It takes everything in me (and then some) not to shake my mother awake as soon as I got home. The anger and betrayal coursing through my blood is setting my whole body on fire.
How could I have been so stupid? How did I miss the signs of her slipping?
The tears tumble down my cheeks as I pace angry lines in my tiny bedroom.
I keep asking questions to which there are no logical explanations. You can't ask an addict for an answer.
There is no magic cure to undo the damage that addiction does to people, either. Sobriety is a choice, but as I've come to understand it, you have to commit to it every day.
Deep, deep down, I don't want this to be my life.
I don't want to spend the rest of my days in this trailer watching my mom like a hawk, but I'm all she has.
I don't even bother to wash the makeup off my face or change out of my clothes before crawling under my covers. All I can do is cry.
In the morning my eyelids are crusted shut and my head hurts like I've got a hangover.
The sun is peeking around the edges of my curtains and cutting a line right down the side of my face.
My mom is moving around in the kitchen and a sickening feeling creeps into my gut.
I have to talk to her, but about what? Mrs. Gotlieb thought she saw my mom coming out of The Blue Dart.
"Tom!" I mumble and roll out of bed.
My mom claims that she's been going to see her counselor, Tom, so I'll check in with him.
Maybe Mrs. Gotlieb was mistaken. If I talk to Tom and he confirms my mom's story, then everything is fine.
When I'm ready for work, I head toward the kitchen and the smell of burnt toast.
My mom's on the couch watching the news with a plate on her lap.
She seems to be acting like her normal self.
"Morning," my mom's smile drops a few crumbs on her bathrobe. "Do you have school tonight?"
"Nope," I grab a slice of bread for myself and push it into the toaster. "I'm hanging out with my mom tonight."
I thought I saw a flash of fear in her eyes when I looked up, but just as quickly, it was gone.
"Yeah, you up for a movie marathon?" I bounce my brows.
"Sure," she smiles.
A feeling of dread settles in my stomach while we finish our breakfast and I gather my things up for work.
My shift at the diner goes terribly because I'm only half paying attention. I dropped plates, I mixed up orders, and I spilled cold water on someone.
Mike is an old family friend, so he usually cuts me some slack, but by my third broken plate, he sent me home and told me to get my head on straight.
So, I left Tom a brief voicemail on the bus ride home.
"Hey Tom, it's Moira Stavros, I'm just calling in to check and see if my mom's been coming in for her appointments. Could you just give me a call back on Monday when you get this? Thanks, bye."
As soon as I hang up, my phone dings with a text from Rory.
I'd completely forgotten about Rory and Bianca's behavior at the charity event because ultimately their drama didn't matter. He's a jerk and She's a piece of work, but my mom's health mattered way more.
'Last night was crazy. Sorry about Bianca.'
I didn't answer, but within minutes he sent another text.
'...Are you mad at me?'
'Worry about your fiance.' I reply.
'She's not my fiance anymore.' Rory's response is such manipulative bullshit that I switch off my phone, altogether.
When I arrived home my mom had a bunch of romantic comedies cued up for us to watch.
All night I looked for signs of her using. Like she'll snap and scream at the least littlest thing or she'll drift off to sleep in the middle of a conversation, but nothing was tripping my alarm bells.
My anxiety over my mom was all but gone by my shift on Monday. I'd even convinced myself that Mrs. Gotlieb had made an innocent mistake.
Then, I checked my brick of a cell phone on my lunch break to find a voicemail from my Mom's counselor.
"Hi Moira, it's Tom returning your call," my stomach dropped at his gloomy tone. "Your mom told me there was a death in the family and that she would be traveling, so no, I haven't seen her in a couple of weeks. Also, a morbid reminder, the court is going to need confirmation of the event that has kept your mom out of town. A copy of the death certificate will be fine, but they need it in the next five days. I hope you're both doing alright and please tell your mom that I'm sorry for her loss."
Tears boil my lashes and my hands are shaking by the time his message is over.
I now have confirmation that my mom's been lying.
She lied to me, she lied to Tom, and worst of all, she lied to the judge that agreed to keep her out of jail.
I don't even notice when Mike walks into the coat room where I'm still sitting.
When I finally look up his expression goes from jovial to horrified.
"Moira, what's wrong?" His hushed tone starts me bawling.
"It's my mom," I hiccup through achy sobs.
"Go home," Mike replies. "Mary will be here in an hour to take over."
"Thank you," I sniff and nod.
I hate that Mike doesn't even have to ask why. I hate that he's looking at me with pity.
"Do you need a ride?" He's still fretting over me when he has a restaurant to run by himself.
"No, I can call someone," I stand up robotically.
In a daze, I walk out of the diner and order an expensive ride-share across town using an app on my phone.
"Moira!" Mike is shouting as he bursts through the door of the diner. "You forgot your coat!"
"Oh," I can barely see him through the anger clouding my mind. "Thanks."
"You sure you're going to be ok?" He studies me.
"Yeah, I'll see you tomorrow," I keep my eyes on the misty grey afternoon streets to avoid his scrutiny.
A red Honda pulls up with a bubbly young girl named Jenny at the wheel and I climb inside to leave Mike on the sidewalk.
The bones in my body felt as heavy as lead.
We rush through the misty roads while I stare out the window trying to hold back tears.
I hate confronting my mom about her drug use. It's hard because I want to come from a place of love, but all I can think about is how much her lies hurt.
When Tom finds out the truth, he's going to report her. She could go back to jail, and I won't be able to help.
By the time I get home, it's pelting rain.
"Mom?" I screech as I burst through the door and rip off my coat. "Mom?"
No answer.
I check her room and the bathroom, but she's gone.
Apprehension is pulsing through my body and I feel a little light-headed as I sink into the couch.
An hour later my mom walks in dripping wet and grinning.
I watch her stroll over and open the fridge bending over so she could study its contents.
"Hi Mom," my voice is shaky.
She startles upright and spins around.
"Oh! Moira! You scared me, sweetie!" She huffs. "What are you doing sitting in the dark?"
"No Mom," I push up off the couch and approach her. "I think the better question is what have you been doing?"
"I don't understand?" My mom's face falls along with my last hope.
"Yes, you do," my voice is calm, but I can feel my skin tingling.
"Moira honey, why are you being so dramatic?" My mom tries to act like I'm the one that's being irrational.
"Mom," my body is quivering with rage as I whisper. "You need to listen to me because I want you to know that I love you."
"Moira, I need you to listen to me because you're a little scary," she snorts and turns to walk down the hall.
"Give me your purse, Mom," I growl in a voice I don't recognize.