June, this year #2
Every couple of years around the holidays, usually when all the Masons were away visiting other relatives — pre-accident — I would go visit Mom for a few days.
Less so since Bonnie moved into the big house after her folks died, I think only twice since then.
The last time I visited Mom was probably three years ago now, back home in Indianapolis.
But the return address on the back of this envelope is Baltimore, a city I’ve never been to.
Maybe it’s not only my life that’s different in this universe.
I pull out the letter, which is on several pages of thin, ruled paper. My bagel arrives, with another generous smile from the café owner, and I eat while reading.
Baltimore, June 1
My darling girl,
Wow, I don’t know how many years it’s been since I wrote a physical letter on paper! But I hear there are no phones or computers in your rehab place. So here I am, writing with a real pen like I’m Emily Dickinson. Although I guess she didn’t have a Bic. Ha!
First, I’m writing to say that I’m so proud of you for committing to this process, sweetheart, and letting your Dad pay for your treatment. Finally, he’s good for something!
I know things have been hard for you ever since your time with me here in Baltimore, after losing the Masons like that. I understand they were like second parents for you, and I’m sorry I wasn’t able to be a better mom after you lost them. And even before you lost them, for that matter.
I feel terrible that it turned out so badly when you were here, and I wasn’t able to protect you better from what happened.
I really miss you, but I truly admire the strength it took for you to move back to Chicago and try to start again.
I know it hasn’t been easy there either, especially because of that horrible landlord.
But now you’re taking the steps you need to move forward with your life, and I’m so happy for you. It might be hard, but I believe in you.
I think for you to heal fully, you need to stop blaming yourself for what happened with the Masons.
Even if Bonnie still does, you know it was her grief that made her say what she did, and it doesn’t mean that the fault lies with you.
Most importantly, you have to forgive yourself for that night.
When you do that, you’ll be able to feel brighter about your future.
You still have so much promise and talent, and despite how rough things are for you, you know that I’m still so proud of you.
The clinic said you’ll be at a shelter in the city after you’re discharged, but I know that’s only a temporary solution, and you don’t have any funds to rent a new place in Chicago.
I hope you know you can always come stay with me until you’re on your feet.
I get that you wouldn’t want to come back to Baltimore, but I’m moving away in two weeks anyways.
My friend Crystal has invited me to set up a jewelry concession at her fashion boutique in Cleveland, OH, and she has a two-bedroom, what she calls a “garden-level suite” in her big house that she’s willing to rent to me real cheap.
I hope you’ll consider coming to stay with me there after your treatment.
It would be a safe place for you, you could get back into some creative writing, if you wanted to.
Think about it, anyways. After I’m settled and you’re out of rehab, I could come see you in Chicago and we can talk about it more.
Give me a call when you can — I assume the shelter you’re going to has a landline you can use, since I’m guessing you haven’t been able to get a new phone yet.
My cell number is still 555-387-4847. Call any time.
Love and hugs,
Mom
Wow.
I sit back in my chair, brushing the crumbs from my mouth with a grimy thumb.
So much to take in.
Bonnie blamed me in some way for what happened with her folks? We fell out, and I went to stay with Mom in Baltimore — a city I’ve never been to — and something happened there that led into . . . what? Alcohol addiction? Cocaine? Meth? Crack?
At least I’m not a crack addict on the street.
That’s how I had comforted myself, a few universes ago.
And now — maybe — that’s exactly what I am.
I don’t feel like an addict. Aside from my horrible clothing and hair, and my wrists being too thin again — even thinner than in Rufus World — I feel relatively fit and healthy. Well, I guess I have just done a stint in a rehab center, so whatever toxins must be out of my system.
I read somewhere once that, once a physical addiction is gone, the rest is psychological. Learned behaviors, mapped neural pathways. A trap the brain can’t get out of.
But although those neural pathways may still be there, I’ve brought my mind, my memories, my healthier psychology, into this body — at least for now. So, for the time I occupy it, maybe this body is no longer that of an addict. Maybe that will help.
One thing I can’t grasp, though, is how my life could’ve fallen apart so quickly, and so badly, after the Masons’ deaths. What can Bonnie possibly have blamed me for? It hadn’t been my fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. It was just a terrible accident. Bonnie knew that — in my world, at least.
I suppose it’s possible that just one tiny thing was different that night, in this world, that put the idea in her head that I was to blame. One minuscule deviation that meant we fell out irreparably, and ultimately snowballed into me becoming a homeless addict.
It’s terrifying, when you think about it. How close we all are, at any time, to life being so incredibly different than it otherwise might. One wrong move, one misspoken word, could be all it takes.
Still, though, there’s surely hope for this version of me. I’ve just completed a recovery treatment. I have a shelter spot to stay in for now. And Mom has offered a more permanent — or at least semi-permanent — solution, and really sounds like she means it.
Maybe Mom’s a little less flaky than she used to be? Can the me in this life trust her, after whatever shitshow happened in Baltimore?
Maybe I should. This could be the other me’s chance for a fresh start. Maybe I need to help her take the offered olive branch, in case this world’s Millie is reluctant to do so herself.
This could be how I help her, before I move on to the next world.
Okay, then. Time to formulate a plan.
Get the train back to the city, and find the shelter.
I know the street it’s on, from the address on the printed letter, and I know it’s walkable from OTC station, so I can get there on this train ticket alone.
Call Mom, get her to come meet me in the city, as she offered — preferably tomorrow.
Talk it through, and agree to go stay with her in Cleveland.
That way, when I’m gone, the me in this life will have it all set up for her. It might help her make a good decision.
I pack up my documents into my coat pocket, and thank the kind woman behind the counter for the food. She gives me another sweet smile. “You take care of yourself, now, you hear?” she replies, as I walk toward the glass front door. I nod back at her.
That’s exactly what I intend to do over the next day or so. Take care of myself.
And then get the hell outta here.
* * *
It’s nine a.m. on Saturday, and I’m meeting Mom off her overnight train at Chicago’s Union Station.
I’d called her last night, when I’d arrived at the women’s shelter downtown, and she’d immediately, excitedly, booked her train ticket to arrive the next morning. Which was generous of her — although, of course, it still meant me staying the night at the shelter.
The place was rough around the edges — more than just the edges — as were the women living there. But they had been kind, and the women in my four-bunk mini-dorm had called me by my name and said they were glad to have me back. They asked where I had wandered off to earlier that day.
“We were in the middle of a conversation, and you just got up, grabbed your coat, and walked out the front exit,” a woman called Trixie with peroxide hair had told me. “We were worried you’d gone off to score.”
I shook my head. “Just went to see a friend.”
The shelter manager, Susan, had welcomed me back with fewer questions, and gave me a clean set of less-stained clothes to change into after a hot shower.
I’m wearing the blue hoodie and gray leggings now, as I wait on a long wooden bench in the lofty, opulent Union Station concourse for Mom’s overnight train to arrive.
She couldn’t afford a sleeper berth, but she’s a champion at dozing anywhere, so I’m sure she would’ve found a stranger’s shoulder to sleep on at her seat.
A handsome older man who she’s now given her number to, most likely.
She’s here now, pushing through the Saturday tourist crowd, her dye job a vivid scarlet with graying roots. She sees me as I stand to greet her, waving her arm violently, the many metal bangles sliding around her thin, tanned wrist.
She hugs me with excessive enthusiasm, then pulls back to look at me. “My sweet girl. You poor thing. Let’s get some breakfast inside you.”
I haven’t even said anything to her when she pulls me away towards the escalator leading to the station’s mezzanine cafés. We choose a nondescript sports bar that offers a breakfast menu, and sit at a table overlooking the food court.
Mom suddenly drops the menu, her face an exaggerated picture of concern. “Oh, is this okay — eating somewhere that serves booze? I mean, I know that wasn’t your vice of choice, but I’m assuming you can’t drink either, now?”
Not alcohol, then.
“It’s fine,” I tell her. “I’m not drinking, but I can be around alcohol. Don’t worry.”
“Well, I won’t have a mimosa,” she says, resuming her perusal of the menu.
Like that would help.
“Thanks, I appreciate it,” I reply instead.