Page 78 of As a Last Resort
“I’m being factual.”
“I messed up.”
“I’m aware of that.”I braced myself for what would come.The litany of justifications, all the reasons why it wasn’t her fault she lost control and she’d never do it again.All words that had been so familiar for so long played through my head.But being so far removed from it softened my calluses toward the excuses.My anger bubbled under the surface.I didn’t have as much of a wall as I normally did.
My patience had already run out and I was only thirty seconds into the conversation.
“It’s been a really long time since something this bad has happened.”
I held my tongue.The less words I spoke the better.
“I really thought I had a handle on it.And I have been good, I swear.But after I found that article laying right out on your desk like you—”
“Are you really going to blame this on me?”
“I just needed to get my mind off it, that’s all.I’m not blaming you.But a couple of the younger girls went out after work and I thought I could go and just hang out.It was so nice to be invited and I needed a distraction.”The blame sat there heavy in the room, whether she pointed it at me or not.“You should see what they’re wearing out these days.Nothing is left to the imagination anymore.They look ridiculous, and that’s what I told them too.When they came back with pink shots, I didn’t think it’d hurt since I was the grown-up.”
“What exactly is your definition of a grown-up?”
She took a breath.“It was just a little vodka and tons of pink lemonade.It wasn’t anything hard and I thought I could handle it.”
“Right, because a shot’s totally doable for an alcoholic,” I spat.
“Don’t mock me.”
“I don’t understand how you think because you’re sober for a minute, you all of a sudden don’t have to play by the rules anymore.You don’t get to drink.Period.”
“I realize that, Samantha.”She picked at a nonexistent thread on the bedsheet.“You look awful by the way.”
“This isn’t about me.”
“Were you drinking last night?”
“Oh, this is golden, you asking me if I was drinking.”
“You’re prone to alcoholism.It’s genetic.You need to get help.”
“Are youkiddingme?Ineed help?”
“No, I am not kidding.This is not something to joke around about.”
I stared at her.She was absolutely out of her mind.“That’s it.I’m leaving.I can’t believe you would have the audacity to lay there in a bed, hooked up to fluids after having your stomach pumped, and tell meI’mthe one who needs help.”My blood was boiling, hot and unforgiving.This was it.The last time I’d put myself in this position.The last time I’d sit outside a heavy hospital door, waiting.The last time I’d let her twist my emotions and wish it could be different.“I didn’t come back here to take care of you.I came back for ajob—one that is over in less than two weeks.And after that, I’m going home.You can go back to calling whoever it is you call when you wake up on docks, in alleys, or wherever else you end up when I’m not around.”
I turned to the door and heard her small voice behind me.
“I’m ready to go somewhere and get help.”
I froze.I turned slowly, half expecting her to be joking.Those words—words I had begged to hear for years—had never come out of her before.Not once.No matter how much I urged, pleaded, or fought with her, she would never even consider it.
“No, you’re not.”My voice was thick with disbelief and hope at odds.
“Yes, I am, Samantha.”She sat up a little straighter against her pillows, eyes locked on mine.“I know why you don’t come back home.Believe it or not, your mother is actually quite intelligent, though I don’t display it quite as often in certain situations.”
I didn’t move.I stood there staring at her, hating myself for the little glimmer of hope I thought I’d buried long ago that simmered underneath the weight of so many years of anger.
“I’m serious.I want to go somewhere and get clean.For good.”
I crossed my arms, my defenses fighting their way back to the surface.“You’re just saying this so I don’t walk out right now.”
