Those same eyes stare back at me now, wide with recognition.
“We used to,” I say, squaring my shoulder and placing a mask over my face that would make me unrecognizable to myself. “Abby is my mother.”
thirty-six
patton
Hope They Gave Her the Good Drugs
Idon’t hear the squeak of the vinyl as I slide into the booth, or the scrape of my cup against the wooden table. I don’t hear Rachael and Rachel’s shocked murmurs, wondering if they heard correctly. Nor do I hear the hesitant footsteps of the woman who birthed me, walking toward me after twenty-six years.
I don’t hear any of that when all I can hear is the drum of my heart, the rush of blood inside my ears, and the catch in my throat with every ragged breath I take.
The delicious vanilla scent that surrounded me only moments ago feels suffocating, like it’s too sweet for what’s about to unfold.
“S–son.”
My eyes snap to her, my hand fisting on my lap. Hot molten lava races through my veins. “You lost the right to call me that a long time ago, Abigail.”
Seven years. She did seven years for possession and intent to distribute. It wasn’t her first stint in jail, but it was her longest. And while she waited behind bars, having left her six-year-old son in the hands of the state, I waited forher.
Day in and day out, until I turned thirteen, when I knew she was being released, I waited for her to come back and take me home, but she never did.
I remember waking up every day and checking the mail. Surely, she’d write if something had changed. Surely there was a reason she hadn’t found me yet. She wouldn’t have forgotten her one and only son.
But she had.
Because I didn’t just wait at thirteen. I waited every year after that, on every birthday, every Christmas, and every first day of school, hoping that was the day she’d come back.
But by eighteen, I accepted she wasn’t going to. I knew she’d been released from jail and had searched online obituaries to confirm she wasn’t dead.
I could have looked for her, tried to find her myself, but I chose not to. Because that kid, who would scan crowds to find his mother’s familiar green eyes and perk up whenever there was a knock on the door, had grown up. He’d accepted her decision, let go, and found peace.
Or that’s what I thought until now.
Because right now, peace is the last thing I feel. Above that are feelings I haven’t made use of in a long time, like anger, hurt, and betrayal. But more than anything is the reminder of how I was abandoned, not just when she was in jail, but when she wasn’t.
“Patton—”
I lift a hand to silence her ragged whisper, even if it meets its mark inside my chest. “What are you doing in San Francisco, Abigail? How did you find me?”
She shuffles forward, plate still trembling in her hands. I can’t tell if the shaky hands are just nerves or a permanent condition.
“I-I made my way to L.A. a couple of years ago, but I never found you. Then I heard you were going to be filming in San Jose. I read about it when the shelter let me use their internet. So I took a chance and moved here.”
The shelter.I look at her haggard visage, her gaunt and hollow face, and her lifeless eyes. Time and addiction have whittled her down to the bone.
I wish there was something,anything, that could help loosen the rock lodged inside my throat. I’ve often wondered about her over the years, and though my thoughts were usually bitter and unforgiving, I’d never wish to see her homeless, alone, or weak. Never.
I’m still processing her words and the fact that my mother is in front of me after all these years when she speaks again.
“A few months ago, I saw you walk into this restaurant. I thought I’d imagined it, but then I saw you here a time or two after that. So . . . I came here and begged them for a job, hoping I’d get a chance to talk to you.”
“Why?” I ask, trying to keep my jaw hard. “What do you want from me? Oh, let me guess. You owe money to someone—your dealer, perhaps?—and you’re here to ask for my help.”
Her eyes turn glassy. “I’ve been clean for more than a decade, and completely sober for four.”
I give her a condescending smile. “Wonderful. Do you want a standing ovation? A pat on the back, maybe? You know, the things you were never there to give me.”
