Look at that! I'm back on track again! I don't know how long it's gonna last but I really hope I'm over that stupid writer's block and can dive back into all the stuff I'm writing without feeling the need to bang my head against the table every other second. Thank you guys so much for all the kind reviews; they never fail to make me smile. Thanks for your input on parenting and punishment decisions (especially to banjojd) -it really helped me with this chapter. I hope you like what I did here.
I'm back at school now for the next not-sure-how-many weeks and, let me tell you, it's the weirdest thing ever to sit in a classroom with 22 people again. Of course, everyone has to wear a mask (though not inside the classroom) but it still doesn't feel all that safe. I'm also not entirely sure this is gonna last - we're kinda waiting for the next lockdown (dreading it, actually) but for now, we'll just have to wait and see. I hope you're all staying safe and healthy!
(chapter title is the same-titled song by Amy Macdonald)
Started writing: 22.07.2020
Finished writing: 09.08.2020
Chapter 20
This Is The Life
Rachel.
I wake up to the earsplitting sound of someone breathing next to me and it's cracking my head in two. Each inhale feels like a thousand pricks in my head and each exhale has my temples throbbing in pain. Usually, I find the sound of someone breathing rather calming but right now, it's practically torturing me—and there's nothing I can do against it. Because my tongue feels too heavy for me to form sounds of any kind and there's a numbness to my body that keeps me from moving.
I can say without doubt that I've never ever in my life felt like this before. And I can say with total determination that I never ever want to feel like this again. No matter what it takes.
My eyelids feel like they're glued together, heavy and a little crusted towards the corners of my eyes so that I find it rather hard to open them. Which, in hindsight, I really shouldn't have tried because now that I've opened them, I'm staring at the bright, white ceiling above me and the light is piercing in my eyes so hard that I groan quietly.
I can't even begin to say in how many places my body seems to ache. It's like what I imagine it to feel like when you've spent a whole night bent over some table at the library, falling asleep while studying for an upcoming exam at the university—everything is tense, everything seems sore.
For a moment, I simply lay there in the bed and try to enjoy the feeling of the heavy blanket weighing down on my body. Then, it suddenly comes over me.
"Oh, God."
With a groan, I haul myself upright. My head is spinning—the world is spinning—everything's spinning right in front of my eyes. "Oh my God."
Somebody's moving beside me, the mattress shifts and then- my mother' face pushes into my view. Her brows are knit together in concern. "Rachel? What's going on?"
"I feel like I'm dying. Am I dying?" I gasp in horror. "Mom, am I dead?!"
"What?" the corners of my mother's mouth twitch as if she's holding back a chuckle. "Rachel, you're not dead. What you have, honey" -she gently pokes my nose- "is a hangover."
"A hangover? But how- Oh shit."
It's like my head suddenly cracks open and the memories flood back in. There's Mrs Hud- Carole saying goodnight to Kurt and me, there's us getting ready in Kurt's room, Finn knocking on the door to see if we're ready, the three of us getting into his car. There's a slight ting of regret and Kurt taking my phone, there's music and smoke and alcohol. There's Kate from Elida High and more alcohol. There's something about Alice and marshmallow fluff and- and there's my father.
The chain of thoughts gets cut when I feel my mother's nails pinching my thigh. "Watch your tongue, Rachel."
"Ow!"
Mom raises an eyebrow at my accusing look. "What? Don't think I'll go soft on you, Rachel, just because you have a hangover. That's your own doing—and extremely wrong and not okay at all, may I add. And we're going to talk about this—at length."
I try to suppress a groan and fail majorly at it. It's funny (not really) how I seem to have lost all control of my actions. Mom's eyebrow rises even further, almost reaching up to her hairline. She places both hands behind her and inches towards the edge of the bed. Her bed, by the way. I can't really remember how I got here.
"But not right now," she says, raking a hand through her hair. "I want you to take a shower at first—and don't think I like saying this, Rachel—but you stink. You smell like alcohol and sweat, and I won't have you sit at the breakfast table like this."
She reaches out to take my hands and, before I can even try to comprehend what's going on, she's hauled me upright and onto my heels. "Come on."
Another groan escapes me as Mom pulls me to my feet. My forehead falls onto her shoulder and, for a second, I let my eyes close again. But Mom steps away and shakes her hand—and sends a stinging swat to my behind as she pushes me towards the master bathroom.
"I'm going to get you some fresh clothes," she says, hands fumbling with the tap. Then, her forefinger suddenly points right at my nose. "Don't use too much of my lotion, Rachel. And please—please—don't throw up into the shower."
With that, she's out the door. And I can't do anything but gaping after her. Caring mother hen indeed.
It takes much longer than usual to strip down my clothes and climb into the shower—and I actually manage to forget to draw the shower curtain close at first. The water rains down on me; not too warm and not too cold but still not entirely comfortable. There's a bitter taste in my mouth—something that only intensifies with the water pouring down my body.
For what feels like hours, I'm just standing there, staring into nothingness. My head is still spinning but the spinning has slowed down at least, and it's gotten bearable.
The shower curtain shifts, and my mom holds my toothbrush with the white toothpaste on it out to me.
"Finish up," sounds her melodic voice over the roaring of water. "And then come downstairs for breakfast."
She doesn't leave quite yet, though, and for a while, I watch her go back and forth in front of the mirror, brushing her teeth and her hair, washing her face. She disappears into the bedroom for a few minutes (just the right amount of time for me to brush my teeth and finally start washing my hair and my body) and when she returns she's dressed in black suit pants and a mint-colored shirt that I'm pretty sure I haven't seen before.
"Rachel, don't fall asleep."
Her knuckles rap against the pane of the shower.
"I'm not," my voice sounds a little raspy and my hand flies to my throat. I really, really hope I'm not going to get a sore throat. It's the last thing I need right now.
"Good, good," Mom says on the other side of the shower curtain.
Then, her steps hurry away, out of the room.
It takes me far longer than usual to get out of the shower and pull on the yoga pants and sweatshirt that Mom put on the toilet seat for me—not only because I almost fall asleep twice in the shower but also, because my brain feels all mushy and my thoughts seem to run like ice cream on a hot summer day. Every time I try to collect myself and just face the day, they seem to slip away even further.
When I finally drag my body down the stairs and into the kitchen, Santana and Mom are already sitting at the breakfast table and Mom gives me a pointed look. "I thought I'd asked you to hurry up."
"'m sorry," is all I can manage as I fall into my chair.
Santana raises an eyebrow at me. "And people call me badass."
"Santana," says Mom. She glares at my sister without even turning her head but it's enough for Santana to shut her mouth.
Then, her eyes find mine. "Rachel, try to eat something. If you need me to, I can go and get you some aspirin, but I want you to try it without at first."
I can only nod. There's fruit and crackers sitting on my plate before me and usually, I love fruit and crackers for breakfast, but right now, it ties my stomach into knots.
But I can feel my mother's eyes on me, so I reach out to take my fork and begin to eat.
Chew, swallow, repeat. Is my mantra for the next fifteen minutes or so.
Usually, there's much to talk about at the Saturday morning breakfast table. Mom and I always have something to say about Glee club and rehearsals, we exchange thoughts on Stephanie J. Block's new album and debate at length about whether there should be a Funny Girl revival this year or several years later. It goes on and on for what feels like hours until Santana can't hold her tongue anymore and barks at us that it's Saturday morning! I'm basically still asleep over here so tone it down a little, okay?!
Mom always glares at her for a second, but we do return to quieter—less passionate—topics after that.
Today, though, no one talks much. Which's probably due to the fact that my hangover is bugging me too much to have me rant on and on about this and that song and that Mom is, despite her rather friendly attitude towards me this morning, still absolutely pissed. And since Santana isn't one to talk much in the morning, it's quiet.
Well, at least until the second that I've finished eating my breakfast.
"So, Rachel," says my mother, her words drawn and long, almost like glued together as she leans back in her chair. "Santana's meeting up with Quinn and Brittany in the mall today and I still have some papers to grade which leaves you to clean kitchen."
She's already halfway out of her chair by now. "When you're ready, you can come into my office—we still need to talk about a few things."
One of her eyebrows rises high almost up to her hairline as if daring me to disobey her but then, her features soften a little. "If you want to take an aspirin, just come and fetch me."
I nod. My eyes don't leave my plate, even when Mom gets up and disappears upstairs. I can still feel Santana's eyes on me.
"I would help you, sis, because," she leans out of her chair and glances up the stairs, making sure that Mom is out of earshot. "I think you are badass on a new level, but Mom would probably kill me if I did that and then who'd help you out in Glee club?"
She reaches out to pat my shoulder. "You got this, Rach."
With that, she makes her way out the door and I'm left alone, sitting at the breakfast table, and probably looking utterly pathetic.
Santana leaves a good ten minutes later with a wave in my direction and, seconds later, a thumbs-up when she's already halfway out the front door while I'm still busy stacking plates and coffee cups. Not only does the world seems to have slowed down but also I myself seem to have lost a good two thirds of my energy and strength—which leads me to plop down on the couch as soon as the dishwasher's running instead of going into the office like my mother told me to. And I know she's going to be angry about it but I just can't find it in myself to bring my legs to move or my brain to think anything else than these cushions are so soft and just five minutes. Just five more minutes.
Also, lying down seems to be some kind of miracle cure for my headache and God knows I needed that damn miracle cure.
"Rachel Barbra Corcoran!"
My head whips up. "Oh no."
"Oh no, indeed," with two long strides, Mom moves out of the doorway and, in a matter of seconds, stands right in front of me to haul me upright. "I sit upstairs in my office and wait for you to come in and I wait and wait and wait and when my worry eventually overwhelms the stubborn part in me and I go downstairs to reassure myself that you're still cleaning the kitchen and not puking your guts out over the sink, where do I find my darling daughter? Sound asleep on the couch. This is not a pleasure cruise, Rachel!"
There's a sharp edge to her voice—one that I know well enough and thus, doesn't fail to make me shrink under her intense glare. A yelp pushes past my tightly closed lips as she delivers a stinging swat to my behind. She is furious right now—and a furious Shelby Corcoran is never a good thing. She finally lets go of my arm when she sits me down in the chair in front of the desk in her office. For a moment, she seems to deflate, but then she takes a deep breath and lowers herself into the chair to my opposite. Her hands fold on the tabletop almost on their own accord.
"Do not—I mean do not fall asleep while we're talking," her index finger nearly pokes my nose. "I dare you to try and see what's gonna happen next."
She lowers her hand, seemingly relaxing a little. "Now, let's start with the why, Rachel—that's a question that you got to answer tonight already but you weren't in your right mind then, so I don't think it's that outrageous to think your answer might've changed. Why did you go to that party, Rachel? And yes, I know Kurt asked you. But that's not what I want to hear here, Rachel. I want to know why you said yes."
My eyes find my fingers, interlocked right underneath the table. I bite down on the inside of my lip. "I-I just- Kurt said it would be a good distraction a-and I really wanted to not think about everything for a little while, I- I just wanted to have fun again, Mom, I wanted-"
My voice breaks and I lower my head as I feel the tears beginning to well up in my eyes. Shame is not the right word to describe what I'm feeling. This- this goes deeper.
"I thought that if I just went to the party, hung out with some new people and just- if I could just forget about everything for a second and not be miserable all the time- b-but," somehow, I find the strength to look up at my mother. She seems unfazed but who knows just what emotions she's reigning down in this exact moment? "Mom, I-I know I disappointed you and I- I feel so awful, Mom, I just- I know I should've come to you and talked to you about everything instead of- of doing this b-but I just thought that you- you were just putting everything together again and I would've just knocked it all over again."
At that, Mom suddenly sits up even straighter than she sat before. Her eyes widen a little.
"Rachel, no," she sounds as horrified as she sounds determined. "It's never—never your job to see to it that I am absolutely alright and that I'm back on my feet again. I'm an adult, Rachel, and as long as I'm not—posing any danger to you and your sister or you feel that I'm neglecting you over my own feelings and problems, you don't have to worry about how I'm doing, okay? Not to the point that you're withholding your own feelings and problems from me because you're afraid how I am going to react. I'm your mother, Rachel, and you can come to me with everything at any time, no matter what. Even when you're feeling like I won't be able to handle it because, Rachel, trust me, I will be. You're my daughter and when you are not 100% okay, then I will be able to handle whatever you need me to handle to reach those 100%. That's what mothers do, honey, that's what parenthood is all about; putting yourself last and your children first."
My fists clench and unclench almost on their own accord. "But Mom, I-"
"No, Rachel," she shakes her head. "To me, you always come first. You and your sister are my world, honey, and if you're not okay, then so am I. That's just how it is."
She straightens her back a little and leans back in her chair. "So, you went to the party to distract yourself—to forget. That's—while not tolerable in the least—understandable. Trying to forget or block something out. But, and I want you to be completely honest about this, Rachel, answer me this: did you know there would be alcohol? Did you plan on drinking?"
I don't know if switching from concerned and careful to angry and inquiring this fast is a normal skill of mothers or if my mother is just particularly good at it. What I do know, though, is that it can be quite scary. Especially when I'm the one who's at the receiving end of her looks. I sink lower into my chair. "Well, Kurt and Finn never really mentioned alcohol—Kurt just told me about a party and how it would be a good distraction—so I couldn't be sure until right before the party, b-but I- well, I didn't think there would be no alcohol at all. And Mom, I didn't plan on drinking. I didn't think that I'd go to that party to get drunk to forget. I thought of it more as a… gathering with peers that would make me forget. But there was alcohol and- and everybody was drinking, and I didn't really think about it, Mom. I just—did it."
While Mom's face softened somewhere in the middle of my rant, it now hardens again into a scowl.
"Alcohol isn't something that you just do, Rachel," her voice, low and somewhat threatening, sends chills down my spine.
My head lowers in shame. "I-I know, Mom, I just-"
"Then why did you do it?" She says in a half-shout. Her voice is trembling with the effort of keeping her volume down. "Why did you drink alcohol when—firstly, you know what my thoughts on that are; secondly, you know what the rules are and thirdly, you know that alcohol never ever solves any problems? Why did you do it?"
My mouth opens and closes but no words come out.
"You did it without thinking and that's making all of this even worse," she runs a hand over her forehead. "You'd think you'd be mature enough to know better than to not give things like this any thought—you're turning fifteen next week, Rachel. Fifteen. And while that's certainly not anywhere near being an adult and taking full responsibility for your actions, it does mean that you're not a child anymore. But this behavior, this—jumping headfirst into chaos and bad decisions and rule-breaking—is the most childish behavior I've seen from you in a long time."
I bite down hard on my lower lip to try (and fail) to hold back the tears. Mom leans forward.
"It's okay that you're upset," she says, much calmer and much more soothing than before, all the while not missing the sharp edge in her voice that has me on pins and needles. "It's okay that you don't know how to handle this situation—all these changes and new normals and what not—but it's not okay to try to handle them on your own and then handle them in such a way. Because that's not handling it. That's drowning yourself in alcohol to block out your problems. And that's what concerns me the most. What angers me the most is that you disobeyed me—that you knowingly and willingly endangered yourself because—and call me selfish—I couldn't handle losing one of my children. I just couldn't—handle—it. Losing your parents—especially at a young age—must be so hard that I don't want to imagine it. Losing your friends or beloved—that can't be that much easier either. But losing your children—it destroys families. It destroys the most wonderful of families and it destroys their will to live. And I can't have that."
Tears are flowing down my cheeks and the huge breaths that I take seem to rush right through my lung and leave my mouth again in a sob. Mom's eyes find mine and, if I squinted a little, I think I might see a few tears shining in the corners of her eyes. But my sight is a little too blurred.
"I've been thinking," she says after a while and reaches out to unclasp my hands so I will finally stop wringing them in my lap (she hates when I do that). "Neither one of us is handling this the right way if you think about it. I- I'm so scared that I might go back to that state of staring at a glass of wine—you wouldn't believe it. And while I doubt it, I still can't be sure. And Santana- she's been falling back into old habits—whether that's caused by our—separation or something else. And now you."
She takes a deep breath. "I know of a friend whose family went through something similar and she- she might be able to give us the phone number of a very good therapist who specializes in family psychology. I thought we might as well give it a shot, don't you think? To try to mend our family and- and deal with all of this in a way that's—tolerable and acceptable."
For the second time today, I'm rendered speechless. Shelby Corcoran, the proudest and most stubborn woman the world has ever seen (at least in some aspects of life), is openly, willingly and without any difficulty or attempts to beat around the bush, saying that she—we—might need help. That there're things that you can't solve yourself, that she has problems that won't just go away, come time and patience.
Mom raises an eyebrow at me. "Well? What do you say?"
I clear my throat. "P-perhaps that would be a good idea."
"Alright," she nods. "Now, about your punishment… I've given this a lot of thought –I want you to really understand the lesson I'm trying to teach here- and I want you to write an essay on the dangers of drinking alcohol—especially at a young age. 5000 words until Tuesday. Furthermore, I will be taking your phone, your laptop and every other electronic device for a month. Television is only allowed on weekends and only downstairs in the living room with me or your sister. No staying up after 9:30" -I can't suppress a groan- "Well, it's 9:00, then. Rachel, stop sounding so surprised! Did you really think I was going to let you get away with this?! I'm furious—and the only thing that's keeping me from putting you over my knee is that you'll probably throw up on my shoes! Another groan like that one and I'll make short work! You won't be going to the mall or the city for the next eight weeks, you won't go to the movies or meet your friends after school. You're grounded for two months and I advise you not to test me during that time because, Rachel, I have no problem with taking your punishment well into the new year—even though I'd rather we start new. You will do whatever task I tell you to do—without a word, Rachel. One going against the rules and I'll expand your grounding for a week. Another and it will be an additionally two weeks."
I nod along—I know the rules of Mom's grounding. This is, I'm sad to say, not my first one, after all.
"What about my birthday?" I ask quietly, biting down on my lower lip.
Mom tilts her head to one side. "We'll see how those first few days go down."
"Okay," my head tilts forward as my voice drops into a whisper. "I'm sorry, Mom."
"I know you are."
She pats my hand a little and smiles—if not a bit sadly.
"Can I just text Kurt, Jesse and the others before I give you my phone and everything?"
Mom nods. Then, by all sudden, her eyes widen a little. "Since when are you and Jesse texting?"
"Oh, only since last Wednesday," I wave a hand dismissively and rise to my feet.
"Mmh," says Mom. Her face doesn't offer much about what she's thinking.
A few steps towards the door and I stand still again, turning. "Mom?"
"Yes, Rachel?"
"Can you get me an aspirin now?"
Her brows knit into a small frown. "Is it that bad?"
"It just- it hurts with every step I take."
"Oh, my poor baby," Mom coos, standing up. "That'll teach you a lesson about drinking."
And with that, she strides past me. "I'll just put a glass on the kitchen table, alright? That way you can stop by while you do your first task of the day. Vacuum the entire hours—the entire house, Rachel—, clean the windows of the second story—lucky you, I cleaned the ones of the first story yesterday—and then sort through our closet in the hallway—we won't need all those summer jackets downstairs for quite some time—and bring them down into the basement. I want everything spotless, Rachel."
Although I'm groaning inwardly, I manage to keep my act up as Mom glances back up the stairs. "Of course, Mom."
She nods. "That's what I thought. Now go and get your phone and everything."
I make my way into my room as soon as my headache allows me to, to fulfill Mom's request as soon as I can—might as well make a good impression. Then, I climb down the stairs again only to find my mother hunched over her own phone, smiling at something on her display while she stirs the aspirin in my glass.
"Mom?" I say quietly, taking the glass away from her to down it in (almost) one go.
She glances up from her phone at me, patiently waiting for me to go on.
I bite down on my lower lip. "Can we—lay down together later on? Can you cuddle me?"
A small smile curls the corners of her lips upwards. It doesn't look all that sweet and loving. "Of course, honey. Once you've finished your chores."
I try (and fail) to suppress a groan.
So? What do you think of the punishment Shelby's given to Rachel? And what do you think of this chapter in general? Loved it? Hated it?
Stay safe!