Smash.
I bolt upright in bed in response to the splintering noises from below. My breathing comes in small, quick gasps as a river of sweat pours down my back, my pajamas sticking to me like cloying ice cream to eager fingers. I shiver in the early morning chill, as the iciness of dawn meets the fever of a brutal wake-up, and listen carefully to my surroundings. The thrashing below me has subsided, and I am now left to wallow in my own perplexing humidity. And I gasp suddenly as I am gripped by a startling revelation:
She is home.
I send a quick glance toward my electric clock, which informs me in luminescent digits that it is precisely 2:03 in the morning.
Sleep is holding the entirety of Degrassi in its clutches; that is, save the Nash household.
I watch as the moonlight lays careful fingers across my bedroom floor, splaying patterns that crisscross over the disarray of mismatched items cluttering the carpet. The silvery illumination shifts restlessly as clouds darken and then expose the face of the moon, and my head swims with confusion as I deliberate on my plan of action. I finally decide my best option is to be proactive; no use lying here as I wallow in my own confusion and fear. So I throw my legs over the lip of the mattress (not without apprehension) and tiptoe towards my bedroom door. I lightly place my hand on the brass doorknob, admiring for a moment the smooth, cold, coppery surface beneath my fingertips. Then I hear another crash from below, and quickly turn the handle, jumping hurriedly over the threshold. And, in my ungainly rush, I land precisely on the weak spot dented into the floorboard adjacent to the threshold. I close my eyes in momentary desperation, praying to the ends of the earth that my inept noise has gone unnoticed.
A slight pause in the nighttime clamor of downstairs-
The whole house holding its breath-
And then the tumult resumes.
I breathe a sigh of relief and glide down the stairway, coming to a halt by the doorway, which hangs ajar. A sliver of buttery light seeps through the space wedged between door and frame, and during certain, precise moments, the woman's shadow flows over the bright rectangle laid starkly across the living room carpet. I adjust my position in order to glimpse her better; what I see is callously startling. She is stumbling blindly around the small, enclosed space of the kitchen, abruptly knocking into the kitchen essentials tucked cozily into the homey walls. A chair is overturned; a recipe book is sent shuttling along the counter and into the water-filled sink; a prized crystal glass is carelessly plowed to the floor, where it lies in shimmering, delicate pieces.
And there she is, in her nightly drunken stupor.
There she is, resenting the bottle she confided in, which was only a stopgap cure to her troubles.
There she is, unable to control her slurred actions as her stunted logic takes over.
There she is, sobbing in a self-deprecating heap on the floor, her cries soft and plaintive in the still, velvety night.
There she is.
My mother.