Page 82 of Truck Off

I move my hands to her face and cup her cheeks. “First of all, you are not forgotten.” My voice cracks on the words and I clear my throat. Hearing her say that has my heart aching for her in ways it’s never ached before. “Your mom leaving the way she did was a really shitty thing to do, but that doesn’t mean others don’t see you. I see you. I always have. Now, I’m going to help you.”

She pushes me away for what feels like the millionth time over the past two days, but I don’t let her go. “I don’t need you to fix this.”

“Too bad. I’m helping you,” I say as if it’s a foregone conclusion.

“Chase, taking care of me and fixing my messes is not your job.”

I growl, beyond frustrated with her constant rejection. “Newsflash, Lina. I wasn’t born into a family with money either. Anything and everything we have, we worked our asses off for. My family life is far from perfect too. And in case you forgot, my mom is the town drug addict and the one responsible for her son’s addiction. Christian is a recovering addict because our mother is a worthless piece of shit who reveled in dragging her sons down with her. I almost lost my twin twice because of her, and I worry every day that he’ll relapse. So don’t talk to me like I don’t know what a hard life is like. Because I do. The only difference between you and me is I had others standing beside me to help pick up all our messes. Now you have me. I will help you.”

She sucks in a long, ragged breath and her eyes well up with tears. When one breaks free, I wipe it away with my thumb.

I drop my forehead to hers and sigh. “Tell me you understand, baby. I’m gonna help you and it’ll be a lot easier on both of us if you don’t fight me on it.”

She gives me a slight nod as a few more tears break free and slide down her cheeks. My body immediately lets loose of the tension that had my shoulders bunched and my chest tight.

I press a light kiss to her lips and whisper, “Thank fuck.”

* * *

After leaving Lina, I should have gone home. I should have done some work around the farm or gone to the main house to see what my family was up to for the day. I should have literally done anything else except what I did.

Seeing her living conditions was too much of a reminder of Mom and her inability to care for herself.

So instead of doing something that made me happy, I drove to her apartment to check on her.

Big mistake. Maybe one of the worst mistakes I’ve ever made in my life.

Because Mom’s apartment looks worse than it ever has, and she’s passed out on the floor on her stomach with her head lying in a pile of vomit.

At least she’s still breathing.

After standing outside for what felt like an eternity, catching my breath and getting a tight hold of my anger, I head back inside. I grab her stash that’s sitting in a small bag on the coffee table and take it to the bathroom. I don’t care that it looks like a week’s worth of blow. I flush it down the toilet. Then I turn on the shower so it can warm up.

Picking Mom up off the floor, barely conscious, is its own kind of hell. There’s no love lost between us at this point in our relationship, but that doesn’t mean seeing her like this doesn’t hurt.

Because it does. It cuts so deep into my wounds that I prefer to pretend it doesn’t exist. Life is easier if I plaster on a smile and make jokes rather than dwell on all the shit that festers in the recesses of my mind. That shit won’t solve anything. And it certainly doesn’t make me feel good.

I place Mom under the showerhead, letting it hit her in the face. She lets out a loud oomph sound when I sit her down. Probably because it was more like a drop. I should be gentler, but after the morning I’ve had, my temper is begging to be let loose. Mom’s lucky I’m even doing this much for her.

She sputters and spits, then lifts her hand to wipe the water away from her face. Once her head is mostly cleaned off, I push her back so she doesn’t drown or choke under the spray.

I let out a low snort. She just sits back against the tub, eyes closed, like she’s going back to sleep without a care in the world.

Maybe I should turn the water to cold. That might wake her up.

Deciding to leave her, I head to her bedroom and get her some clean clothes. Only I can’t find anything clean. She’s already dirtied up everything I washed the last time I was here. I’m stuck picking out the cleanest shirt and sweats I can find. At least she still has clean towels. Likely because she rarely bathes.

No son, at any age, should ever have to give his addict mother a shower and then dress her in cleanish clothes. I’ve done this more times than I care to count and for more years than is survivable.

And yet, here I am, doing it again.

Once she’s settled in her bed, I head back out to the living room and get to work. There’s so much garbage scattered around the apartment that I use up all the remaining trash bags to take it all out.

I clear out all the rotting food and load up the dishwasher with as many dishes as it can hold. And there’s still a counter stacked high with dirty dishes.

I’m about to fill the sink up with water when my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I groan when I see it’s from Grams reminding me of the Euchre practice match that starts in five minutes. Good thing she reminded me.

I type out a quick reply, letting her know I’ll be there, then I shove my phone back in my pocket.

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