The Heartbreak

Chapter 4

The attempts to do my homework were fruitless. My head was in one place and the rest of me scattered all over. It seemed impossible to focus on anything, even after the countless times I tried to distract myself with Dee and chores.

Delia had gone to bed early, tired after the emotionally draining afternoon. I wished I could have done the same, but it wasn't that easy.

The silence in the house just made things harder. At that time, I was usually texting Jo or with her before her brother picked her up from my house; she simply refused to learn how to drive before I could give her a crash course on how to fix common problems a car could suffer. Jo was terrified of ending up stranded somewhere in the middle of the night, and therefore had asked me to teach her the basics. I had only taught her how to change a tire -  honestly, I did not have enough incentive considering that the other option was riding my bike with her in the back, with her arms around me so tight, I felt we would fuse together.

Throwing the pen back in my backpack, I gave up. There was no point in trying to finish something I had never liked to do in the first place. It was Jo the one who got me through the routine, through the boring parts of life.

While I washed the dishes, I heard the front door opening and knew quite well who it was.

Out of habit, I checked the clock ticking away on the wall. It was almost midnight on a Monday, already too late for most who needed to be up early. My mother did not seem to worry about it, though. Actually, she never seemed to worry about a thing, including us.

“You are up,” she greeted, eyes widening when she saw me standing there.

She looked disheveled and smelt like cigarettes and too much perfume. She carried her shoes in one hand and her bag hung from the other. Just one look at her was enough for me to know she was drunk, like most of the times she disappeared. She had become an expert covering up the obvious signs, but I had become an expert noticing the details.

“I have to, don’t I?” I mumbled, turning around to put away the dishes. I didn't want to argue with her, but at some point in our lives we grew used to it.

“Don’t give me that attitude,” my mother dared to say with a scolding tone.

“Attitude?”

I chuckled. By the time I faced her, she was already close to me. Her breath stank of cheap liquor and her eyes were blood-shot. “You are mistaking honesty with attitude, Mother.”

“Don’t speak to me that way. You owe me some respect.”

The tone was desperate, with hints of embarrassment, and often it made me wondered if she hurt underneath the shell of her drunken stupor. I stopped caring when I realized she did not care when I hurt.

“How do you want me to speak to you?”

I moved away. As always, I stepped away before I lost the last of my self-control. Of course, that never meant I could keep my tongue under command. Sarcasm was a weapon, wasn’t it? But the blatant truth was much more deadly.

“To ask for respect, you should show it for us.”

The pressure of blood running through my veins was strong enough to feel it. The silence that followed allowed me to hear my accelerated heartbeat. I was ready for the slap across the face when I looked at her.

“One day, I swear, Mason-“

“What?” I spat through gritted teeth, feeling my cheek burning, but refusing to let the pain sink in. Physical pain was bearable at that point. “You going to kick me out? Go ahead. Do it. I’ll take Dee with me.”

“Don’t you dare threaten me. You don’t know what I’ve been through.”

“He left six years ago!” I shouted, already tired and with my quota of drama filled up for the day. “Six! Can you just get over it? He’s not coming back, so move on. Aren’t we enough reason for you?”

Despite all the alcohol, despite her rage, her eyes welled with tears that she tried to blink away.

Our life had not always been like this. I could still remember when she woke up early in the morning to make pancakes for us, when she sang around the house and showered my face with kisses even as I made faces of disgust that quickly turned to giggles. And then one day my father up and left. There was no warning, no sign. He just never returned. I sat with my mother for days waiting for him to come back. There was a place for him at the table for months, hoping he would sit with us again.

“You don’t understand,” she whispered. “You’re too young.”

“I don’t? He left me too. And Dee. We hurt too!” I sighed and shook my head. “You just don’t care. And tomorrow you will pretend this never happened, and we’ll do this all over again.” Pausing for a calming breath, I felt like giving up. “I’m tired, Mom. So tired.”

She just nodded, swallowing down her tears. It was just like every other night. I could not remember when had been the last time she had kissed me goodnight or put Delia to bed. I could not name the last meal she had made for us or even a day she joined us for dinner.

Was it too much to ask? I wanted a loving, caring mother, even if annoying and nosy. I wanted to be asked about my day and forced to talk about girls. And instead, when my father walked out on us, my mother followed right after. She could be standing before me, but it was just her body; her mind was elsewhere and her heart was lost.

“Dee is sleeping. I’m going to bed.”

I moved away sluggishly. My body felt heavy and I could not think about a damn thing.

As I dragged my feet upstairs, I heard the faint voice of my mother.

“I loved him. I loved him and he left. He broke all our promises.” A strangled cry followed and then one of the cabinet opening and closing.

When I got to my room, I made sure to leave the alarm fifteen extra minutes earlier, because my mother would surely end up falling asleep at the breakfast table with a bottle next to her, and I did not want Delia to see that again.