Learn to Love You by Jade Hernández
humiliation as I stared at the chipped wood of the closed door. My mom’s groans coming from behind me only served as a sharp reminder of how different Junior and I were.
I went through the day with him wearing clouded glasses, content to let the fog press around us and drown out the outside world. For a moment it felt like we were actually friends, maybe even something more. I’d let my guard down. But reality was such a harsh thing. It was like finding myself on a peaceful flight only to crash-land in disaster without a parachute to steady my fall.
Tears pricked behind my eyelids, threatening to slip. I couldn’t let them. I couldn’t let myself get swept up in the day we’d shared when my life was groaning behind me.
Steeling my resolve and shoving away the tears, I slowly turned.
Seeing my mother like this hit me in the chest every single time. You’d think I would have trained myself to be numb to her drugged-out tirades, to the needle marks trailing along her skin, the alcohol and stench of weed on her breath and clothes.
She hadn’t always been this way. It was hard to remember those times, because I’d never felt like she’d ever been the loving mother I wanted. Back then, she hadn’t stumbled around on drunken feet and she still cared enough about me to fix me meager meals of boiled hot dogs. When she was feeling really fancy, she whipped up some mofongo or bollitas.
Those were the better days.
Around the time I turned eleven or so, she changed. She didn’t pick me up from school anymore because she claimed she had to work, and I was old enough to walk or take the bus. I always thought it was because she knew Gabriela took me to her house afterwards and her parents always dropped me back off at home hours later. She figured if others were taking care of me then she didn’t have to.
Her disappearances became more frequent with time. Gabriela’s parents rarely asked me questions about my mom, though I knew they wanted to. I figured they knew something was up, but they were so kind to me regardless. Sometimes I felt like they thought as long as I was away from whatever shitty home situation I was so obviously in, they didn’t need to pry.
I was grateful for that at least.
Not even Gabriela knew the extent of my mother’s problems. I’d alluded to it a few times, but I’d never felt comfortable talking to her about my mom’s frequent late nights or when she suddenly arrived in skimpy clothes and smelling funny.
Even then I knew it was bad. Gabriela’s family was so normal and so united that it made me open my eyes to the reality of my own skewed way of living. I wanted so desperately to confide in someone about my life, but I knew that if I did, they would take my mom away from me.
She may have been a neglectful drunk, but she was still my mom. I didn’t want to be separated from her or tossed into a system because I knew that was exactly where I’d go. I didn’t have any other relatives in the States. My grandparents lived in Puerto Rico and, as far as I knew, wanted nothing to do with my mom and her devious ways. I didn’t even really know who my father was, so I doubted the government would either.
I’d taken to picking up the pieces of our broken life in secret. After Gabriela’s parents dropped me off in the afternoons, I’d do my homework, clean the house. The fridge was always stacked with hot dogs and boxed macaroni. Sometimes, the Águila-Gutierrez’s would send me home with butter containers of arroz and frijoles. Those became my meals and my mom’s when she stumbled in, sometimes at three in the morning.
I slept on the couch more often than not, waiting for her to come home. She always did, and she did it in her stumbling, almost begrudging way. When she looked at me, I could always feel a bit of hatred burning in her eyes. Like I was the reason she came back and she blamed me for it.
That didn’t stop me from taking care of her, though. From sitting her on the couch and slipping her heels from her feet or helping her out of her skimpy dress and putting pajama bottoms and holey t-shirts over her. I ignored the markings over her body. Bruises and red marks that didn’t belong over what had once been perfect skin.
It became our normal, a routine, until pretty soon I was the one taking care of her. I’d make her meals, remind her to pay rent on time, keep the house clean, while she went off and did whatever.
It happened so often that she forgot she was the one who was supposed to take care of me.
So, yeah, maybe that made me bitter as I watched her roll on our old couch and start gagging over the side of it. Maybe it made me hate her a little more every time she came home like this. But mostly, I was just embarrassed that she was still doing it.
Even worse that Junior had to witness it.
I wanted to groan all over again but instead got to work, opening the closet and grabbing the emergency bucket I kept inside for these moments. I placed it under my mom just in time for her to start spewing vomit inside.
I didn’t bother rubbing her back or offering her comfort. She didn’t deserve that after she ruined my day.
“Mayda…” she groaned into the bucket. “Mi dulce niña. What would I do without you?” She pushed herself up, wiping her lips against the back of her boney hand before laying down on the couch. Her hooded eyes watched me and a small smile tugged at her mouth.
I was familiar enough with those words and they tugged at my heart, making me ache all over.
My sweet girl.
I closed my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. When I opened them again, it was to find her bottom lip trembling. I sat at her feet and rubbed a palm along her leg.
“I’m here for you, mom. Always have been, always will be.”
I couldn’t really be mad at her for ruining my day. I’d been delusional, caught up in my own version of a fairytale without realizing that it was a really skewed, messed up version anyway. My prince had gone back to his castle, and I was nothing more than Cinderella waiting for a ball that would never come.
“Come on, mom, let’s get you in the shower.” I tried to pull her up with me, but she didn’t want to budge. “Mom… Come on.”
In her high irritability, her hand struck out and cracked me across the face. “Fuck off, Mayda. Always in my business.”
My face burned from pain and humiliation. I hated this part of her addiction most of all. She could get nasty when I tried to make her do things she didn’t want to do. But she had to get in the bath. I had to bring her body temperature down and clean the vomit out of her hair.
It was a struggle to get her in shower, and I came out of the ordeal scratched to shit and with a few bruises over my body. At least it was done and she was sleeping.
And tomorrow would be another day.