Forty
Sarah
Iwas driving home from work when my phone rang.
Mom’s ringtone.
Dread curled in my stomach. Seeing the name Mom on my caller ID raised an alarm because we rarely talked. If we did, it was because I reached out. Not her.
I tapped my dash, answering the call. “Hey, Mom.”
Mom sniffed. “Hey, honey.” Her voice sounded smaller than ever, making my throat squeeze. “Your daddy is in the hospital.”
I sat up straighter in my seat, gripping the wheel. “Oh no. What happened?”
“He was sleeping a lot and had a fever and he wasn’t making a lot of sense. And then his eyes started turning yellow. So I called an ambulance. They said something about hepatitis?” She gave an emotional huff. “I don’t know why this happened.”
What did she expect? Of course this would happen sooner or later with the way he drank.
“What if he dies, Sarah?”
Would he die? I didn’t know a thing about hepatitis.
“Sarah, please come. I’m scared, and Tonya isn’t answering her phone, and I—”
“Alright.” I pushed away my dread, determined to be a good daughter. “I’m coming now.”
“Thank you.” She sniffled again.
I disconnected and mulled over what the next few hours might look like. At home, I quickly took a shower and threw comfy clothes on, grabbed some food, and headed right back out the door.
When it came to my family, Peter was my anchor. Any time I talked to them or saw them, it sent me back to those early days when I was constantly neglected because Mom was fully maxed out caring for Dad. Before I even exited my front door, my heart thumped with anxiety.
Following the white walls of the hospital, I gave myself a pep talk about how I’d handle his rage when he inevitably threw it my way. I was a grown, independent adult and the way he talked wouldn’t affect me. But, I had to admit, even just the anticipation affected me.
My fight or flight activated, making my insides jumpy and tense.
Standing in front of his door, I took a shaky breath and pushed it open.
To my surprise and relief, he laid there, motionless on the hospital bed.
His skin was a yellowy color, and monitors all around him beeped on repeat—signifying the steady, albeit slow, beat of his heart.
An IV connected to the top of his left hand, and tubes traveled beneath his bed clothes.
I blinked, seeing Peter for a fraction of a second.
“Hey, Mom,” I whispered.
She looked up, her shoulders falling with relief when I stepped through the door. “Sarah.” She stood and crossed the room, arms outstretched toward me. Reluctantly, I stepped into them, gently patting her on the back.
“Thank you,” her voice rasped with emotion.
“You’re welcome.” I broke the hug, pushing away to look at Dad. “He looks rough.”
“Yeah, all the liver problems are kind of discoloring his face. He’s always been as healthy as a horse, so I’m not sure—”
“Mom.” I shook my head in exasperation. “He’s an alcoholic.”
“Yeah, he drinks too much,” she said with a dismissive chuckle, as if his extreme alcoholism was just an antic—borderline endearing. “I’ve tried to get him to quit, but you know how stubborn he is.”
I shook my head, unable to respond.
My mother was wildly codependent. I’d watched her serve my father countless dinner trays in the living room, personally supplying his football marathons with unlimited cold beers—smiling as she popped tops for him. And she did it knowing the risks.
To hear her pretend she didn’t understand his current predicament or say she “tried to get him to quit” was utterly ridiculous.
Maybe it was easier for her to pretend she didn’t know any better than to admit that she needed his approval and validation more than she needed him to be a functional adult.
I had told her time after time that rehab would change his life, but she wouldn’t even mention the idea to him.
When I tried to ask her why she wouldn’t encourage Dad to go to rehab, she said she couldn’t handle him being gone that long.
I’d never considered my mom could be addicted to my dad, but Cooper hit the nail on the head when he’d said, "Addiction can take a thousand different shades, can’t it?”
I distanced myself a couple years ago because I couldn’t handle the way she doted over him and made excuses as he berated her in the background on our phone calls. It was so triggering that I had more than one meltdown in Peter’s arms. I had tried to help, but she didn’t want it.
We talked much less often now.
A lump rose in my throat at the sight of her frail body, purple circles, and crinkly skin.
She looked so much older than her fifty-nine years.
While Dad was practically bursting over the bed railing, Mom’s clothes hung off her shoulders like a ship’s sails on a perfectly calm sea.
When was the last time she bought something that fit her?
Considering that Dad stopped leaving the house, except to eat out, back when I was still working on my college degree, it had probably been close to a decade since Mom walked through the mall and bought something that made her feel pretty.
“Well,” she waved me toward his bed. “Say hello.”
Gritting my teeth, I stepped forward and pressed a kiss to his head. “Hey, Dad.”
His eyes fluttered as he grunted a breath.
Mom pushed forward and kissed his hand. “Bob, it’s Sarah. She came to see her daddy.”
The word daddy grated against my age. Stopping my grimace, I smiled as he slowly roused. “Sarah,” his voice scraped.
“Hey, Dad,” I said again, lamely. “You hanging in there?”
What a dumb question.
His eyes fluttered closed.
Appearing to fall back asleep, his head lulled to the side. I awkwardly moved to the mauve couch, the cushion squeaking as I eased down on it. Mom wrung her hands, unsure of how to break the ice.
“So…” I said, starting us off despite not having a single thing to say. “How have you been?”
Mom sucked a breath, the sunken hollows in her cheeks deepening. “Well, I’m good.” She picked at her thumbnail. “We’ve been watching the postseason games before the World Series, and that’s been fun.”
It took every bit of my self control not to scoff. I asked her about her and she told me about Dad. Once upon a time she told me she didn’t really like sports, just watched them because Dad did.
A familiar lump rose in my throat and I choked it down, disallowing tears to coat the rims of my eyes. Unbidden, I remembered the year Dad took Mom out to eat for Mother’s Day. He went through the show of asking Mom what she wanted, and Mom’s knee-jerk choice was Mexican.
She didn’t like Mexican food. He liked Mexican.
So on Mother’s Day she nibbled french fries and a cheese quesadilla and pretended to enjoy it.
Mom used to be a sweet lady. When I was too young to attend school, she used to take me to get ice cream at the gas station near our house and she enjoyed cooking and going on walks.
She was still chattering about October sports highlights when my older sister, Tonya, burst into the room. She wore Garffield pajama bottoms and a stained white t-shirt. “Hey, Mom,” she mumbled. “His color looks better than when I saw him at home yesterday.”
“It does.”
She cast me a glance. “Well, look who showed up.” Giving me an obvious once over, she pulled a vape out of her canvas bag and drew in a long breath. Tonya saw our parents more often than I did and gave me as much crap about that as she possibly could. Already, I could see her calculating.
“Ton, we aren’t supposed to do that in here.” Mom weakly hissed.
“Just a puff or two and I’ll be done.” Her messy bun flopped to the side as she stepped toward me. “So, does your big sis get a hug?”
Knees quaking, I stood and gave Tonya a hug. She smelled like mint and vanilla, and something so very Dunn that my heart ached for simpler times. “Hey, Tonya.” Our hug only lasted a second and I put distance between us as quickly as possible.
“Where’s your man?”
“He’s at home,” I lied, unwilling to admit I left him in Texas.
“A shame. He’s more fun to talk to.” She took a second draw on her vape. “And look at.” She smirked.
I scowled at her. Why was she so like Dad? She couldn’t pass up a chance to belittle someone but never instigated a fight she knew she couldn’t win. Despite having a fair amount of guts, I was easy prey.
For a few minutes, we made small talk and Tonya only put the vape away when Mom’s eyes got teary with frustration. Not one single time did she ask about me, my job, or Peter. Mom knew about his accident and resulting blindness and didn’t bother to ask how we were adjusting.
Everything was Bob, Bob, Bob.
Which should speak to how pointless the conversation was considering all Bob did was drink Coors Light, watch TV, and spew baseless opinions.
The entire time, I shrank, feeling very much like the Sarah that would bound into the house after being gone at school all day only to be ushered to my room and forgotten.
I ached for Peter, who saw me when no one else did.
Who could sense the tears in my eyes before I even looked him in the face.
Who had busted me out of my house with my favorite milkshake sitting in his cupholder.
Who dried my tears and then pulled me over the console to hold me in his lap.
Who kissed me until I forgot all about the pain.
By 7:15 p.m., I buzzed with anxiety. I couldn’t sit there anymore.
I pestered one of the nurses to speak with a doctor.
Mom made it sound like Dad was on death’s door, and I just needed to know what was really going on so I could get out of there.
Stepping up to the computer where she typed, I whispered so that my mom couldn’t hear. “Can you give me a quick run down?”