She was in my condo, sitting on my couch, my old photo album on her lap, a glass of red wine in her hand.
"Hello," she said in greeting.
I hadn't seen her in nearly a year and at first I almost didn't recognize her. She'd put on a little weight and her features had softened a bit but time had been very kind to her.
Her hair was its natural rich shade of black, no dyes, and no highlights. She'd let it grow out and I was struck by how much her crystal blue eyes and pale skin contrasted so sharply with it - it gave her an exotic, almost Gothic, appearance.
Her full breasts filled the top of a skimpy white tight tank top and it was obvious she wasn't wearing a bra. Her jeans shorts were barely shorts but showcased her gorgeous thick legs extremely well.
She was saved from looking trashy by a pair of expensive high heeled Italian sandals.
"Hello, Mother," I answered, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
She sniffled and set down the wine. The album slid off of her lap and fell to the floor but she ignored it to light a cigarette.
I shut the door and dropped my backpack.
"How are you?" she asked, her hands shaking slightly. I couldn't tell if it was from nervousness or from alcohol.
"What do you want?" I asked abruptly.
She looked up at me sharply, her eyes held hurt and her lip quivered in anger. She was obviously very emotional and I felt a sharp pang of guilt for being gruff with her.
"Sorry," I said, "You took me by surprise. You should've called first."
"How are you?" she asked again, puffing on the cigarette.
"Surprised," I replied.
"Suuuuurpriiiise!" she cheered.
Sometimes she had a strange sense of humor when she drank.
She picked up the wine and sipped it, her bright eyes flicking up to mine then away again quickly.
"Get a glass and join me," she suggested patting the couch beside her.
"I don't drink wine," I replied, "That's Sara's."
"You're still with that ... with her?" she asked incredulously, "I'd have thought you'd wised up by now."
It wasn't a secret that Sara disliked her and it was obvious that the feeling was mutual. I guess that Sara was always a little intimidated by my mother. The fact that my mother was a drunk didn't make it easy to defend her.
"I'm an adult, Mom," I laughed, walking to the closet to take off my jacket, "I can choose my girlfriends and I do like to have sex occasionally."
I hoped that if I was obnoxious enough she'd decide to leave before my girlfriend came over. It was an immature way to go about it but I didn't know what else to do.
"Real sex?" she asked sarcastically.
I looked at her sideways: "What other kind is there?"
She smiled at me condescendingly in response.
"I doubt that you know what real sex is."
I felt a surge of adrenaline and a feeling I hadn't experienced in a long time ... not since the last time I'd seen her.
It was a strange mixture of shame, guilt, and frustration: Shame at the slutty way she acted when she drank; guilt for the way it made me feel when she did; frustration at the fact that I couldn't do anything about it.
"You're drunk again," I admonished.
"Not yet," she laughed, "but I'm working on it."
She'd started drinking heavily when I was about thirteen. Dad had forced her to quit her job and stay home. He'd inherited a small Biotech firm with military contracts. It was more than enough income for the household and he'd insisted that she should find other ways to fill her time ... social events and such.
Mom wasn't the Society type.
Her drinking became heavy and more frequent until eventually; it wasn't uncommon to see her staggering around the house, like she was now ... barely dressed, obnoxious, with a glass of booze in her hand.
"Can you be polite to me at least?" she asked.
"Whatever," I tossed my jacket rather than bothering to try to hang it up and walked into the kitchenette.
She followed me with her eyes like she was tracking a target.
"I don't know what I did to make you hate me. I always thought that I was a good mother to you."
"You were," I lied.
She smiled at me nervously.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry for ... for whatever." She stubbed out the cigarette and sipped the wine again.
I looked at her for a moment. She was blind to the effect her drinking had on her ... and to the effect it had on me.
"I don't hate you, alright!" I stammered, "I had a hard day. Sara's gonna be here soon and she's hard enough to deal with without adding you and a bottle of vodka to the mix."
"That's it, isn't it?" she lit another cigarette, "That little slut finally managed to turn you against me!"
"You turned me against you," I said evenly though the words made me cringe as I spoke them.
She looked at me seriously for a moment and stood up abruptly.
"Alright, fine," she said, her voice cracking with emotion, "I'll find a motel then."
"What?" I asked, "Why would you do that?"
A tear ran down her cheek.
"I left your Father, okay?" she cried, "And your being a total shit to me!"
I didn't believe it. We both knew she couldn't make it on her own - she didn't have the means or the discipline to take care of herself - at least not at the standard she'd grown accustomed to. She would have to be extremely desperate to leave him.
It was more likely that she was lying and he'd finally thrown her out.
"What happened?" I asked, not really expecting an honest answer.
The tears became a flood and she sobbed.
I instantly forgot whatever I'd been mad at her for. I couldn't stay strong in the face of her anguish and rushed to her, took her arms, and pulled her into a hug.
"He's cheating on me!" she sobbed into my shoulder, "I'm so fucking angry ... I don't know what to do ... where else to go."
My intention was to comfort her. Sara was tiny and thin like a ballerina, Mom was soft and warm. I found myself enjoying holding her in a more intimate way than was probably appropriate.
"I'm sorry," I said sincerely, "I didn't know that you'd split up."
She didn't seem uncomfortable at my sudden closeness, as a matter of fact; she dropped the cigarette into the ashtray and pulled me more tightly to her.
"It's alright," she sniffled, "Can I stay or not?"
"You got any bags?"
"What you see is all I have," she stated, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands, "For now anyway. I can probably get stuff from the house tomorrow."
I should have felt the way that most kids do when they find out that their parents have split - I realized that on a conscious level but instead I felt an odd sense of relief.
"Please," she whispered, "I really need you right now."
I'd spent a lot of time as a teenager trying to cover up for her and clean up after her ... just to try to avoid my father being upset at her. I guess I was just trying to keep the peace.
In a strange way, I'd missed it, missed her drama, missed the way she'd needed me. She was my Mom and despite her failings; I couldn't help but feel that I still had an obligation to help her.
"I only have the one bed," I informed her, "I don't think you'll like the couch much, it's not very comfortable."
She regained her composure, let me go, and plopped back on the couch
"I'm sure it will be fine," she said quietly.
"Sara won't be happy."
"You think she'll mind us shacking up?" she laughed.
She ran her hands through her thick hair to put it up in a ponytail and I couldn't help but stare at her body.
