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My very first memory of Easter was when my mom “went away” for the first time. I didn’t understand it as a four year old, but I knew she wasn’t around. Her presence was missing, the house felt emptier, colder, quieter — it wasn’t a home for a few days. Nothing was explained to me for obvious reasons, but I was confused. Something was off. She’s never not here, and if she does leave, she always left this younger person or my aunt as some kind of collateral. As though to say, take this hostage until I get back. This time, there was not collateral left. Just our father.
Everyone knows he’s not collateral.
She just disappeared and we still went to his family’s side in Jersey for Easter. Like normal. I have been the youngest cousin for decades — there’s never anyone for me to play with so I hide out in the back rooms, with my thoughts and my questions. I’ve already told everyone my mom went away today — those exact words. “She went away today and we don’t know when she’ll be back.” It wasn’t a secret, right? No one reacted like anything was wrong, in fact, every one is a little warmer. Okay. So, sometimes people just “go away”. That’s typical.
She was home in a few days, I think, but I know it wasn’t long. She seemed tired and maybe sad? Something was different in the house for a brief time, and then everything returned back to how it was. Normal.
Eventually and still too young, I learned why she was leaving and what it was for. My mom was an alcoholic. As a kid, this was so confusing and not scary because everyone I knew was an alcoholic. My mom was the only one that “had a problem” though. For as long as I can remember, my mom always drank. White wine. Bloody Mary’s at Hibachi. Frozen Pina coladas at pool gatherings and mud slides when available. A fun, social drinker out and about, but a sad sipper behind closed doors. She would sit at our dining room table at night, talking on the phone for hours with a glass or two or three complimented by a pack of Kool Mild cigarettes. Or sit in our den, listening to records or watching old concerts on TV. Lighting a new smoke with the last, emptying out the ashtray on her trip to the kitchen, sitting back down in her ass-cave and lighting a new one. The jug of Carlo Rossi under the sink now three quarters full. As the night fades, so does she. Her vocal chords have a different rhythm and her body leans and sways, not in tune with the music playing. Her knees pop and she pounds her thigh like the mother fucking verdict is in. This is her release. Elton John. The Moody Blues. Erasure. Simon & Garfunkel. Ballads to comfort her inner despair. I’d dance sillily and empty her ashtray. A typical evening.
Like most kids, I’m comfortable in a liquor store — I had a keg in my house growing up. I was pool shark at eight. I made more jello shots than jumpshots at thirteen. My father never let us kids cramp his style, and with my unformed amygdala, I was truly excited to hang out with Manson, the town drunk who gave himself haircuts by lighting his hair on fire. I guess that was my babysitter — woah. That realization literally just happened, but honestly, this man was fascinating, kind, and actually looked after me. I learned early on that my father was a glorified babysitter; there sometimes, not very responsible, and easy to say goodbye to.
Between the two of them, I knew my way around a liquor store at ten. Exactly where to get Captain Morgans for him and the aisle with the jugs of Carlo Rossi for my mom. I didn’t know that name at first but it’s the one that starts with a C and is white. I’d eventually learn that’s Chardonnay. When we’d get home, even though she’d been away a few times at this point and my grandma even stayed with us for a while to “watch her” and quell this habit, he’d ask me in the hall way right in front of her.
“Should we give mommy this wine I got? Or should I lock it up?” I would have given my mom the world if I could. Give it to her. I didn’t want to deny her anything. A stupid kid. I know I didn’t know any better. That I wasn’t actually the one enabling her.
But, he did. This wasn’t a mistake like me, this was planned and calculated — a strategy he had carefully considered and the cost of life was worth it, according to his math. Seeds of guilt and shame were planted purposely right in front of her, while dangling a jug of sunshine. No wonder she was blind in one eye.
Luckily, they’d get divorced when I am twelve. She’d go away or stay with a friend or family member a few times. She’d start to mix her anti-depressants and the drinking. I’d go stay with my aunt and uncle for a summer or two. The jug that was once under the sink was now hidden throughout the house — the remnants of that Easter. Now, I’d hunt around knowing that even though she wanted it, she shouldn’t have it. A search for one jug, that was usually in the back corner of a closet, probably hanging out with my sexuality. Finding it was exciting and taxing, I found guilt in the bottom of the bottle as I wasted its contents, an ironic fate for cheap wine. I know money is tight, and this would only make it tighter because she would have to buy more. I’m not one of those people who would love to be a kid again. My childhood is one of those things I’d like to do just once, like marriage.
I’ve blocked out some of it, and I’d tell you about it but that defeats the intentions of my self conscious. Other events are still as vivid as the day they happened…
Another night in front of the TV with my mom, but something happened. Something was off. Her glass of wine, cigarettes, and a full ashtray on the coffee table while she sports a Beeker frown — you know that muppet? She got up to empty the ashtray, or so I thought, but she didn’t return for what felt like too long.
An eerie feeling in my stomach and my cheeks. Something is off. The bathroom is right in front of the den, and the door is shut signaling someone is in there. My brother is sitting at the computer in the same room as me, and we’re the only ones home besides my mom. She must be in there. That feels wrong — not that she’s going to the bathroom, but that she’s in there right now. I feel tightening in my chest and before I know it I’m up.
I knock, “mom, are you in there?” I know the answer, but I’m not sure why I’m knocking to begin with.
“Yea, leave me alone please.” She trying to cover up that she’s crying, but I hear it.
I jiggle the doorknob, but it’s tight. I can’t get in.
“Mom. Can you let me in?”
“No. I’ll be right out.”
I know she won’t. I turn around to my older brother who like most older brothers I know, dismisses my concerns and provides no comfort. I learned not to rely on him early on.
My siblings and I have all learned how to break into each other’s locked items—rooms, locks, safes. Nothing is off limits, even if you ask nicely. The downstair’s bathroom door was the easiest to jimmy open. I grabbed the handle firmly to twist it enough to open the door to a dark bathroom. Hitting the switch showed me what I still fear to find behind locked bathroom doors today— my mom slumped on the floor with streams of blood flowing down her arms, babbling over scrapes and scratches.
“Mom!” I yell to move her gaze from the tiles to me.
“Just leave me alone…” They held no meaning as they left her mouth.
I cleaned her up, hid every knife in the house, and put on her favorite episode of Saturday Night Live. I watched Beeker leave. We were always so close, but there’s a reason I slept in a sleeping bag next to her side of the bed for so long. There’s a reason I brought her so many places with me and tried to keep her happy. I saw firsthand what happened when she wasn’t. I found her. I thought I saved her. A stupid kid.
She never put any pressure on me for anything, but I was always terrified to let her down. Fortunately, she was so easy to make happy. But, now I’m hard on myself because at one point it was life or death. My cross to bear, I guess.
Sure, Easter is about resurrection and joy, but for me, it just brings up memories and times that I’d rather stay in that hole with a boulder in front of it. No wonder Easter egg hunts have always left my basket feeling empty.