Heartbeats

Chapter Eight

Mason’s team won the game. I guess, in that sense, you could say Charles’s team won the game too.

I’d try to ease out of explaining by issuing you the “it’s a long story” excuse, but here’s the problem: it isn’t. Charles used to play football at his old school. His coach talked to our coach and voila, we got a new running back. Actually, I have no idea what position he was. All I know is that he was really good. This game had one of the best scores in school history.

I got back home around eleven, thus having to sneak into the house. I was successful except mom had either forgotten my message or she had never heard it. Either way, my absence was ignored and the alarm was turned on.

I ducked and covered my ears as the alarm squealed like a stuck pig. It cut through any tension harboring in the air and pierced its way into my eardrum. I could barely hear my mom pad down the staircase.

“Turn it off!” I screamed, hunched over with my eyes shut tight.

Then the noise was gone. “Jacie?” my mom called out to me, her voice slurred. Part of me wished to attribute this to her just waking up but I could tell the difference between regaining consciousness and regaining sobriety.

I was too thinly worn to consider a tender approach. “Jeeze mom, couldn’t go a day without a drink?” All my energy fed into this anger. “Wasn’t it bad enough what dad did? Why should it be shoved in my face every time we’re at a dinner party and you get drunk off wine and I have to drive you home? Or when we’re at home and you get sick off beer and get all ditzy? Do you remember when you almost streaked the neighborhood because you were so flat out dog-drunk? Don’t you think it’s about time to stop? I mean, wouldn’t you try to stop me if—you know what?” I dropped my backpack on the entrance table to my right and stomped over to the kitchen. I could hear my mom stumble behind me. She hit the table once but eventually could grab hold of the kitchen doorway.

“What are you doing?” she asked in a breathy, flushed voice.

I ignored her and opened the fridge. After scanning the shelves I found it: a half empty bottle of wine. I pulled it out by the neck and popped the cork out. Then I took a mouthful.

It was horribly bitter but I had to prove this point, even if I had to let this liquid slide down my throat and settle in my stomach. It stung, but eventually I swallowed. After that I poured the rest down the sink. My mom rushed to the counter, pushing me into the bar. I ignored the reoccurring pain in my lower back and started yelling at my mom again. The raspberry colored liquid was slowly orbiting around the drain, disappearing bit by bit. My mom was submerging her hands in the liquid and bringing them back up to her lips, lapping the wine off her fingers.

“See mom! You care more about your wine than you do me!” I grabbed one of her arms and she came at me with the other. Here hand hit my cheek open palmed. I could feel the blood rushing up to comfort the stinging but I didn’t bring my hand up to my face. I grabbed her shoulders and shook her firmly, but not aggressively. “Mom, look at you! You’ve got to be better than this! I wouldn’t give a rat’s rear if it was just me but you have Tess too! She’s at the age where anything can influence her, and you’re gonna keep this a theme throughout her life?” Mom just glared at me through wild blue eyes. Her hair had broken out of her sloppy pony-tail and it laid across her face like blades of blond grass.

She broke away and ran out of the kitchen and up the stairway.

She acted so juvenile. She was spoilt and had difficulty dealing with life. It just annoyed me that she left me to be the head of the household so she could go get drunk. And the Lord knows I don’t take care of myself well enough, let alone the house.