Page 69 of Chaos
After having some much-needed breakfast, I called my mom to come pick me up. I could have walked home, but with the pounding still happening in my head, this felt like the safer option.
I say goodbye to Evie and her family, thanking them for letting me spend the night before heading out to my mom’s car. The second I open the door, I regret it. The chorus to Teenage Dirtbag by Wheatus is blasting in the car, making my head throb even more.
I groan as I sit in the seat. Mom turns the volume down, making the pain lessen slightly before she lets out a little giggle. “I’m sorry, but I had to. My mom did the same thing to me the first time she picked me up, hungover from a friend’s house.”
I roll my eyes, but my interest is piqued. Mom never talks about anything to do with her parents. After she moved away, she stopped speaking to them. I have never met them. I know nothing about them, and even this small of a thing means the world to know about them.
“What was your mom like?” The words leave my lips before I can think about it. I blame the hangover, but I know it’s because I have always craved to know the parents that my mom left behind.
Mom takes a deep breath and pulls away from Evie’s house. She stares out of the windshield, not saying anything. She is silent the whole drive home. Deep down, I knew she wouldn’t say anything about her parents. Never has so why would she start talking about them?
She turns the car off and looks at me. “My mom was the best. She was the sweetest woman alive. But she had a cruel side to her if you got on her bad side. She needed that side to deal with everything my father was involved in. She never directed that side of herself to me or my dad. Only used when it was called for. She was fierce and loyal to those she loved. Never took crap from anyone.
“One of my favorite memories of my mom, weirdly, is when she did the same thing I just did to you. I was at a friend’s house for the night. We got way too drunk and did some stupid things that night.” I look at mom, hoping she will divulge exactly what she did. “I’m not telling you what we did. Anyway, I woke up so hungover and could barely stand, let alone walk home. I called home, praying my mom would answer because I knew my dad would be beyond pissed if he knew. Luckily, she did, and she said she would come get me. I thanked God at that moment until she pulled up. The car was quiet, but the second I opened that door, We Will Rock You by Queen started playing. It didn’t stop until we got home. She told me that if I was going to be stupid and drink as much as I did, I needed to learn the consequences of that. Drinking can be fun, but it can be dangerous too. It can make you do stupid things. Impair your judgment. And if done often, it can make you sick. She left that music playing on a loop throughout the whole home to make me see how it can affect my body. She wanted me to learn the hard way because I wouldn’t learn it any other way at the time.”
“And your dad?” My voice was quiet.
“My dad wasn’t a bad person, just did some bad things. But he was my dad, and I loved him. He was a stern man with a heart of gold. Would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it. He and I were so similar that we butted heads a lot. He didn’t like some choices I made as a teenager and took every opportunity to tell me that. I hated him for it. I thought I knew everything, and that he was just an old man who didn’t understand. In hindsight, he did understand and was trying to save me from a lot of pain.”
I reached over and grabbed Mom’s hand and squeezed. A single tear fell from her eye, but she quickly wiped it away. This is the most Mom has ever talked about her parents, and I can see the love and pain in her eyes about it.
Mom may have acted like this didn’t affect her, but it was clear as day now that it did. They were her parents. I couldn’t imagine not having her in my life. I never knew my dad, but it still hurts me that he wasn’t there while I was growing up. I was never mad at him for it. It wasn’t his fault that he was killed by a drunk driver. But the pain of not having my dad was always something that was there.
If I were a better daughter, I would have seen the same thing in my mom. Sure, she decided to leave them behind and never speak to them again, but from this one conversation alone, I could see that it killed her and was the hardest decision for her.
I swear my mom is getting back at me. She made me some nasty greenish-brown drink that she swore was a hangover remedy and forced me to drink every drop. The thing smelled like sewage, and the taste was even worse. I chugged every drop of it before having to run to the bathroom to puke my brains out.
I could hear the laugh coming from Mom as I ran down the hallway to the closest bathroom. This must have been some sort of revenge from her. A life lesson like her mom taught her about drinking. If I had to drink that vile thing every time I got drunk, I would never drink again.
After what felt like forever, I finally left the bathroom and walked back into the living room. Weirdly, I did feel a lot better. The queasiness in my stomach was gone, and the headache was slowly fading away. Whatever was in that drink did the job it was supposed to.
Mom is sitting on the couch in the living room with boxes scattered over the floor. I raise my eyebrow, wondering what all this is.
“I thought we could decorate for Christmas. It’s already December and we haven’t done any yet.”
I can’t believe I didn’t realize it was already December. Christmas has always been my favorite holiday. Mom and I had so many traditions that we did every year together. From decorating the tree, baking different types of Christmas cookies every week, and watching every Christmas movie known to mankind.
My favorite tradition is on Christmas Eve, we sit down in some Christmas jammies with mugs of hot chocolate, a ton of cookies, and we watch The Santa Clause marathon until we are finally ready for bed. It’s something we have done for as long as I can remember.
Christmas has always been just my mom and me. Growing up, I had my paternal grandparents, and we would have Christmas dinner with them every year, but Christmas Eve and morning have always just been my mom and me.
I remember one year, I must have been six or seven, I was opening presents on Christmas morning and having so much fun with it. My mom always made sure that I got exactly what I wanted. After I opened my last present, there was nothing left under the tree, and my mom hadn’t even opened one. I asked her why she didn’t have any presents to open, and she told me that the only present she wants is to see me happy.
Once mom went to the kitchen to start cooking dinner, I ran to my room and started making her a gift that she could open. I drew picture after picture of the two of us. I snuck back to the living room and grabbed some boxes and bags before running back to my room. I filled them with all the pictures I could, but it didn’t feel like enough.
I had a stuffed bear on my bed that my mom gave me when I was born, and I stuffed that in there. It was my favorite teddy bear, but my mom needed it more than I did at the time. Or at least that’s what my little brain thought.
I didn’t have any paper to wrap the boxes in, but it didn’t matter to me. I took everything to the living room and called Mom in. I yelled that Santa had brought her some presents. She came back in so confused until she saw what I did. I sat her down on the couch and handed her thing after thing until the last one was my teddy bear.
When she opened the bag with it in, she started to cry. She held it close to her heart and wept for a few seconds before she looked at me and thanked me for the most perfect Christmas she could ever imagine.
I made sure my mom had my teddy bear beside her all day, but she tucked me into bed with it that night. Asking me to keep him safe for her. I promised I would.
Every year for Christmas, I did things like that for her. Made her whatever I could until I finally had some money of my own to buy her stuff. But every year, I still wrap up that bear for her. I don’t know why it makes her cry, she refuses to tell me, but it’s still a perfect Christmas memory that I will never give up on.
I help Mom unpack all the boxes and lay out decorations around the house. Slowly but surely, our home turns into Santa’s workshop. Mom has a smile on her face so bright and infectious, I can’t help but mimic her.
The sun has set by now, and the house is fully decorated except for the tree. We always leave that for last. Don’t know why, but it is just the way my mom has always done it.
