15 for 15 (June 2012)

June 8 – Play

It was safe. She knew it. Yet here she was. Lurking. The neighbors probably thought she was insane. Or a predator.

Her fingers curled and dug into her palms. Pain was grounding. Although she wasn’t supposed to do that anymore. It was a coping mechanism. Disguising the problem, instead of tackling head on.

Breathe. This is something you can do Molly. You’re better now. It didn’t feel that way. Was this better? The flaying knives under her skin and shattered glass in her eyeballs and molten lead embossed on her heart?

She ached with want. Just one hit, a little bit. That would give her the courage. Make her strong enough to beg forgiveness. To deserve forgiveness.

It wouldn’t. It wasn’t good at any of those things. That was the disease talking. Dr. Weisman said so, and she believed him. That was the grief talking. Bereavement and depression conspiring to make her irrational.

She reached into her pocket. Touching the coin grounded her. Ninety two days and counting. It could be different this time.

No, it would be different. I have the power to make it so.

Molly knew the coin wasn’t any more real than the pills. She was weak to always need something under her feet. 

She’d been watching him for days now, afraid to come any closer. And then it didn’t matter.

A sixth sense, maybe, told him she was there. Batting the ball away, he turned around, scanning the tree line until he spotted her.

A deer in headlights, she watched him excuse himself from the group of boys playing in the pond. They protested good-naturedly until he pointed in her direction.

Her son. Wiry but strong-looking. Healthy. Almost happy, if you didn’t notice that his eyes never smiled. Not while chasing an old soccer ball, not while rolling around in mud and water, not even when laughing with his friends.

He was tan. All summer out in the sun. She wondered if he used sunscreen. But her sister would know to do that. Her sister, smarter and older and wiser and prettier. The golden child. Those were defeatist thoughts. She was thinking around the problem.

He shook his head like a wet dog before walking towards her. Considerate as usual. His adorable curls flattened by water, and shorter too. Like a grownup. He would grow as tall as his father.

“Mother.”

Mother. Oh that hurt. He used to call her momma, shiny pretty momma. But like everything else in her life, she’d lost the privilege. The trust.

“How are you?”

So formal, her little man. Like they were acquaintances.

He stood there watching her. Waiting for her to make a move. But which one? If she tried to hug him, he would bolt. Junkies knew body language.

He looked so much like her. A mini-me, a tiny copy, down to the suspicion and anger in his eyes. How often had she seen that expression in the mirror? In his father’s eyes? They accused her now the way her ex-husband’s always had. Never good enough, no matter what she did.

But no. Those were excuses. Her decisions and her behaviors were her own. Accepting responsibility was one of the steps.

Say something you stupid woman. Before he leaves. “My son.” Molly wrapped her arms around herself with the years of hugs she longed to give him. Having come this far, she could go no further. Of course he wanted nothing to do with her. “My beautiful son.”

The only thing she loved in this world and he hated her.

Molly didn’t realize she was sobbing hysterically until she felt his skinny, wet arms around her waist.

“Don’t cry momma, don’t cry. I’ve missed you too.”

She cried harder. He cried too, soaking her shirt front with dirt and silt and pond scum and tears. It felt wonderful. It felt like forgiveness.