I look at myself in the mirror. My skin is ghostly pale, my eyes sunken into their sockets. I wonder when she did this to me. When did I become this shell of a woman, struggling to survive? Have I been like this longer than I realized? Was I always like this? My hair hangs limply in my face, thin, wispy, and knotted from a restless night's sleep. Come to think of it, I haven't had a good night's sleep since...I don't sleep very well. Never did. It's hard to sleep when you never know what to expect, when you're constantly on guard, waiting...Waiting for your mother to pop in one night and announce that she really is all better now. Huddling in a corner with your brother while your mother holds that big knife... holds it and laughs, coming towards you. Waiting for her to snap again, praying every night that she will wake up and pop the little pink pill into her mouth and leave her unpredicatable moods behind, at least for just one day. Just so you can see what it's like to have a normal, PTA, cookies and milk, hi-honey-how-was-your-day, goodnight-abby-I-love-you mom.
And then there are those days...when Eric and I were little, at least...when you're so glad mom's happy that you don't notice her smile is a little too wide and her eyes are a little too bright. When all a manic streak means to you is a trip somewhere fun, a few days off from school...a fun mom. But it all comes crashing down eventually and there she is again, screaming and crying like a child, but she's not a child. She's my mom.
I sigh, pushing that knotty hair out of my face, studying the lines drawn into my tight skin. I'm too young for wrinkles. Damn it Maggie, I'm to young to be your mother! So stop treating me as if I am. But it's too late to change the past, too late to take it all back and live a normal life. So I'm stuck with my wrinkles. I name them all Maggie and I hate each one of them, like I tell myself I hate her. And I do sometimes, I truly do hate her. A pure hate, not marred by any thought of love. Those three little lines on my face...they are my hate for her. That's the extent of it, really, 3 thin lines on my entire face. And as much as I hate her sometimes for what she did to me, I love her more often. I wonder how it is I get up every morning and face this old woman in the mirror, wise beyond her years. She had to be. Maggie Wyczenski made her that way...me. Made me this way. This is me, this woman. I can't separate myself from this girl who aged too quickly, the woman with the little lines on her face and the hateful thoughts in her head.
I used to be scared to think bad things about Maggie. Like maybe if I did, something bad would happen to her, just to make me sorry. And she was my mom, in her way. She never did some of the things the moms who bring their kids in to me do. She never hurt me physically, though I used to wonder when it was coming. She always had money...miraculously, there was always a dollar or two I could grab to buy food for us. Not much food, but food. Something. And we always had good neighbors, willing to lend us some raw pasta and anything else I cautiously requested. I had to pick my words carefully when I went to beg for food. I know the speech cold now. I learned quickly. I had to with Maggie for a mom. 'Excuse me[insert name], but my mom was wondering if we could borrow some[insert food item]. We ran out and she needs to take care of my brother. She wanted me to come because he's not feeling well. I'll pay you back, if you want.' and then I would hold out the few dollars in my small fist and smile hopefully up at the adult. Whoever it was. And of course they wouldn't take the money, I always knew they wouldn't. And I would return to the house, carrying an armful of whatever I had borrowed. They watched me walk home, they always did, just to check up on me. So I would turn at the door and smile, not being able to wave because of my recent acquisition, and that would be enough for them. Then I could fish out my key from my pocket and sneak inside. I always checked on Eric first before I went to cook. I had to make sure that Maggie hadn't gone manic and taken him away, or angry and hurt him. After that I checked on Maggie. I seemed to spend my entire childhood checking on Maggie.
Dinners were a nightmare. I learned to cook, slowly but surely. It was one thing I just couldn't learn quickly. Maggie refused to eat most of the time, when she was depressed anyway. I would put a plate in front of her, sometimes even at the table if she would go. Otherwise it was in her room or on the couch. Then I left her for a little bit while I made sure Eric ate enough, and sometimes I managed time to eat as well. Rarely. I did a lot of laundry, chores, homework...anything to keep myself busy during dinner. Anything to keep myself away from the image of my broken family, my brother at the table and my mom in her dirty room. She never let me make the bed when she was there crying. She wouldn't let me tidy up or anything. It truly was a mess. But my brother...Eric...he was like me in a way. He knew this was bad, very bad. But he didn't know why. He just knew mommy didn't come to school for parents night, mommy didn't pack his lunch like all the other kids mommies and daddies. And daddy was...well, daddy wasn't with him. Mommy didn't pick him up from school, Abby did. And mommy cried a lot, and he got to go to Disney and other fun places when mommy didn't cry. It was his life.
Eric had sad eyes. They were the eyes of a boy who had seen too much too soon. It hurt me to see him like that as a little boy. He would gaze at me with those sad eyes when I would try to coax 'just one more bite please, Er?' at dinner. But I was Abby, not mommy. I could not make him do it, he was right. But it stung me the first time he said 'you're not my mommy, you can't make me eat that yucky food!'...I cried then. Then I was just like mommy. I cried too. I saw the look of terror in his eyes and so I dried my tears. 'no Er, it's ok. I'm not crying like she does. I'm crying because you said something that I didn't expect. I'm sorry Er, I'll try not to do it again.' He seemed comforted, but I was crushed. A thought surfaced then, just for a moment. What if I ended up just like her? I think I'd die. What if I became what I had loathed for so long? How could I ever live with myself? I pushed the thought out of my mind, knowing that I could never hurt someone like Maggie had hurt me. Eric ate every last bite of food on his plate that night, even asked for seconds. He drank enough water for 3 little boys and politely wiped his mouth with a napkin when he was done. He asked to be excused and waited for me to answer. Then he flashed a rare grin at me and took a cookie from the box in the cabinet, running outside to play catch with a neighbor.
Eric always played catch after dinner. He and the two boys he played with always thought they'd eventually get enough guys for a real baseball game. It wouldn't have mattered if they did, none of them had gloves and no one owned a bat. They just played with a softball salvaged from a little league field not far from their houses. But they dreamed of a real team. When Eric went out for catch, I made sure one of the boys' moms was watching. They didn't question that Maggie never watched the boys. They knew...I realize that now. They had to know. But I never thought twice. I waved bye to Eric and told him he had to be in when it was getting dark. Then I crept into whatever room Maggie was holed up in and sit with her. Every night, it was 'Mom, come on, eat something!' From the age of 6 to...well, it never ends, now does it? No, it never ends with Maggie. She would flatly refuse, then I would beg her to eat one bite, then I would hold out a fork and plead with her. And sometimes she would eat a little, sometimes not. I could never tell until she actually took the bite. She was a mystery to me, but plainly not right.
I never really forgave Maggie for what she did to me. It's hard when it's still going on. I should, I really should. But she scares me even now. Even when I see that Eric turned out alright with her for a mom. Even when I see that I'm somewhat OK...after all she did to me. And even if she could have taken her meds, stuck with it...somehow I knew she never would. And I guess I accepted that. But the long time away from her, the years in between... once I moved out I tried to forget. I called Eric to make sure he was OK, but he had learned well. Oldest Wyczenski child in the house took care of mom, themself, and any other kids there might be in the house. And he did a pretty good job. But I still called him every day, ran up a phone bill the size of my emotional scars. Hey, some people compare things to Texas. I say Texas is a miniature compared to those emotional scars. I spent my childhood as a mom. A miniature mom. But except for the emotional scars and the alcohol, I think I came out of it more or less normal.
I head into the bathroom and start the water running, wanting nothing more than to step into a warm shower after a hard night. I had that dream again, the one where I'm running. Maggie's behind me, yelling, and I...at age 14 or so...am carrying my brother and trying to get away from her. He wasn't much younger than me, so carrying him is slowing me down quite a bit. And then she catches up to us, and I let him go. I drop him on his feet and tell him to run, to get away from her. He looks at me doubtfully and sees her coming, so he runs away. When I turn to her, she's holding that awful knife again. I thought I'd thrown it out, gotten rid of it after that first incident. But dreams have a way of putting you in the center of your fears. Surrounded, no way out. So you can drive yourself crazy. I am standing there, scared of Maggie yet needing to stay with her. I couldn't bear to leave her alone. Who knows if she'll hurt herself? And so I am torn between leaving her to do something stupid and dying. It's a choice I never get to make in this particular dream, because this is the one dream I can't seem to force to go my way. This one always ends the same way, with Maggie plunging that damn knife into my chest. I scream when I wake up from that dream. Every time. And then I want a drink. More than anything, I wake up and need a drink, something that'll work quickly and last a long time. I haven't done it yet, but sometimes I feel like maybe I will. And if Maggie makes me do that, if she makes me give up on myself...I will only let myself feel the hatred for her. Because I can't let her do that to me. I can't do that to myself. Thinking of Maggie makes me cry. I can't stop it, just like I can't stop the cravings. They are ever-present and constantly reminding me of my problems. Sometimes it gets to be too much and I beg for a patient to come in with the same problem as Maggie, so that I can fix her. For real. So no other kid has to grow up too fast. And it would hurt, yeah, to see someone who cared more than Maggie. But to think that I would be saving the other woman...it makes it worth it. Because there is no saving my mother. She doesn't want to be saved.
That's the worst. That she could be so much better than she is...and I always thought she loved me less than she should because she wouldn't take that pill for me, for Eric...for herself. Do the world a favor, Maggie. Take your meds. But no, she liked the manic streaks. Craved them. Still does. Didn't matter that she was depressed 80% of the time, the other 20% made up for it. To her. Forget it, forget trying to save her. I tell myself that every day. But I just can't let her do this to herself. To us.
I can't control the tears streaming down my cheeks. I start to sob and shake, and I need to sit down. I collapse, feeling the rim of the bathtub catch me. My foot dangles onto the floor, and I can feel it shaking beneath me. I couldn't stand if I tried. My legs wouldn't support me. I let myself sob, my warm tears covering my hands and face. The water hits the bottom of the tub and splashes on my back. I reach behind my back and shut it off. Forget the shower. Forget it. I stand up again, using the towel rack for balance, and open the door of the medicine cabinet. I shake a pill into my hand and close my fist around it. Exiting the bathroom, I walk to the table and set the pill down in front of the kitchen table's only occupant at present. She nods at me and takes it from the table, swallowing it with a swig of orange juice. She even opens her mouth and shows me that she's taken it, that there are no remnants of the bright pink pill in her mouth.
"You don't have to do that."
"I know. I want you to trust me."
"I do. Thank you, Mom." She smiles at me, a normal smile. After 30 years, one pill on one day isn't much, but it's a start. "I love you, Mom."
"I love you too, Abby."
"I know." She reaches out an arm and puts it around me, and we are a normal family for once. It's all I ever hoped for. But somehow, something's missing. It almost doesn't seem like my mom anymore. Maggie...Mom...really changed this time. She's moving out in a few days. She got an apartment. But this time, I'm begging her to stay. I missed 30 years of this. I don't want to miss any more.