Page 112 of Off The Ice

But still, she was my mother. All I had in the world. I should’ve been there.

My mother was on a stretcher by the time I arrived, still somehow unruly with the nurses despite the weakened state I’d found her in.

She looked gaunt and hollow, and the sight of her was like a punch to the chest. I hadn’t been there to make sure she was eating. To make sure she was drinking something other than vodka.

I wanted her to miss me. To see that I was gone because of her. It was as if my absence was saying to her,Look. Look at what your drinking has done to us. Now you’re alone.

But, as always, the only one that would end up alone was me.

“Mom?” I called, running to her side, reaching out for her bony hand that trembled violently beneath my touch.

Her eyes were glazed and unfocused, but some part of her was aware that it was me by her side.

“Cassie?” she slurred. “These people won’t leave me alone. I just want to go home.”

But it was clear she was in no state to do anything of the sort. Her entire body was shaking and she could hardly keep her head up on her own.

I’d seen this before, but each time seemed to be worse than the time before.

“What’s happening?” I asked the doctor, needing to be as up-to-date as possible. I needed facts. All the information. It was the only thing that might ground me.

I hated feeling helpless. Out of control. I hated seeing my mother waste away in front of me and being powerless to stop it.

These people saw her like this: matted hair, wild, unfocused eyes, the stench of alcohol radiating from her pores. But I rememberedherbefore it got this bad.

When I was a child, she was the most beautiful woman in the world, with golden hair and an intoxicating laugh. The woman everyone wanted to be friends with. The one every man wanted. The oneIwanted, though that had never meant very much to her.

Alcohol had stolen everything from her. Her beauty, her vibrance, the very essence of who she was. Or who she could’ve been.

And in turn, it took it from me, too. Because what type of woman could I ever hope to be when my mother—my true mother, had been missing from me for most of my life?

“Her blood alcohol was dangerously high,” the doctor explained as if somehow that had escaped my notice. “She’s severely dehydrated and in the early stages of withdrawal. We’re going to monitor her closely, but sometimes complications can arise.”

That didn’t worry me. We’d been in this situation before, and she’d always pulled through. What worried me was after.

Staring down at her, I was filled with resentment so hot it burned in my chest. It was the feeling of knowing she had never shown up for me and could never because of what she’d chosen to do to herself.

It was knowing that if I called, needing her, she wouldn’t answer. Wouldn’t be able to do anything for me. How could she? When she couldn’t even help herself?

It had always been this way. Me taking care ofher. Her needingme.But I needed someone, too.

If it were me lying in the hospital, she’d be too drunk or incapacitated to stand beside my bed the way I was here beside her.

And a part of me hated her for it.

But another part of me was so terrified of losing the only person in the world who was really mine.

“What can I do?” I asked desperately. “Are there any rehabs she can go to right away?”

“We can certainly talk about programs to refer her to,” the doctor said carefully.

“No.” I shook my head. “She won’t go based on a referral. We need to put her in immediately after she gets discharged,” I explained frantically.

The doctor’s expression didn’t change, as if he dealt with half-hysterical girls every day. This wasn’thismother wasting away, after all. What did he care, at the end of the day?

“Unfortunately, rehab programs are voluntary. If she doesn’t want to go, there isn’t anything we can do about that.”

“Butlookat her. Look at her medical records!” I said in a passion. “This isn’t the first time this has happened. It won’t be the last, either. Can’t we use that to prove she’s not capable of making the decision?”

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