Page 45 of For The Weekend
“That’s good.”
I should probably be more supportive. She is the mother of my child, and yet I don’t have it in me, so we sit in silence for a minute until I lose my cool.
“What do you want, Amy? I’m getting charged for this.”
“Oh, sorry myimprisonmentis fucking upyourlife.”
I rub at my forehead. “What do you want?”
“I want to talk,” she says, sounding like she might cry. “I want to hear about Mazie. Does she miss me?”
Here again, I should feel some sympathy for her, but I don’t because she fucked up her life and ours—Mazie’s and mine.Shedid this. But I’m not that much of an asshole to tell her the truth.
“Yeah,” I answer but don’t elaborate. “What do you want to know?”
“How is she?”
“Mazie is…”Better than she’s ever been.“Doing really well.”
“Yeah? How about school? Does she like it?”
“She loves it. She started dance class too.”
“Oh my god,” Amy says, voice breaking. “You have to send me pictures.”
I sigh. “Yeah. Okay.”
“And the bunny. What’s his name?”
“Steve.”
“Right. Steve. How is he?”
“Good.” And because I’m tired of answering her questions and because I did love her at one time, I ask, “How are you?”
“I’m…okay.”
I don’t respond. I have no idea how to fucking respond to this situation. Ever.
I met Amy at the lowest point in my life, and we fed into each other’s worst tendencies. I don’t know who dragged whom down, but I was the one to stay clean when we said we would get clean. The day she told me she was pregnant was the day I had my last drink, gulped down my last pill. Amy managed to be sober through her pregnancy and a few weeks after, but it didn’t take long for her to backslide, using postpartum depression as an excuse. Maybe it was too hard for her, I don’t know, but from where I stood, it didn’t seem like she tried all that hard. I was the one taking Amy to her doctor’s appointments. I was the one offering to go in with her. I was the one telling her to take a walk because she seemed like she needed a break.
But it was all,I’m fineorI don’t need youorJust for half an hour.
It wasn’t long before I found her stash. Coke to stay up, pills to sleep. Then there were the few glasses of wine to relax.
I didn’t want Mazie growing up in the shadow of an addicted parent like I did, so I knew what I had to do. I told Amy she needed to clean herself up or I was taking Mazie and leaving.
It worked. For a few months. But then she slipped.
The older Mazie grew, the harder it was to hide what was going on, and while I wanted my daughter to have two parents, it wasn’t going to be at her expense. Because I stopped trusting Amy with our daughter.
I packed up Mazie and moved out, to Amy’s crying. She begged me to stay, apologized, made the usual promises, butwhen it became obvious it wasn’t going to work, she called me a bastard for taking her child, a motherfucking asshole for leaving her alone.
But I made it clear I wasn’t going to keep Mazie from her; all she needed to do was clean up her life. I did it and knew she was capable of doing it too. Although I also knew how difficult it was to stay sober.
Amy hadn’t been very present in our daughter’s life, but when she was, she was a good mom. So when she called a few months later, telling me she’d turned her life around and wanted to see Mazie, I agreed.
We went over to her new apartment, decked out with brand-new furniture and electronics. She bought Mazie a bunch of toys and dresses, ordered more food than we could finish, and topped it all off with ice cream and popcorn while we watched a movie. I was impressed, and we all had a great time. It almost felt like it was back to normal. Until someone banged on her door.
