She puts out the cigarette, takes a lengthy swig of her drink before pouring more in the glass. “People will judge me, sure. Zoey figured out a long time ago that the Bad Mom card was her ticket out of trouble. And it works. Most of the time. I’d love to cheer on my daughter. But Zoey’s not that daughter. She tells me not to go. Says her drunk, skank Mom has no business being seen at school.” She reaches back into her pocket, takes out another cigarette and lights it.
“That’s a horrible way for her to speak to you.”
“Yeah, well. You should hear what she says when she’s mad.”
She stands and stumbles back to her chair. Instinctively, I try to help her.
“I got it,” she says. I’m close enough to smell the alcohol on her breath now.
“Ms. Peterson, maybe you can talk with someone. Maybe you and Zoey would benefit from family counseling.”
“Like I told you, I’ve got one more year.” She slides her flat palms through the air. “Then I’m done.”
I want to tell her how dangerous that position is. That her inability to do something now could hurt Zoey, and others, in the future. But it’s not my place. Maybe I should try, because of Brian, but she already seems rattled. I remember what it’s like living under the same roof as someone so hostile. I see what it’s done to Ms. Peterson. Zapped her of her former beauty, forced her to work from home, drink heavily and smoke.
“I tell you what,” she says, standing again. This time her stance is solid. “You seem like a nice teacher, and you’ve got to be smarter than most if you’re able to pick up on the real Zoey. But it would be best if you don’t get involved. I appreciate you trying to help. I really do. But you should just get in your car and go. The track meets always seem to end early on Fridays.”
She’s asking me to leave in the nicest way possible because she feels threatened, for herself and for me. I pick up my purse and walk down the steps. She remains standing, watching me leave.
As I open my car door, I turn again. “You should ask Zoey about the party after the dance.”
Before she can respond with another question, I get in my car and go.
Twenty
Now
“You aren’t sleeping?” Danny asks, breaking my concentration. He’s seated to my left, driving our sedan down the interstate. This hour on a Saturday there’s little traffic. We loaded the car and left Victory Hills before seven, which is too early for me to be awake on a weekend. For Danny, it’s more like sleeping in.
I didn’t tell him I threw up this morning. I brushed my teeth and hopped in the shower, not wanting to spoil our weekend ahead. This Zoey nonsense has a hold over me, and visiting Ms. Peterson yesterday seems to have strengthened the grip.
“You know what it’s like once you’re awake. Sometimes it’s hard to go back down,” I say. Usually, when we have an hour or more drive, I’m passed out. I can’t tell him I’m awake thinking about Zoey and Ms. Peterson. My most logical option, as Pam suggested, is to leave the matter alone. Deep inside, something refuses to let me do that. Maybe it’s my guilt.
“Just making sure you’re okay.” Danny senses something is on my mind. He knows me too well, and that is rather annoying right now.
“I’m fine,” I assure him, our hands now connected in between our two seats.
“I can visit her with you,” he says, and I wonder how many minutes he’s been contemplating whether to make the suggestion. “She’s my mother-in-law, after all.”
“No,” I say. “That will make the visit that much longer. I’m only stopping because it’s Mother’s Day weekend.”
That’s not entirely true because whenever we drive this direction, we make a pit stop to visit my mother; she now lives two hours from Victory Hills along the highway. We must, otherwise my daughterly guilt screams so loud I lose concentration.
“I just don’t want you getting upset.”
“Do I seem upset to you?” I ask, kicking my foot onto the dash.
“Not yet,” he says, shyly. Yet. Twice in the past five years I’ve had a meltdown, and now he expects it every time.
“I’m the only family she has left, Danny. She deserves some one-on-one time with me.”
“I know. And I think you’re an excellent daughter. You visit her a lot more than I do my folks, and they still have their wits about them.” He stops, knowing his words came out differently than he meant. Mom has dementia. It’s not like she wouldn’t have her wits if the choice was hers to make. “You know what I meant.”
“I do,” I say. “But she’s also the only family I have left.”
Now it’s his turn to feel guilty, even though I wasn’t intending to hurt his feelings. Of course Danny is my family. As we get older, we have the luxury of choosing who we want in our lives. Your childhood family is different from your adult family for this reason. I didn’t get to choose what happened to Dad or Mom; and none of us chose what happened with Brian.
Mom never made me promise not to put her in a place like this, so perhaps that’s why I feel only partially culpable when I visit. Besides, it’s good she’s surrounded by peers; Mom has always loved a sense of community. Out of the three facilities I toured, it was undoubtedly the best option, and the closest to Victory Hills. The visiting area looks more like a family living room, only with more tables and chairs. Each bedroom has a fireplace, although it doesn’t work. It’s all about the look. Make a space look like home, and it won’t serve as a constant reminder that it’s anything but.
Mom’s dementia showed up early; like, scarily early. She was in her
