had anything to do with my father.

The one she refused to talk about when sober, but I think she saw him in her head when she was high.

Maybe that was why she took so much.

Maybe she preferred his company to mine.

A loud clattering sound from the kitchen jerks me out of my head and back to reality.

Surveying the damage from my vantage point on the threadbare couch of the living room, I see that the commotion was a mountain of old tupperware falling from the highest cabinet to the floor.

"Shit!"

I hear Mama murmur under her breath.

Leaning down to pick up one of the plastic containers, I watch as she loses her balance and nearly falls over.

Jumping up from the couch, I rush to the kitchen to steady her.

"I'll get it, Mama.

Don't worry about it." I say.

Attempting to brush my hands away, she says, "No, no.

I can do it, baby.

It's my mess.

It's not your job to clean up behind me."

I sigh internally.

Because it had become my job, it had become more frequent as the years went on.

It was just a fact of life now.

Taking my mother's hand, I pull her toward the living room sofa and ease her down.

I can feel the blue stone she wears on her left hand pressing against the inside of my palm where it's been twisted around.

It's a testament to how far away she is mentally that she allows me to drag her to the couch without protest.

As she sits, she places her hands demurely in her lap, and after a few seconds, just like many times before, her gaze lands on the ring.

She turns it around so it's facing the right way and rubs her opposite thumb over the gem, staring at it with a fixated look that makes it clear she isn't here anymore.

At least, that's what I think until she opens her mouth and says, "Your Daddy was gonna get me a real one, you know.

He promised … someday, he'd get me a real one, and we'd get married."

I look down at the fake stone.

Even though it's clearly costume jewelry, the blue still catches the light and shines brightly back at me.

Set in a simple silver band, the ring stands out like a rock on Mama's frail hand.

"No matter how hard I wished, he never kept his promise,"

she whispers, still absently rubbing at the jewelry.

Then, as if waking up from some hypnotic state, her eyes shift to focus on mine.

They're cloudy, but she still manages to keep them trained on my face.

As our gazes hold, she reaches up and cups the side of my face, stroking her thumb over my cheek.

In a small voice, she mutters, "Just like stars …"

I know she's talking about my eyes.

His eyes.

She's said similar things before.

"He promised me the stars too.

I guess I got em' … just not the way I thought."

Her voice is melancholy, as though she's going to burst into tears at any moment.

Sometimes, she does, so I brace for it.

But she just drops her hands back to her lap, eyes returning to the ring.

I gently place my hand over hers to still the rhythmic motion of her thumb on the stone, and, while I have her attention, say, "I'll get you a real one someday, Mama."

Smiling sadly at me, she takes a long blink, and a tear rolls down her gaunt cheek.

Leaning her head back, I watch as she closes her eyes.

For a split second, panic surges up inside me, and I stare hard at her chest, waiting for the lack of movement that would signal that she's stopped breathing.

But her chest rises and falls slowly and after a minute or two, my panic subsides somewhat.

Eyes still closed, she says, "I'm just gonna take a little nap, baby.

I'm tired, that's all.

When I wake up, we'll go out for dinner.

How does that sound?"

She asks the question, but I can tell that she's not gonna hear my answer.

I say it anyway.

"Sure, Mama.

That sounds good,"

I reply, but I know that dinner time will come and go before she wakes again.

Either way, I'll cook something so she can eat when she wakes up.

She would usually forget to eat unless I reminded her.

Leaving her there on the couch, I go to my room and get one of the thin blankets off my bed, bringing it back to cover her.

She's asleep now, and as I look at her face, she suddenly appears so much older than her 30 short years.

Sighing heavily, I get up and go to the little kitchen to pick up the spilled tupperware and restack it in the cabinet.

I take down a pot, fill it with water, and begin making some boxed mac and cheese for dinner, all the while stealing glances at Mama's chest … just in case.