Page 14 of Notes About Vodka

From the trailer park back in Alabama to a scholarship at NYU as a non-traditional student, and now to this dimly lit bar, I’ve been clawing my way forward.

There was the time I spent weeks working double shifts at the Picadilly diner, balancing trays and fake smiles, just to save enough for the application fees. And the day my old car broke down on the way to my ACTs, leaving me sprinting the last two miles just to make it on time.

Which I didn't and had to reschedule for a month later... At least I passed with a 28 after the third try so I could get here.

Those moments tested me, but they also proved that I could keep going, no matter how impossible things seemed. The day the scholarship letter arrived—I sat in the parking lot, crying so hard I could barely breathe.

I already had a shot at college and... I fucked it up... too much fun on top of being too sick. It’s not glamorous, and it’s far from easy, but every small victory reminds me why I keep pushing forward. I still remember the nights spent lying awake in that creaky twin bed, dreaming of a life far from Hurtsboro. Where I never knew if my dad would come home screaming or loving. And after he remarried my step-mom when I was 17 and we inherited my step-sister, Leigha... Life just became...I couldn't stay.

Here, I have my friends, my music, and school—even if it means barely scraping by and living penny to penny. At least I’m starting to make more playing atPianissimo.

The next day, with Buddy fueled and ready for adventure, I take a break from studying and piano practice to visit my mom, who also moved North to escape. So very much like me, she left for a fresh start after years of struggling to make ends meet in Russel County with my dad.

Even after their divorce, I remember how she worked endless shifts at the textile mill, coming home with her hands raw and her spirit drained, only to juggle bills that never seemed to stop piling up. She remarried Nick when I was 6 years old and life seemed okay. Until it wasn't.

Paranoid schizophrenia,the doctor told our family after she had a nervous breakdown. One that I apparently caused with my heart.

Leaving wasn’t just a choice for her—it was survival. Her move was quieter, a retreat rather than a leap forward to where she could find the mental support she needed. With her new husband she left and I had to move her to see her again.

While I chased opportunities and the hope of something bigger, she sought a simpler life, one without the constant reminders of what she had to leave behind. And the voices that she claimed were in her way.

In many ways, her journey mirrors mine, though I can’t help but feel like we’re walking opposite paths to find the same kind of peace. I try to maintain my focus—it’s my second chance at my bachelor’s degree—her second chance as a wife... But sometimes, I need to get away and check on…her. Mom.

As I cruise the highway that leads toward New Haven, I simply enjoy the smooth purr of the moped’s engine. The day is warm, making it worth having a two-wheeled vehicle as I lift my face up to the sunlight.

I'm sure many people would be terrified as bigger cars speed past, but I'm on a road that runs parallel to the interstate,taking my time. I know I'll have to stop a few times to refill her tiny tank, but it's worth the clarity the long drive brings.

As peaceful as I feel right now, my mind keeps drifting back to Val. He’s such an enigma.

Val. Tall, muscular, with dark hair that begs to be touched. He’s 6'2" and effortlessly strong. And that Russian accent? It makes my heart skip a beat every time that he speaks. I don’t even understand half of what he says, but it sounds good, so who cares?

I can tell he tries to minimize his accent, but after a long night behind the bar, it comes out rich and thick.

And all the notes! I mean, I wish he would just ask for my cell phone number. Maybe he’s scared that asking for it would make things too serious, or maybe he thinks keeping it light and playful is the best way to avoid rejection. It makes me wonder if there’s something he’s not ready to say, something he’s keeping hidden. Maybe he’s scared of making it too personal, or maybe he thinks this playful back-and-forth is safer. Either way, it leaves me wondering what he’s holding back.

But honestly, that’s probably a good idea our relationship is just a bunch of notes, so I’m going to keep playing his game and converse via napkins and forgotten papers.

I know better than to let my mind wander too far with him. I shouldn’t even be thinking about Val, not when I’m technically still...

I’m about halfway to Mom’s house when the familiar anxiety starts bubbling up in my chest. This isn’t new; it’s the same gnawing feeling I’ve had since I was a teenager, when I first started noticing the cracks in the world around me. Back then, Ididn’t fully understand what was happening, only that Mom’s bad days became more frequent, and my role in the house started shifting. I had to grow up fast, figuring out how to calm her when she got upset or decipher her fragmented thoughts when paranoia took over during the days I would be forced to stay with her.

That gnawing anxiety became a constant companion, a reminder that things could spiral out of control at any moment. I love her, I really do, but every time I visit, I get this sinking feeling, like I’m failing her just by not being able to do more.

The road ahead blurs slightly as my thoughts drift, memories crowding my mind. I think of the nights spent sitting in the emergency room after one of her bad episodes, like the time she was convinced someone had poisoned her dinner and wouldn’t stop vomiting until her throat was raw. Or the afternoons I had to explain to her again and again why the neighbors weren’t spying on her, like the day she insisted they had cameras hidden in their garden gnomes. Each moment felt like a fight I couldn’t win, but one I couldn’t walk away from either.

I feel a deep sense of responsibility to be there for her, but it’s overwhelming to know that I can’t fix everything.

Nick, my step-dad, tries to help, but even his patience has its limits. He’s a good man, but I can see the weariness in his eyes every time I visit.

Mom’s paranoid schizophrenia is worse these days. She doesn’t leave the house, hardly even checks the mail, and the place always smells like cigarettes and dog pee because she won’t take her three dogs outside.

I know it’s not her fault, but it doesn’t make it any easier to face. It’s like she’s trapped in her own world, a place I can’t fully reach no matter how hard I try. And yet, I keep trying. I’ve spent years running in circles, trying to pull her out, knowing deep down that I can’t.

As I pull into the driveway of their tiny home, the sight of the chipped paint and overgrown lawn makes my chest tighten. I brace myself for whatever I’m about to walk into. Mom probably won’t leave the couch today, and Nick will pretend that everything’s fine while the dogs bark their heads off, their shrill yelps echoing in the quiet neighborhood. I pause for a moment in the driveway, gripping the handlebars of my moped, and take a deep breath. This is part of why I moved north, right? To be closer to her, to help her if I can, even though it feels like I’m always fighting an uphill battle.

The uphill battle—it’s not just about her. It’s about my whole life, where every challenge feels connected, each one piling onto the next. Balancing my studies feels impossible when I’m too exhausted from work, and my job atPianissimodrains what little energy I have left for self-care. Meanwhile, trying to be there for Mom is like carrying a weight I can never set down. All these struggles blur together, each one amplifying the others, leaving me in a constant state of catching up without ever really feeling caught up. It’s overwhelming, but I keep moving forward because I don’t see any other choice.

There are days when I feel like I’m barely holding it all together, like one small nudge could make everything come crashing down. And yet, I keep going, because what else can I do?

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