Page 36 of The Breaking Point

I sighed. “Thanks for letting me know,” I said before saying goodbye.

I knew I should call Mom or, at the very least, the hospital. I knew which one it would be. But even as I knew I should call and check on her, I didn’t see the point.

We’d done this fucking song and dance so many times. Mom would fall, or get blackout drunk, or get beat up, and she’d end up in the hospital. Sometimes she stayed for a few hours; other times, it was days. She’d stabilize, they’d offer her treatment, and she’d refuse 99 percent of the time.

What was galling was that she could get sober if she wanted to. She’d done it before. The handful of periods when she’d managed to stay sober had shown that she could be a good mom.

But in the past ten years, she just couldn’t even be assed to try.

As a kid, I remembered finding her passed out on the kitchen floor. Sometimes she wet herself. I’d clean her up and help her into bed. She’d always end up crying and apologizing. She’d swear she’d get help. But she never did.

Sometimes she did go to rehab. Then, after a few days, she’d check herself out, declaring that she didn’t need help. I’d find her passed out at some sleazy bar. Or worse, making a scene where the cops would get called.

Mom had a long rap sheet: drunken and disorderly conduct, DUIs, assault, petty theft. All because she was obsessed with the bottle.

I thought again about calling Mom later that night, but then I decided that I’d try in the morning. Mom was probably asleep anyway.

I woke up to my phone ringing. Yawning, I groaned when I saw that it was Marty again.

This time, Marty had worse news. “It’s her liver,” he said. “The cirrhosis has gotten to the point that she needs a transplant to survive.”

I sat up in bed, my brain trying to understand what Marty was saying. “How long does she have?”

“The doctors say maybe six months, especially if she keeps going like this.”

“And there’s no way she’ll get a new liver if she keeps drinking,” I said, disgusted.

Marty didn’t contradict me.

After I ended the call, I lay back down and stared up at the ceiling. Mom had six months to live—maybe less.

I didn’t even feel anything at that realization. Except guilt because I’d avoided talking to her last night. Her neighbor had been her only friend to tell the news to. Not even her son had cared enough to be involved.

That old feeling, that maybe if I just tried a little harder, I could get Mom to change her ways. As a kid, I’d done everything to get her to stop drinking.

I’d pour her liquor bottles down the sink, even knowing she’d rage and scream at me. I’d beg. I’d plead. I’d give her the silent treatment. I’d stage interventions when I was the only one present.

I thought maybe when I’d gone into foster care, she’d get help. I waited for that phone call from her—when she was finally sober, and she’d tell me I’d get to go back home.

Of course that call never came. Her drinking only got worse after I was taken away from her. She preferred drowning in self-pity over getting her kid out of the system.

I still hesitated to call her. When I finally did, I hoped she didn’t pick up.

“Brady,” she said when she picked up. “Why are you calling me so early?”

It was always strange to hear motherly concern in her voice. I wanted to tell her she didn’t have the right to act like that, while the other, more pathetic part of me, lapped up the attention.

“Marty told me you were in the hospital,” I replied.

She sighed. “I told him not to call you.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m fine.”

“Did you call 911 yourself?”

“Betty did. She was watching TV with me.”

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