SURVIVING MAE WEST

February 1996

 February 1 I bought my first car—a used Honda. I’ll zip around the country, take dates to drive-in movies, and haunt local drugstores. She’s blue with a black, vinyl interior, which is too hot in the summer but easy to clean. At her suggestion, Ma and I test-drove different cars together. In the one that I eventually bought, we analyzed Sam’s girlfriends as I played with the CD player and tested the air conditioner. Your father is happy that Terri is out of the picture, Ma said. I swear that no woman is good enough for his son, I said. You both should know Sam isn’t exactly a catch. I lit a cigarette with the car’s lighter and blew the smoke out my cracked window, annoying Ma. Dad’s protective is all, she said. I don’t remember him giving my dates a second look. You didn’t let us. In fact, I don’t remember any boys from high school except Zach. That’s because there weren’t any. But I thought— You were wrong, I said and pulled up to the lot’s exit. The clouds waited low and dark down the road, snowflakes dusting the hood. I gunned the engine, flipped on the headlights, and pulled onto the highway. Ma started touting the benefits of Al-Anon. She said, In the program , they emphasize releasing parental control. Turning some knob, she accidentally blared classical music under my feet. She wound her wrist back, and the violins retreated. ġģĚĤĔĚĝĝĒ
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ģĠĕĕ  You see, she continued, an alcoholic must decide to get sober, usually once they hit rock bottom, and my constant worrying, my helping Sam out of trouble, makes me an enabler. She sighed, patting her chest in the comforting, self-congratulating way that drives me crazy. I grabbed the metal handle next to me and lay my seat back a few inches. Look! I said. I’m cruising like a racecar driver. She rolled her eyes at me. An eighteen-wheeler tore by, and I jerked at the handle, snapping myself upright. I agree, she said, that I don’t help. He acts hateful when I try. A gas station sign announced that beer’s always on sale. Ma! I burst out, throwing up one hand. You’ve gotta learn to be head-on tough instead of passive. Be honest—he respects that. Tell him he’s an alcoholic every chance you get. Maybe he’ll listen. You know, I’m happy that you’re angry, she said. You have every right. With your dad so calm, and me . . . useless. She reached over and caressed my hair. I brushed her fingers away, saying, Oh, Christ. Sometimes, she said, I sit at home with no one else around and feel your anger. It’s like I’m indulging in a great treat. I pulled to a stop on a wide shoulder, preparing to U-turn back onto the road. Find your own anger to play with, I said. Three cars whipped by, rocking our small car. I just mean that we need you, she said, almost touching my knee with her hand but pulling back. I said, I think everyone in this family needs some goddamn selfsufficiency . (Though, even as the words rolled out of my mouth, I didn’t believe them.) ĤĦģħĚħĚğĘ
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ĨĖĤĥ  Then why are you home? I thought you moved home because you cared. Of course I care. Then pay a little attention! Stop getting stoned with your old friends. Help us. Help you what? I shook my head in bewilderment. Learn to be a happy person? Miraculously cure Sam? What? Exactly what am I supposed to do? Then she looked confused. I thought you wanted to spend time with me, with your father, she said. I thought you wanted to make that good again. It was never really good, Ma. Oh, Tess, she said. Watching her wipe her nose on her flannel shirt and tuck curls into her bun, I offered this: You look good. She shot me a half-hearted smile. The little car felt a bit like home after that. February 2 While frying potatoes for dinner, Ma updated me on various kids from the neighborhood, informing me that Rob has a job as a computer programmer in Morgantown. So the fucker lives right by Misty, I thought. I mumbled that he’s a jerk. Ma stopped...