The Falls (11 page)

“Not hard enough. It was just the way my mother looked at me. She wasn't mad as much as she was . . . I don't know . . . disappointed.”

“Disappointed?”

“Yeah. Haven't you ever felt that way?”

“No way. My father expects the worst of me and I hardly ever let him down. I always set the bar so low that if I ever make a mistake and
don't
screw up he'll be surprised and shocked. That's the secret.”

“Not much of a secret.”

Timmy shrugged. “Works for me.”

“I better get going. I'll give you a call tomorrow.”

 

 

 

 

I
CAME INTO THE HOUSE
as quietly as possible, and the house was as quiet as me. There was no TV or radio. No voices. Maybe my mother was out, or maybe she was just having a nap. She'd gotten into the habit of taking an afternoon nap when she pulled a late shift, and now she took one most days, even when she wasn't working. It was so quiet that I could hear the clock ticking from the other room. I couldn't remember ever hearing that before. I usually came in with a lot of noise and then threw on the TV or radio or my CD player. I liked background noise. It made it seem like I wasn't alone in the house . . . was I alone now?

I opened the cupboard under the sink and grabbed a bag of potatoes. I pulled out five and put them in the sink. I wasn't completely sure what I was going to make for supper but I knew it would involve potatoes—it always involved potatoes. I took the peeler out of the drawer and started peeling.

It was strange. Usually I looked forward to the days my mother was off work, but today I wanted some more time to pass before I saw her again. I didn't want to talk about what had happened anymore—although there were things that still needed to be said. Actually, I didn't know which
was worse, talking about difficult things or being in the same room and leaving them alive but unspoken.

We used to have tons of times like that back when my mother was drinking. It was like having an elephant in the room. Nobody wanted to talk about it, and we both just hoped it would get up and leave by itself—or at least not trample us. There were lots of things we were both thinking but neither of us mentioned. Things like where she'd been when she'd left me alone all night. Why there was no money for a school field trip but there was money for booze. Why the fridge could be empty except for a new twelve-pack of beer. Things like me finding her passed out on the floor and helping get her into bed. Like the TV or stereo or some of my toys suddenly disappearing while I was at school. Like us having to disappear in the middle of the night, throwing our stuff in the back of a truck, helped by men I didn't know and would never see again. Just like I'd never see the kids I'd played with, or my school, or what I'd left behind in my desk, or the friends I'd made, or . . . a shudder went through my entire body. Maybe the elephant had left the room but I could still clearly picture it.

I hadn't thought about not thinking about things in a long time.

It was five years since my mother had stopped drinking, so it was maybe three years since I hadn't worried every single day. Now it was just some days, or really only little parts of some days. Even then, when the worry did creep in, I didn't always know what it was about right away.

The worry would start as a tiny spot in the back of my brain and then it would start to spread. Had I locked the front door when I left? Had I turned off the burner on the stove? Was the toaster unplugged? Was there some assignment at school that was due today? It was like knowing that something was wrong but not being able to put my finger on it. And that feeling got bigger and bigger until there was no spot that it didn't fill. It was like a buzzing that got louder and louder and louder.

Lots of times the worrying was about my mother. Worrying about her became a habit. Where was she, was she okay, was she in trouble? Actually, where was she now? Was she sleeping?

I had to go upstairs to gather the dirty clothes to put in a load of laundry. I could check on her then, see if she was asleep. I really needed to do all that laundry. There was no point in putting it off. The sooner it was done, the quicker another piece of evidence would be eliminated.

I finished the last of the potatoes. I put the stopper in the sink and ran cold water so they were covered. I rinsed off my hands and dried them on my T-shirt. Another item for the laundry.

I turned around then and saw it. There was a bottle of alcohol sitting in the middle of the kitchen table! I froze, except for the hairs on the back of my neck, which all stood up. I stared at it. Big red letters on the bottle. Vodka. A bottle of vodka. The top was on but I could see it was half empty. Half gone. Half drunk.

I felt numb. This wasn't possible. There had to be a mistake. I wasn't really seeing what I was seeing. Slowly I walked over to the table, keeping my eyes fixed on the
bottle, like it would disappear or run off if I looked away. I picked it up. Feeling it in my hand—the cold, smooth glass—made it real. I unscrewed the cap and brought the bottle up to my face. The fumes that stung my nose left no doubt it was alcohol.

That feeling in my brain buzzed to life, flashing from the one spot to fill my entire head. I wasn't just anxious or worried, I felt completely panicked. My whole body flushed. Where was my mother? I set the bottle down on the table.

“Mom!” I screamed as I ran from the kitchen. “Mom, where are you!” I yelled as I raced up the stairs and threw open her bedroom door. Her bed was unmade but empty. Where was she? Was she lying somewhere . . . unconscious? I ran back down the stairs, yelling as I ran, “Mom! Mom . . . where are you?”

“Jay!”

I ran toward her voice, bursting back in through the kitchen door as she came running up the basement stairs. I threw my arms around her.

“Jay, what's wrong? What's wrong?” she exclaimed.

“I didn't know where you were . . . I was worried,” I sobbed, tears coming to my eyes.

“I was just in the basement . . . You're crying!”

“I'm not crying,” I said, as I reached up and brushed away the tears I didn't want to admit to.

“What's wrong . . . what's wrong?”

“The bottle . . . on the table.”

“I shouldn't have left it there. I didn't want you to see it.”

“You're worried about me
seeing
it? Maybe you just shouldn't have
drunk
it!” I shouted as I released her and
stepped back. My tears had been burned away by a burst of anger. “How could you do it? How could you start drinking again?”

“I wasn't drinking.”

“Don't lie to me!” I snapped.

“I'm not lying.”

“The proof is right there!” I said, pointing at the table. I had the urge to reach over and grab it, smash the bottle on the ground or throw it at her. “It's half empty! Are you going to tell me the vodka just evaporated?”

“No, I drank it.”

“So you admit it!”

“I drank it five years ago.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

She walked over and picked up the bottle. “This is the last bottle of alcohol I ever drank from.”

“I don't understand.”

“Five years ago I drank twenty ounces before I quit. That was the last time I drank.”

“And you kept the bottle?” I asked, incredulous.

She nodded.

“But that doesn't make any sense. Why didn't you throw it away?”

“Because this bottle is important to me.”

“Yeah, right. If the bottle is so important, then why didn't you just pour the vodka down the drain and keep the bottle?” I asked. What sort of lie was she trying to sell me?

“Because the alcohol is just as important.”

“More important than
me
, obviously.”

“It
was
more important. I haven't been drinking. Not for five years. You know that.”

“Do I? You still haven't explained that bottle!”

“I'm trying. Sit down and I'll explain everything.”

I folded my arms across my chest but didn't move.

“Please?” she asked. She sat down and pushed out a chair for me. Reluctantly I sat.

“I haven't been drinking.”

I glared at her but didn't answer.

“Honestly. Do I look as though I'm impaired? Can you smell any alcohol on my breath?”

I looked at her, but in a different way. She didn't look drunk. There was no smell of alcohol.

“I usually keep the bottle right up there over the fridge,” she said, gesturing to a cupboard.

“I don't want to know
where
you keep it, I want to know
why
you keep it.” My angry feelings were starting to fade.

“I keep it to remind me.”

“Remind you of what?”

“That I'm an alcoholic.”

“And you need that bottle to remind you of that?”

“I need it to remind me of the last time I drank. Of my commitment not to drink anymore.”

“Still, if it's the bottle that's so important, why didn't you pour the vodka down the sink and keep the empty bottle?”

“Because the alcohol is important too.”

“Alcohol is always important to an alcoholic!” I said. More important than anything or
anybody
else, I thought, but didn't say.

“And because I will always be an alcoholic, I've kept the alcohol close at hand.”

“That doesn't make any sense. Because you're an alcoholic you should never have any alcohol around!”

She chuckled. What was so funny about any of this?

“If there wasn't any alcohol in the house and I wanted some, do you think I couldn't figure out how to get it? There are two beer stores, a liquor outlet, at least three places that sell wine, and a dozen bars within a ten-minute drive of our house.”

I didn't like the way she had all that figured out. Had she been drinking at those places? Had she fallen off the wagon and been hiding it from me?

“Not to mention the fact that I work in a casino, where alcohol flows more freely than water.”

“Still . . . why would you keep a bottle here?”

“It's hard to explain.”

“Try,” I said. I still didn't believe her completely. I leaned forward and tried to smell alcohol on her once again. Nothing.

She didn't answer right away. She was looking down at her hands folded in front of her on the table. She looked up. “I didn't like to worry you.”

I laughed out loud.

“I mean not anymore. I know you worry. I just don't want to worry you any more than I have to. I've been dry for five years. You have to believe me. But there have been times when I haven't felt so strong. When your grandfather died. When relationships haven't gone the way I wanted. This morning.”

“This morning?”

She nodded. “After you left I just started thinking about alcohol and if you'd be able to escape its clutches.”

“There's nothing to escape,” I said, feeling a new wave of guilt. “And don't say anything about denial. I'm not
denying anything, because there's nothing to deny! And besides, we're talking about you and that bottle!”

She looked as though she was about to say something, but she didn't. “When I'm feeling bad, low, I take out that bottle and I take out a glass.”

I noticed for the first time that there was a glass on the table as well.

“And I sit there and I look at the bottle. Sometimes I even take off the cap. And then I have to decide if I'm stronger than that bottle. And so far, every time—with the help of AA and my faith and my friends, and, most important, you—I've been stronger than any bottle and any alcohol.” She paused. “I hope you believe me.”

I did. It kind of made sense to me when I imagined her doing that. I nodded.

She stood up with the bottle and walked over to the cupboard. Then she opened it and reached up and put the bottle at the very back before closing it.

“There, that's where it'll stay. Maybe there won't be a next time for me to stare that bottle down. But maybe there will be, and I'll know where it's at. And so will you.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“We both know what I mean.”

I felt a tingle of electrical impulses course up my spine. “Would you like to know why I was in the basement?”

I shrugged.

“I was looking for pictures.”

“Pictures of what?”

“Pictures I can show you when I tell you about your father.”

 

 

 

 

F
OR THE SECOND TIME
in just a few minutes I felt a flush spread over my whole body.

“You do want to hear about him, don't you?”

I did and I didn't. I nodded my head ever so slightly.

“Come on.”

She went down the basement stairs. I followed. The stairs were steep and wooden and shaky. The staircase was open on one side except for a thin, wobbly handrail. The steps creaked beneath me. I stopped halfway down.

The basement was piled high with boxes and crates and old chesterfields and broken chairs and years and years of assorted junk that nobody wanted but nobody had the heart or the back to throw out. There were things that my grandparents had accumulated in the years they'd lived here, and then some of our stuff layered on top. Some of the piles were so high that they almost reached to the ceiling—not that the ceiling was very high. There were places where I had to bend down to pass under the beams. There were pipes and wires strung along the ceiling. The only light was from a few bare bulbs hanging down from those beams—and one of those bulbs was burned out. The whole basement smelled bad—a dusty, musty smell. It was so strong that you could almost taste it.

In the centre sat the furnace—big and black, with pipes reaching out of it, spreading and stretching across the basement to reach everywhere in the whole house. It reminded me of a tree. Or an octopus. Or a monster, ready to reach out with those long arms and grab me and stuff me into its grated mouth. During the winter months it was alive. It grunted and groaned, and when it came on there was a glowing, crackling light that leaked out through the grate—through its mouth. I knew it was stupid and I was too old to have thoughts like that . . . but still.