Bottled Up (23 page)

“Mom.” I reached right into her pocketbook and took out the bottle. “What do you need these for?”

She grabbed it back, put it in her purse, and zipped it shut.

“My doctor gave them to me,” she said.

“Why?”

“Pip, I'm leaving for the store. I don't have to stand here and answer to you.”

“It was okay for you to get on me about what kind of brother I am. What kind of mother are
you,
wasted on pills?”

“You don't know what you're talking about. Those might be the only thing making it possible for me to get up in the morning—”

“It's not easy for anybody to get up in the mornings around here—”

“Life is no picnic for me these days—”

“I know—”

“You don't know. You have no idea what it's like being married to an alcoholic—”

“I have to watch it played out every day.”

But then we both stopped.

Nobody had ever said that in our house. The shock of her saying it was hitting both of us right between our words.

“Listen,” she said in a quieter voice. “I've got one son on his way to being no better than his drunken father—”

“—and another son who needs a lot more than I can give him—who I am basically raising alone.”

“You're not raising him alone.”

She shook her head as if she thought I was stupid or crazy. “I'm going to the store,” she said.

“Who do you think walks him to school and back?” I asked her. “Who takes him to T-ball? Who answers all his dumb questions? Who holds him at night when you and Dad are screaming downstairs?”

I didn't mean to make her cry.

It just busted out of her like a bullet, and then she pushed past me to get outside.

“Mom?” I ran out the door after her.

“Get inside and take care of Mikey. You think I'm such a horrible mother, maybe you should start picking up the slack and be a better brother.”

She got in her car and slammed the door.

I didn't try to stop her from driving off. I let her go.

I wasn't sure why she'd gotten so upset. I didn't say anything different from what she had said to me in Mikey's room that day I yelled at him for eating my pot.

I guess it just sounded different when it was being aimed at her.

When Mom got home she sent Mikey back up to his room.

I was still feeling bad about making her cry. I carried in the grocery bags and even tried to put some of the stuff away for her.

I opened a box of peanut butter granola bars—the ones I'd never got around to asking her to pick up. She'd bought them for me anyway.

I took a bite, then said, “Mom, I didn't mean to make you cry before. I—”

“Let's not talk about it,” she said without even looking at me.

I knew how to do that. We all knew how in my house. Things happen and then we all pretend they didn't.

“Mom? Can I show you something?”

“What?”

“In the living room. I want to show you something I did.”

She followed me into the living room, and I brought her over to the bookshelves. Her eyes teared up again. No matter what I did I made my mother cry.

“Where'd you find these?” she asked, picking up one of the statues.

“They were in the garage. I thought they'd look better inside.”

She didn't look up at me, but she put a hand on the back of my neck and gave it a squeeze.

“So what do you call these statues anyway?” I asked her.

“Precious Moments,” she said. I could hear her smiling.

It was one of those warm fuzzy times. Just the thing a guy like me gets away from as fast as he can.

“I'm going to make sure Mikey's back in bed,” I said.

She nodded and put the statue back on the shelf.

It was a weird-looking thing—a little boy with a very big head, sitting on a stool and wearing a dunce cap.

I waited until I saw Mikey go inside the building—just in case.

The construction crew was outside filling up the hole. I guess they were finally done fixing whatever was broken down there.

There was a pass from Giraldi waiting for me in first period. He wanted me to go right to his office.

“I didn't do anything,” I said when I got there.

“Good morning to you too.” He shut the door behind me. “Have a seat.”

I flopped into my chair and let my laces slap as hard as they could on the floor.

“Any thoughts on getting a haircut?” he asked.

“Any thoughts on getting a face-lift?”

He sat down at his desk and opened up my file. He loves doing that.

“So you've been doing a pretty good job of staying out of my office—”

“You sent me a pass because you missed me so much? You could have got us some bagels and coffee.”

“I don't miss you, Phillip.”

“Pip.”

“I don't miss you one bit. I just wanted us to check in with each other—I wanted to be sure you still understood the rules. If you go to counseling and make it to all your classes, you get to stay in school and no phone call goes home.”

“I remember.”

“Have you heard from your partners in crime? John or Frank?”

“I thought you said Johnny got time and Slayer was sent to rehab.”

“That's true. I thought they might have written you or called.”

I shook my head. I started wondering why they hadn't.

“It's probably better for you this way—easier to clean yourself up.”

“Is that what I'm doing?”

“What would you call it?”

“Being blackmailed.”

He closed my file and stood up. “Okay,” he said. “Go back to class.”

“That's it? That's all you wanted?”

“You don't make problems for
me,
I don't make any for
you.
See how this works?”

I went to the door and was almost home free.

“Downs,” he said, smiling. “Keep up the good work.”

He had to ruin everything.

I was waiting for Mikey when he got out of school.

As soon as we started walking home, he went right into his thing.

“Pip?”

“What?”

“Why do M&M's taste so good?”

“Candy tastes good.”

“I don't like Baby Ruth bars—too many nuts.”

“I don't like nuts either.”

“Pip?”

“What?”

“How come you have hair under your arms?”

“Mikey, shut up.”

He did for about half a minute.

“Pip? Do you have to see that lady today? The one we talked to?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I want to see her too. She was nice.”

“You want to talk to her?”

“Yeah. Can I come in with you again?”

“No.”

He looked as if I'd I kicked him.

“But maybe she can hook you up with somebody else to talk to when I go.” I couldn't believe I was saying that. “It's not a bad idea. This way you're not in the waiting room just waiting.”

“But that's what waiting rooms are for,” he said.

“Don't you ever get sick of waiting, Bugs?”

“Yup,” he said, and blew some hair off his forehead.

He came with me to Claire's and waited on the couch. I brought my cigarettes and matches in with me.

I told Claire he wanted to talk to somebody. She didn't look surprised. I think she was even trying not to smile. She said there was another counselor he could see while I was in with her. She ran some Kids Are People group for children of alcoholics. Claire was going to set it all up.

“Things getting any easier for you?” Claire asked me.

“No. They suck. Things are getting harder.”

“Changing from who you think you have to be into who you're meant to be is one of the biggest challenges you'll ever face.”

“Do you always talk in bumper stickers?”

“Do you always turn into a wiseass when things get uncomfortable?”

I nodded.

“Then I'm always going to talk in bumper stickers,” she said.

“Maybe you wrote the one I saw this morning.”

“What did it say?”

“I'm not telling.”

“Of course you're not.”

“You're always asking me what I want, and I finally figured it out from a bumper sticker on the back of some whacko's car.”

“But you're still not going to tell me what it said?”

“First tell me why you don't have a clock in here.”

“Who said I don't?” She swiveled back and forth in her chair.

“You have a clock in here? Where?”

She pointed behind me. There was a digital clock half the size of a dollar with huge red numbers. It was stuck to the leg of the coffee table under the window. I couldn't believe I'd missed it.

“That's cold,” I said. “You're as bad as anybody in group.”

“I'm not trying to be sneaky, Pip. The people who come to see me have enough to worry about. They don't need to be concerned about what time it is too. I keep track of when the sessions start and end.”

“Why didn't you just tell me you had a clock when I was asking you about it?”

“You never asked me if I had a clock. You asked me why I didn't have a clock.”

“That's messed up,” I said.

“Is your urine going to be?” She handed me a cup.

“No way. This one is going to be a vanilla milkshake.”

“Good,” she said. “I'm thirsty.”

“That's sick,” I said.

“You can dish it out, but you can't take it.”

“Got that right.”

“You throwing up?” Mikey asked me while I was bending over the bowl.

“No. Not throwing up—throwing out.”

“Oh, that stuff,” he said. “I didn't like how it tasted anyway.”

“Good,” I said, flushing what I had left of the two bags Johnny had given me.

He took my pack of rolling papers off the floor. “What's this?” he asked.

“That's for making paper airplanes,” I told him.

We sat on the bathroom floor and made about twelve of them.

They flew pretty good—pretty high too.

My father was sitting at the kitchen table, rattling ice cubes in his glass. Mom was putting Mikey to bed and I was walking around the house like a lion in a cage.

I couldn't stand being grounded anymore. It was hard enough getting to all my classes, and it was more than killing me not being able to get high like I used to. I had to at least figure out a way to get some cash and get off being grounded.

I sat down at the table across from my father. He looked tired—just like Mom. It made me think about Mikey saying he thought Dad drank because he was sad.

“What is it?” he said, finishing off his drink.

“I wanted to ask you about not being grounded anymore.”

“After all the crap you've been pulling?”

“I want to get some driving lessons.”

I pulled the bottle cap out of my pocket and started spinning it on the table. It gave me something to look at instead of him.

“Driving lessons?” He rattled the ice cubes some more. “I told you you're not responsible enough to be on the road.”

“I need fifty dollars for my first lesson.”

“You're not listening to me, are you?”

I kept spinning the cap.