Page 16 of Notes About Vodka

“How are you feeling today?” I ask, settling into the chair beside her.

“Same as always, Laura. Nothing changes,” she mutters, her eyes glued to the TV. Her voice is flat, and I can’t help but notice the ashtray on the table, already crowded with cigarette butts.

“Did you watch that baking show you like? The one with the cakes?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.

She shrugs. “It was fine. They make the same things over and over. Gets boring after a while.”

I smile gently. “Well, maybe next time we can find something new to watch together.”

She finally glances at me, her expression softening just a little. “Maybe,” she says quietly. There’s a pause, and I know I need to say it. I hesitate, my fingers fidgeting with the edge of my sleeve. I’ve asked her this before, and it never goes smoothly, but the thought of not asking feels worse. “Have you beentaking your meds, Mom?” I ask, keeping my tone as gentle as possible, hoping this time will be different.

She huffs, finally turning her head to look at me. "Nick handles it," she says, dismissively waving her hand. I can see the strain in her eyes, though, a flicker of something beneath the surface. "I'm fine. You don't need to worry so much."

“I do worry, Mom,” I say softly. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. Sometimes it’s hard to tell when you’re not feeling your best.”

She sighs deeply, looking down at her lap. “I’m fine, Laura. I just get tired. That’s all.”

“Okay,” I reply gently, even though I’m not convinced. I reach over, giving her arm a gentle squeeze. “If there’s anything you need, just let me know.”

“Help by living your life, sweetheart,” she says, but her voice lacks conviction, and she turns back to the TV, ending the conversation.

I linger for a moment, watching her. The lines around her eyes seem deeper, and her hands tremble slightly as she picks up her cigarette. It’s hard to walk away, but I decide to try my luck with Nick. He’s in the game room, barely looking up as I step in. “Hey, Nick, anything I can do to help around here?” I ask.

He glances at me, then back at the screen, his fingers tapping rapidly on the controller. “Nah, we’re good,” he says, his attention already back on his game. “Thanks, though.” And just like that, he shuts me out too, disappearing further into the virtual world with his Nintendo, leaving me standing there feeling helpless.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. The house feels heavier today, the air thick with an unspoken tension. But I’m here because I’m trying. Trying to be a good daughter.Trying to juggle school, work, and being close to her even when it’s hard.

So I start cleaning. First the kitchen, where dishes pile up in the sink and crumbs scatter across the counters. I scrub the counters until they shine and rinse out the sponge twice just to rid it of the smell. Then the bathrooms, which take more time than I’d like but leave me feeling accomplished as the smell of bleach replaces the lingering odor of mildew. I gather their laundry and load the washer, noticing how many of Mom's clothes smell faintly of something otherworldly bad and decaying. While the cycle runs, I fold what’s left from the last load, feeling a small sense of control in the otherwise chaotic environment.

The dogs bark at me again, tugging at my pants, their leashes hanging by the door. “All right, all right,” I mutter, grabbing the leashes and clipping them on. Outside, the cool air feels like a relief as we begin walking through the quiet neighborhood. The dogs pull me along, sniffing every bush and patch of grass. It’s a longer walk than they probably usually get, but I need the break from the house. For a moment, it’s just me, the dogs, and the sound of their paws on the pavement.

I think about how different things used to be, when Mom would join me for these walks back home in Alabama, chatting about anything and everything. When she would still take me to the park and build sand castles with me.

When I get back, Nick is still in the game room, his attention glued to the screen as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Mom has moved to the small dining area, fiddling with the knobs on her tiny radio, trying to tune in an old AM station. The static crackles as she twists the dial, her brow furrowed in concentration. She doesn’t notice when I start vacuuming the frayed carpet, or when I rearrange the clutter on the dining table to make room for her coffee mug.

Popping a frozen lasagna into their oven, I set the timer and wipe my hands on a dish towel. Instead of leaving, I glance at the clock and decide to stay until it’s done. "Mom," I say softly, moving to the dining table where she’s still fiddling with the radio. "How about you take a nice hot shower while the lasagna cooks? Wash your hair—it always makes you feel better."

She looks at me, skeptical at first, but I can tell she’s considering it. "I don’t know," she mutters, still turning the dial. "What’s the point?"

"The point is to feel refreshed, Mom. You’ll feel more like yourself," I encourage her gently. "I can even set out a clean towel for you."

She sighs but nods after a long pause. "Okay, fine."

I smile, relieved, and quickly grab a fluffy towel from the linen closet, setting it in the bathroom along with her favorite lavender-scented soap. As she shuffles off toward the shower, I hear the water start running, and for the first time all day, the house feels a little lighter.

While she’s in the bathroom, I finish vacuuming the carpet, trying to get out as much grime as I can before making a mental note to follow up withmy cousin James about shampooing it.

Nick remains glued to his game, his fingers moving mechanically over the controller, as if the rest of the house doesn’t exist. I feel a swirl of emotions—a pang of frustration that he’s so detached, mixed with a reluctant acceptance. Maybe this is his way of coping, escaping into a world where he has control.

Still, it stings to feel like I’m the only one trying to keep everything together, facing the chaos head-on while he disappears into pixels and sound effects. A small pang of frustration wells up inside me, but I quickly tamp it down. It’s easier for him to escape into his virtual world than face what’s right infront of us, I suppose. It feels unfair—like I’m the only one trying to hold everything together.

The smell of lasagna begins to fill the kitchen, a comforting aroma that reminds me of simpler times.

When Mom finally emerges, her deep dark brown hair damp and combed back. Last time I was here I helped her dye it because her gray roots were just too much with the brassy ends. She looks slightly more alert, her eyes clearer than before. "See? Doesn’t that feel better?" I ask, grinning.

"Yeah, yeah," she says, brushing off the compliment, but I catch the faintest smile tugging at her lips. She sits back at the dining table, and I bring over two plates, slicing the lasagna into manageable pieces.

We eat quietly, but there’s a calmness between us that wasn’t there earlier. I even manage to get her to laugh when I share a funny story from work, her laugh raspy but genuine. "I’ve been singing and playing the piano atPianissimolately, it’s a bar in Manhattan,” I tell her, feeling a flicker of pride as I share something positive. "It’s more than just performing—it’s a way to let go of everything weighing me down. For a little while, it’s just me, the music, and this sense of freedom I can’t get anywhere else. Tony, the talent manager, lets me take the stage sometimes."

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