Page 12 of Crybaby

Checking the living room, I see she isn’t sitting in her usual spot, by the window, in case he walks by.

Climbing the stairs two at a time, I race toward her bedroom. The door is ajar, and when I shoulder it open, I see an all too familiar sight—red and white pills strewn on the white carpet, an empty bottle of cheap scotch close by, and my mom’s comatose body laid on top of her silk duvet.

“For fuck’s sake,” I curse under my breath, running toward her. “June! Wake the fuck up.”

I gently slap her cheeks, trying to get a response.

She simply moans. At least she’s alive.

Lifting her limp body in my arms, I carry her into the bathroom. Turning on the faucet, I dump her ass into the shower and let the cold water slap some sense into her.

I stand back, arms folded, waiting for her to come to. This is the third time this week, and it’s only Wednesday.

Her eyes flutter open before the realization of her being drenched with cold water hits her. She screams and scrambles back, her back hitting the white-tiled wall.

“You ruined my dress,” she slurs, attempting to stand, but she’s not going anywhere. “Your father loved this dress.”

“Oh, bull-fucking-shit,” I counter, not interested in her theatrics. “He isn’t coming, Mom. When are you going to accept that? He is a selfish fucking asshole who hasn’t thought twice about us!”

“You know nothing!” she cries, brushing her soaked hair from her eyes. “He loves me. He told me he would look after me. Without him, I am nothing. I have nothing.”

She lunges for my razor, fumbling to extract the blade.

Her actions prove what self-centered assholes both my parents are.

“Is this what you fucking want?” I scream, crouching in front of the shower and reaching in, fighting her for the razor.

The cold water drenches me, but I don’t care. I can’t feel anything anymore. I am numb.

“I want to die! Let me die!” she bellows, her tears mingling with the waterdrops falling around us.

Gripping her wrist, I force her to drop the razor. It skids along the shower floor.

“I will not let you ruin your life because of someone who doesn’t give a fuck about us. You may not want to live, but I refuse to let that asshole fuck up both our lives.”

Her eyes beg I help make the hurt go away. I withstand the pain for both of us, which is why I climb into the shower with her.

With water soaking us both, I hug her tight, offering her my strength because she has none. “I love you, Mom. And I wish you loved yourself.”

She sobs into my shoulder, her tiny frame shuddering in my arms. I let her grieve for the life she wanted but never had.

“He loved me. He really did,” she whispers, a broken record stuck on a loop. “You look just like him. He was so handsome. Popular. So smart, just like you. You’re going to be someone. You’re going to change the world.”

Reaching overhead, I turn off the water but don’t let go of my mom.

As much as I wish she’d stop being the victim, I love her nonetheless. She always tried her best when I was growing up. She tried to be a good mom.

But we never had enough.

I was the kid who wore hand-me-downs two sizes too big. The kid with the weird haircut because his mom cut his hair to save money.

When I was eleven, I realized life isn’t what it’s made out to be on TV.The Brady Bunchwas not a representation of the ideal American family. Cindy and Bobby were making out in the doghouse when they were nine, Greg was fucking Carol, and Mr. Brady was a closet homosexual.

Life changed for me, and it had nothing to do withThe Brady Bunchand everything to do with June having a breakdown. It was coming. The warning signs were there. But it was too late, and when she snapped, she snapped hard.

I found her unconscious on the bathroom floor as she had popped every one of her prescription pills and chased it down with a bottle of Jack. I called 911, who instructed me on how to bring my mom back to life.

That day changed me forever.

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