“I take my coffee black.Here, at least.In the UK, coffee is garbage, so I don’t ever drink it.I’ve grown a taste for it plain, and if that’s good on its own, why muddle things up with cream and sugar?”
“Couldn’t agree more.”I clink my mug to hers.“I’ll bring the car around like I did that first night.”
“I’d rather walk to the back with you.I think I can trust that you’re not a total creep by now.”
I tip my hat to her.“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
We walk to the back of my building and I open the passenger-side door for Alissa.She climbs in and sets the mug in the holder.
I get in the driver’s side—shifting uncomfortably around the object I’ve hidden in my back pocket—and place the key into the ignition.The Rolls Royce roars to life.
Mom initially moved into a one-bedroom apartment downtown after the divorce.The alimony payments covered her rent for the year after the divorce.Of course, once Dad died, that money stopped coming in.Mom lucked out though—an aunt of hers took pity on her and left her a decent chunk of change in her will.It was enough for Mom to get a tiny house in Skokie.Social security covers the rest of her bills, and I’m sure she’s taken a reverse mortgage on the house to cover any other expenses that pop up.
The house is in pretty bad disrepair.Peeling snot-green paint, crooked shutters, and a brown lawn at the front.A chain-link face with several patches missing lines the lot, and a beat-up tan sedan sits on the driveway.
I guess it’s better than a one-bedroom apartment, but not by much.
A far cry from the luxury she lived in when Dad was mayor.
I knock on the door.
No response.
I knock again, louder.
“Mom?”I call.“It’s me, Maddox.”
Still no response.
“Maybe she isn’t home,” Alissa says.
I gesture to the driveway.“Her car is here.Where else could she be?”
“On a walk, perhaps?”
I shake my head.“You’re describing something that a healthy person would be doing.My mother doesn’t exactly fit that description.”I pound on the door.“Open up, Mom, for fuck’s sake!”
Finally, a faint voice from inside the house.“Christ, I’m coming!”
She opens the door.
She’s a mess.
I haven’t seen her in a few years.She used to check in when she could, but once the divorce was settled, she started drinking.I heard from her a lot less after that.There wasn’t a whole lot I could do to support her.After Dad died and I started making decent money at the store, I reached out and told her that, if she stopped drinking, I would do everything I could to support her.
She refused.At that point she had a death grip on the bottle, and she wasn’t going to let it go.
I stayed steadfast.Told her that it was my one condition.I didn’t want to watch my mother waste away, become a shell of the woman she was as Martina Edwin Hathaway, the First Lady of Chicago.
That was over a decade ago.
Life has ridden her hard since then.
Her hair is long and scraggly, her salt-and-pepper roots peeking out from underneath storebought platinum-blond hair dye.She’s gained weight, and her face is puffy—though that could be from the drinking.Her eyes are bloodshot, and she’s wearing a stained sweatshirt and leggings.
She scowls at me.“What the hell do you want?”
I take a step inside.“Nice to see you too, Mother.”
