Community Service

Community Service | Part Thirteen

Community Service | Part Thirteen

When I get home from school, carelessly kicking my shoes into the closet and dropping my bag onto the hardwood floor, there's a sound coming from the kitchen. I peek my head around the corner and watch as my mother, dressed in a pair of old worn jeans and a San Diego State hoodie, shuffles around the kitchen.

I haven't seen her not wearing hospital scrubs in such a long time, that the sight of her wearing normal clothes bringing back memories from nights before.

Before Anthony, my mother liked to dress simple, in mom jeans and a t-shirt. Whenever she got the change, she liked to wear her favorite purple sweatpants and college hoodies, always talking about how much comfortable her clothes were compared to her scrubs. When she began dating Anthony, I only saw her in pearls and a dress or her hospital uniform. Seeing her reverting back to her old self, at least fashion-wise, makes my heart soften slightly.

She opens up the oven as it begins beeping, taking out a pan of freshly made enchiladas. I hesitate, not wanting to bother her, before knocking on the door and entering. She looks up briefly, with an indiscernible look on her face.

"You hungry?"

It takes me a minute to realize that she's talking to me, too shocked to see her up and about to register that she's holding out a plate of piping hot cheesy enchiladas.

"No, no, I'm good." I mutter slowly, watching my mother critically as she shrugs and takes the plate for herself.

"Mom?"

She pauses, hand about to grab a fork, and turns to me, eyes wary and tired.

"We should talk."

"I resigned today."

There's a pause, a brief, awkward, somber pause before I clear my throat and look down at the counter.

"That was the right decision."

"The woman's okay."

"The woman?"

"You know which woman."

It takes me a second to realize that she's referring to the pregnant woman from the other night, the one who my mother might have killed because she had been so wasted.

"That's good."

"Her newborn daughter's name is Rose. Weighed seven pounds and two ounces." My mother's voice gets quieter and cracks as she tries to suppress the tears.

I don't know what to say, don't know how to comfort her, how to tell her that she could have killed to innocent people because she felt like drinking while working.

"Beautiful baby," she continues, looking blankly at the steaming enchiladas, "blue eyes, blonde hair. Looks just like her mother."

"Mom-"

"Is there anything else?" She doesn't say this sharply, just with weariness, as if she can't summon the energy to snap at me like she usually does.

In a split-second decision, I reach into my back pocket and hand Ross' card to her. It's slightly crumbled and my hand trembles as I wait for her to take it. She gives it a look, and then she hesitates before slowly taking it from my fingers.

"Alcoholics Anonymous?"

"Yeah, it's a group that-"

"I know what Alcoholics Anonymous is." There's a sharp edge to her tone, and I back away, raising my hands in surrender. Tears prick at the corner of my eyes, but I don't want her to see how her abrasiveness is affecting me, lowering my head.