Page 37 of On Your Life

I hang up before she can say anything else. These are the moments I wish flip phones were still a thing. I want to slam the bitch closed hard enough to hear the plastic crack and pretend she could somehow feel my anger through the line.

A horn blaring jerks me back to reality. I swerve into my lane, my heart dropping to my stomach.

Fuck. I drag a hand over my face and stare through the windshield. There’s no easy way to do this.

Maybe I’m the problem. Maybe I’m the reason she keeps doing this. Every time she falls apart, I pick up the pieces. Every time she needs something, I show up. Maybe I have enabled her.

She’s getting more and more paranoid and it makes it hard to be around her. I hardly recognize her anymore.

I need to let someone know where I’m going. Otherwise I could end up dead and no one would even know where to look.

This side of town is sketchy as fuck during the day. In the middle of the night even the cops don’t want to come near here unless they absolutely have to.

I grab my phone and call Fox. The line rings for what feels like forever and I almost believe that I’m on my own.

“Yeah?” he finally answers, his voice thick with sleep.

“Foxy, I’m going downtown for a bit. Just letting you know in case I disappear forever.”

It’s meant to come out as a joke but I’m beyond serious.

“Why the hell are you going downtown in the middle of the night?” he asks, more awake now. “Are you insane?”

“Mom. She’s high out of her mind and ended up out here,” I sigh.

I sound like an idiot saying it. I’m sure I look like one too with how much I let her keep using me. Fox has never judged me for it though.

“Do you need me to come with you?” he asks.

“No, I’m basically here already. I just wanted someone to know, just in case.” I glance toward the dark streets ahead. “This place gives me the heebie jeebies.”

“Alright, call if you need me. I’ll stay up for a bit.”

“Thanks man,” I say before ending the call and tossing the phone into the passenger seat.

It’s nice to have someone that loyal in this world. Especially since my own mother can’t get her shit together.

The overpass looms up ahead. Concrete pillars disappear into the darkness beneath it, massive shadows stretching across the road. Tents are scattered along both sides, some patched together with tarps and blankets, others barely standing. Shopping carts sit abandoned beside piles of cardboard and plastic bags filled with god knows what.

Homeless people flock to this area because they know the cops don’t bother running them off. Not to mention the fact that it’s the easiest place to hide drugs since it has turned into its own little commune for addicts. A place where nobody asks questions because everyone has something they’re trying to hide. It’s where everyone comes to get their fix.

I buy sometimes to sell, but I never come out this late. You’d be surprised what the women in prison would do for a gram. You’d be even more surprised what they’ll do when they think it’s their last one. I make more money from them than my regular job.

My headlights sweep across the underside of the overpass. People scatter from the sudden brightness, shadows scrambling away. Then I see her.

She’s standing there, one hand lifted over her eyes as she squints toward my truck. She smiles when she recognizes me and I feel nauseous.

She starts walking toward me but she keeps looking over her shoulder every few steps. Like someone is following her.

I know what I have to do but knowing doesn’t make it hurt any less. I love her, that’s the fucked up part. After everything she’s put me through, every promise and every lie, some part of me still cares about her. But she needs to stop this shit before she kills herself.

She reaches the door and grabs the handle. She pulls but nothing happens. The lock stays firmly in place. Her brows knit together in confusion before she looks through the glass at me. I roll the window down just enough to speak to her.

“I can’t keep doing this, ma.”

The words hurt more than I expected them to. So does the look that crosses her face.

For a second, she looks less like the woman who has spent years destroying herself and more like the mother I remember.