Page 121 of Dirty Like Dylan

Your father never smoked pot. Why would I start now?

As a grown woman, it became harder and harder for me to feel for her. To feel anything but resentment for the situation she just kept creating for herself, for Liv and me.

Our mom, the nutcase.

A woman who couldn’t see that her divorce was the best thing that ever could’ve happened for her children.

I knew she’d loved my dad something fierce. I knew she was wildly attracted to him. I would hear their loud crazy arguments, their loud crazy makeup sex. I’d see them grab and shove each other, and apologize, and act like they’d die without each other. And as a kid all I could do was sit there and watch. I couldn’t make them stop.

They were infatuated with each other. They tore each other apart.

My sister would blaze right into the middle of it and raise hell, screaming at them both.

Not me. It scared me, that kind of love. That kind of passion.

It scared me more when Dad left her; when he left us all and broke our hearts.

I didn’t want any part of that.

It was better to be free. I wanted my freedom. I needed it. I never wanted to depend on anyone or anything.

I was a free agent, right?

Fuck me.

This was always how I felt after I left my mom’s place.

Fucking terrible.

Years ago, it had sent me running. Running all over the fucking globe trying to get away from it.

And my mom? She never seemed to have a clue how much it hurt us all when she carried on like this.

The worst part, for me, was that I knew I’d always been kind of like her.

Liv was more like Dad. I was like Mom. Overly-sensitive inside and prone to shutting people out. But unlike my mom, I was kind of a smartass on the outside. It was a defense mechanism, and I knew that. Just like her, I sometimes lacked a filter and said stupid shit. The difference was I regretted that shit, while my mom seemed utterly unaware.

I was stronger than her, maybe. And at least slightly more self-aware. But ultimately, I was scared. I was afraid of ending up like her. Broken and alone, waiting for someone who was never coming back. Someone who didn’t love me enough to stay.

I craved my independence. I always had, maybe because of how I’d grown up.

But the truth was, I craved other things more.

I looked down at the scripted initials, tattooed inside my left wrist. MCOA. I pressed my right thumb over them and held on tight. Sometimes, like right now, it was hard to even look at those letters. To remember what they represented to me.

Marriage. Family. Children. All those things I secretly craved most. All those things my upbringing had given me an aversion to.

I totally fucking craved belonging and affection.

I craved love.

For all her faults and weaknesses, Mom was right; deep down, it really was the most important thing.

* * *

When Ashley picked me up in his truck, I went silent. After a few abrupt and very forced responses of, “It was okay,” and “Everything’s fine,” to answer his questions, I went dark.

As we headed back into the city from my mom’s place in New Westminster, my mind kept wandering away, down each side road we passed, until I finally blurted, “Pull over.”

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