The only elegant thing about my mom was the way she smoked. An ivory, cracked-leather pouch, meticulously stocked by yours truly with Virginia Slims, carefully aligned to avoid dents. The Bic lighter, sheathed on top like a concealed weapon. The leather underneath worn smooth from half a million pulls.
It’s midmorning on the weekend. She’s driving.
Her long warlock fingers pull the next victim from the hold, hammer him upside down on the station wagon’s beige dashboard, flecks of tobacco flicker down to my lap.
I was ten or eleven.
She brakes. I lurch forward.
With the precision of a fighter pilot, she pushes in the cigarette lighter, places the smoke on her lips, flips the turn signal, and changes lanes. The cigarette magically hangs. Bouncing with the car. Red lipstick bleeds onto the filter. I’ve never seen it drop.
Pop.
The glowing orange rings crackle and singe the paper. Goosebumps. I know there’s going to be peace in a minute. That first inhale is my favorite. It would last forever. Her lips quivering, hand shaking, until they didn’t. Holding for a moment, you could see her body sink into the seat a couple of inches.
Her exhale. It was a supernatural release. Demons be gone. The station wagon filled with blue haze, as if it was sinking, singeing my eyes until I cried, and begged to roll down the window. Most times she nodded. A few times she said no. Once I asked why. I never asked again.
A bump in the front. Another in the back. I know where we are. One turn. Two turns. A push in my belly. She brakes to a crawl, rams the stick into park. We jerk to a stop. Reminds me of Magnum PI when he would say every good landing is a crash landing.
She sits there. Staring. The weight of the world. Smoking. The cigarette is smothered in red. Her lip print etched on the edge.
“You’re my first born.” She bites her lower lip, white-knuckling the steering wheel, parked in the farthest spot from Albertson’s. There’s a quick love pat on my leg that’s more for her than me. I know it.
A black bead of mascara wrapped in a tear steamrolls down her cheek. “I need you to be my little man.”
She’s beautiful.
Especially now. Maybe because she needs me. Maybe because she’s not annoyed by me. Maybe because she is crying. I love her.
More mascara makes a run for it.
With those long fingers, she pushes the dying cigarette into the masterpiece of a thousand dead butts in the station wagon’s ashtray. It’s never been emptied. The Jenga ashtray enigma.
How many mornings did I sit quiet like a good boy, counting the butts while she gathered the guts to walk into the store?
“Agoraphobia,” she says. “That’s what he calls it. Agoraphobia. It’s a fear of going outside.” I’m not sure she’s talking to me. I pretend to understand. I’m good at that.
She turns up the radio.
And I’ve tried and I’ve tried. But I haven’t yet. You walk by and I fall to pieces.
Patsy Cline breaks the spell. Country music grounds her. Dolly Parton, Crystal Gayle, and Willie.
We roll up the windows, she kills the engine. It’s go time.
We’re professionals.
I’m the cart retriever and lead driver, navigating the aisles with authority. I attach her hands to the cart and deliver her to the first stop, the pharmacist. He knows my mom, and she relaxes a little while they talk. He cracks the bottle for her and puts it in a white bag. (Neither of us can open it.)
She looks away, and then comes back to the cart. A little less taut. Whatever he gives her, it’s in her mouth. She thinks I didn’t see. I always see.
One time I read the bottle. X-an-ax, I said. She laughed. Like a Z, she said. Zan-ax. Why does the X sound like a Z? We were stumped. A mystery. At least she feels better.
We never went to the store without buying one of those 2.5 gallon Arrowhead bottles because she saw on Channel 4 News that they store well in case of an earthquake. It made her feel safe to have five or six in the garage. I loved picking those up and showing her how strong I was.
Next up, vodka. It was always last and confused me the most. At school, we practiced Heads Under Desks for a nuclear attack from Russia. Our enemy. But here we were at the store, and she was buying Popov, with a red and black label, and the Soviet hammer and sickle. Was my mom a spy? Like Xanax, it confounded me for the longest time.
We passed the ice cream, and candy. I always asked. I knew the answer. We don’t have any money. That made me so mad, but I never showed it. I had a job to do.
I must take care of her.
Checkout was embarrassing. A traffic jam of carts would pile up behind us as she chose the winners from her white plastic Good Housekeeping box. Moms would bang into our cart and sigh out loud, while she sorted through hundreds of carefully snipped offers from the newspaper and mailers. Relief at last when the checkbook came out.
Back at the car, I loaded the groceries in the rear-facing seat. It was never stowed, so I’d have to lift the bags, and carefully place them into the well, balancing my belly on the bumper, feet coming off the ground. Then I’d slam the door, and ride the cart back. My mom insisted I do that. Something about someone’s got to do it. Might as well be you.
Skipping back to the station wagon, you could see her head slumped on the steering wheel. Passed out. Already.
That was never easy.
Waking up, my first thought is drool. Is that mine? It’s cold. Peeling my stuck cheek off the hardwood floor, my head is fuzzy. Where am I? It’s dark. I’m in my clothes. Something is on me. What is that? A book? Why is there a book on me?
That sound. Is that breathing?
The fuzz evaporates. Shame hits my bloodstream before guile can butt in and rewrite history. I’m passed out. On the floor. In my kids’ room.
Adrenaline hits next. Triage time. Extract yourself. Quietly. Rolling over onto my knees, they hurt. I groan. So far so good. Scooching backwards on all fours, I make it out.
Next. Is my wife asleep? Peering around the door jamb, confirmed. Stash your clothes. Everything in the house look normal? Yes. OK. Crisis averted.
That was stressful.
No way will I be able to sleep. Halfway through that thought, my hands are in the liquor cabinet. Pulling down what’s left of the Tito’s handle I bought two days ago. Three long lukewarm swigs, chased with crisp OJ from the carton. Yum. That should do it. Off to my room, sneak under the covers. My wife moves. I countermove, faking sleep adjustment with a cough and a turn. Not my first time.
Laying in my secondary buzz. Never as good as the night’s first. Just enough to put me out.
No one saw. Which means no one knows. The game continues for another day. Relieved. I take a long exhale and sink into the mattress a couple of inches.
Warm, and drifting, the truth floats by on a cloud of smoke. Someone saw what happened. She always sees. Proud of her son. She has passed down the torture that she endured, that killed her.
No. I am not you, mom. I’m not. The last thing I want is to turn out like you.
I laugh.
Roll over and close my eyes.
I am exactly like her.
How could I not be?
We are professionals.
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Brian Callaway came from a broken and traumatic childhood. His coping strategies worked, until they didn’t. Three years sober, seventy-five pounds lost, and running ultramarathons in his fifties, he writes and coaches on midlife reinvention and health at themidlifesherpa.com. Find him on Substack at Brian Callaway, midlife sherpa.
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“We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it” Thank you for sharing what I don’t want to forget and what I need yo remember to continue amends to myself, my parents and my children 💜
Wonderfully written….so poignant 💔