I wake up to someone shrieking at full blast. No, not someone.Something. Our security alarm is shrill and banshee-like, and given that it’s an hour before my typical wake-up time on a weekday, I jump out of bed, terrified.
I grab a baseball bat from the linen closet, where I’ve always had one stashed just in case, and rush into Mom’s room. But her bed is empty.
“Mom?” I whisper in case the burglar is close by. “Mom!”
Did Mom never come home last night? Or has someone already gotten to her?
My heart is beating so hard I feel like it might explode out of my chest.
“Ahh!” When I hear a squeal from downstairs, all thought for myself flees, and I storm down the steps ready to go to bat (literally) for my mom. But when I burst into the kitchen, the air is smoky and Mom is already in there, fanning below the alarm with an oven mitten. It’s the smoke alarm,notthe security alarm.
Most disconcerting is that she’s still in her pajamas and there’s a glass of red wine in her hand.
I stand there, simply unable to comprehend the sight in front of me. “Mom,” I say, “what are you doing?”
“I don’t know!” she says, harried. “It won’t shut up!”
And then she takes another sip from her wineglass.
“You need to open a window,” I say.
“Really?” she says, abandoning the fanning. I rush for the window myself.
Fresh air moves into the smoke-filled room, gradually making it more breathable and less cloudy. Then, finally, the alarm stops.
“Mom,” I say, looking at her. She is still holding the wineglass. “What is goingon?”
“I’m so sorry. Did that wake you?” she asks, as though it is remotely possible a single human being could have slept through that ruckus. “I was just trying to make breakfast, which I know I haven’t done in some time, but I don’t remember it beingthishard.”
And then she does the most unthinkable thing: She giggles.
“I need to sit down,” I say, grabbing the nearest counter stool.
“Aw, I feel so bad. Will you get back to sleep?”
“I usually don’t,” I tell her. Once I’m awake, I’m up for the day. It’s the kind of minor detail a mother should know, but the thing about us is that while Mom focuses on the big picture—the overall problem—the tiny details are up to me. I’ve done my own hair since I was a kid. I picked out my own outfits. Made my own breakfast and snacks, especially after Dad left. “Why aren’t you getting ready for work?”
Why aren’t youatwork?is a better question.
Mom sighs. Then walks over and takes the stool next to mine.
“I wanted to make breakfast and talk to you about life over food the way we did with big things when you were younger. Remember?” I frown because she never used to do that.Dadused to do that. He did it when my grandpa died. He did it when he told me he and Mom were having problems. But I get the feeling she needs to believe this, so I let her.
“Yeah?” I say.
“There’s been…” She sighs again. Puts down her glass of wine. “I made a mistake.”
At first, I’m sure I’ve misheard her.
“You did what?”
“I screwed up,” she says. “Made a mess of everything. I’m turning my resignation in to the city this afternoon, effective immediately.”
My heart rolls into my stomach, or maybe it’s just my stomach that rolls. Either way, my organs shift out of place because this is the single most insane thing I’ve ever heard in my life.
“Are youdrunk?”
“Honestly, maybe a little,” she says, the most sober she’s sounded all this morning. “But that’s the story. I wanted you to hear it from me first.”
