Echoes Between Us - McGarry, Katie Page 0,103
could watch us while the moms went out.”
Knox is watching me, they all are, and I stare at the ground, pretending they aren’t. “I remember that the air mattress I slept on had a hole and had deflated to the carpet within an hour. The floor was hard, I was uncomfortable, and in the middle of the night, I remember my mom and my friend’s mom had returned.”
A muscle in my jaw tics, and it’s like the memory and the words have become lodged in my throat. I clear it and force myself forward. “They made a ton of noise. Laughing, yelling, running into things. I remember hearing stuff fall on the floor and glass breaking. A few minutes later, my friend’s dad walked into the bedroom I was in, and my mom was hanging over his shoulder and he laid her on the bed. I remember how embarrassed I was that my mom was such a drunk mess that when she needed to use the bathroom, she couldn’t figure out how to take off her own pants. I saw how uncomfortable my friend’s dad was so I volunteered to help her.”
I stop talking then because the anger and shame I felt in that moment that she couldn’t care for herself, especially in front of strangers, still tears me up. I rake a hand through my hair to help shake some of the bad memories away. “After that, Mom had me stay home and babysit Lucy when she went out with her friends.”
It’s serious. Everything is way too serious. The mood needs to lighten. A joke. A story. Something everyone will think is funny and laugh. Something my mom and her friends cackle over every time they get together. I don’t get it. Never have, but I’ve learned there’s many things I don’t get. “Ever since that night, my mom and her friends like to go out on the weekends, and as a joke, one year, they bought each other breathalyzers so no one would get a DUI.”
I smile to try to take the sting away, like what I said was hysterical, but no one is laughing. Not even me. The fake smile fades and it’s sadly satisfying that I’m not the only one who doesn’t get the joke.
“How old were you?” Dr. Martin asks.
“When they gave each other breathalyzers for Christmas?”
“No, when you first started taking care of your mom.”
“Eleven.” Just like Veronica when she found out her entire life was going to change. The itch I’ve been fighting off for weeks overtakes me, becomes a driving need that makes my vision hazy. I’d love to jump. To find a cliff, to run toward the edge, to fling my body over and fly.
I close my eyes, then flinch as I desperately try to shake the urge. My skin prickles, the itch too much for me to bear. Having nothing more to offer anyone, I glance up at Denise. She nods like she understands me and ends the meeting.
I’m up and out of my seat the moment it’s socially acceptable. Knowing Knox, he has a half hour of good-byes to give. He can do them, and I’ll wait by the car.
I open the heavy wooden door, slip through it and before I can reach the exit door, the door to the class opens. “Sawyer.”
My forehead furrows at the sound of Knox’s voice. I glance over my shoulder. “Take your time in there. I need air.”
Knox closes the classroom door behind him and stares at me as if confused. “Why didn’t you tell me your mom is an alcoholic?”
I slowly assess him, wondering if he pounded a shot back in the Sunday school room. Maybe they keep the stuff hidden behind the Little People airport. “My mom’s not an alcoholic.”
Knox’s easygoing manner is replaced with intentional hesitancy. “Okay. I hear you, brother. But to humor me, do you mind answering a few questions?”
Yes, actually, but I slouch against the wall and give a single nod. Knox leans his back against the opposing wall, right next to a child’s drawing of a man sitting inside a whale. “Your mom drinks?”
“Yeah. Like everyone else does. She doesn’t touch alcohol at all during the week, but on the weekends, she’ll have a few.”
A few bottles … a night.
Knox stares at me, through me, like he can smell the lie. My spine tingles and the need to defend feels a lot like anger. “She’s a single mom with two kids and a stressful job. She