Community Service

Community Service | Part Eleven

Community Service | Part Eleven

            It’s difficult driving through blurry vision and crying, and I know that if Ross was in the car, he’d be leaning out of the window puking out his guts while asking if I’m okay. I’m so bewildered, so hurt that my emotions are painful and distracting, and I run over a red light, barely hearing the sound of horns behind me.

            Ross volunteered to come with me, but this isn’t something I want him, or frankly, anyone to have to experience. It’s too personal.

            When I park in the hospital parking lot, the car sloppily ignoring the white lines, I take several deep breaths and flip the visor open, looking at myself in the mirror. My eyes are puffy and blood streaked, and my nose is running, a bright red. Shakily running a hand over my eyes, I grab my purse and get out of the car, slamming the door and shivering in the cool breeze.

             Closing my eyes for a second as a lone tear falls down my cheek, I try to recompose myself.

            The ER room is fairly empty except for a couple in the corner, and I head to the check in counter, setting my keys on the desk. I vaguely recognize the receptionist from one of the holiday hospital parties that my mom and I always attended, but she seems to know exactly who I am, her eyes widening a fraction of an inch before her face settles into a sympathetic look.

            “Hey honey, your mom will be right out.”

            I nod numbly at her, looking around and grabbing a cup of water. Sitting down in my seat, I pull out my phone from my purse. There’s two texts from Ross, but I ignore them, closing my eyes and leaving back into the plastic chair. I can hear the couple arguing, their voices harsh as if they aren’t even bothering to try and pretend they aren’t fighting.

            Their voices remind me of my mom and Anthony, and I have to fight hard for no more tears to fall.

            For the first year of having Anthony in our lives, I thought that maybe something good could come out of their relationship, despite all the drinking and partying that they did together. The picnics, trips, family dates all seemed so nice, so alien compared to the cold and distant life that my mom and I had lived before he came around.

             It wasn’t until I found out that he was married that things began to crumble down. It had been me would ruined my mom’s life, me who attempted over and over again to show her the true sides of Anthony.

            She didn’t want to see it, refused to think that Anthony was anything other than a loving man who was there to protect her, to love her.

            I can still remember the day that Anthony walked out, walked out like my dad had done seventeen years ago. My mom had been inconsolable, running after his car in her robe and bare feet, screaming and yelling for him to come back.

            I can remember how the neighbors watched from inside their houses, shaking their heads in pity. She thought that if she could just stop him, then everything would go back to normal.

            That was when the drinking really began.

            If Anthony had taught my mom anything, it was how to drink, how to drink until the world disappears and all that’s left is warmth and the dark. It wasn’t how to protect her heart from men like him, or how to stand up for herself. It was how to get wasted.

            Day after day, I watched as she dragged herself up the stairs with a bottle of wine, still nursing a hangover from the night before. Day after day, I listened to her take out her anger on me, blaming me for ruining her life, for making Anthony leave.