Blackout_ Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget
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murky pool, and we stand <strong>the</strong>re like kids, hunched and laughing, our skin covered with goose bumps.<br />
“You go,” I say, nudging her, and she says, “No, you go.” And we giggle until she ga<strong>the</strong>rs herself<br />
up, serious now. “OK, do you want me <strong>to</strong> go?” And I nod. So she walks out on <strong>the</strong> platform, like she<br />
always has, and jumps first.<br />
ONE SUNDAY MORNING, my mo<strong>the</strong>r and I are having coffee. We’re still in our yoga clo<strong>the</strong>s, sitting on<br />
<strong>the</strong> empty patio of a café. Out of nowhere, she says, “I’m just so glad you’re sober.”<br />
My mom didn’t say much about my drinking for a long time, and now that <strong>the</strong> subject is out in <strong>the</strong><br />
open, I feel uncomfortable dwelling here. The words can make me feel stuck, branded. I’m four years<br />
sober now. When do <strong>the</strong>se pronouncements end?<br />
But I understand my mo<strong>the</strong>r needs <strong>to</strong> give voice <strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong>se feelings. She is an emotional blurter. In<br />
<strong>the</strong> middle of family dinner, she’ll say <strong>to</strong> me and my bro<strong>the</strong>r, “I just love you two kids so much,” and<br />
it’s like: OK, but can you pass <strong>the</strong> chicken?<br />
My mo<strong>the</strong>r stares at her teacup, getting a contemplative look in her eye. “I wish I could have been<br />
<strong>the</strong>re more for you when you were a little girl,” she says, and her green eyes turn watery.<br />
“Mom, s<strong>to</strong>p,” I say, waving off <strong>the</strong> emotional charge of <strong>the</strong> conversation. “Don’t you like who I<br />
am?”<br />
She nods that yes, she does.<br />
“Do you think you screwed up so badly that it requires all this apologizing?”<br />
She shakes her head that no, she doesn’t. She tries <strong>to</strong> explain gently, what I might not understand:<br />
<strong>the</strong> impossible hope of parenthood, <strong>the</strong> need <strong>to</strong> shelter your child from pain. It’s hard <strong>to</strong> live with <strong>the</strong><br />
mistakes, she says. She wishes she’d been better.<br />
I do understand. We all live in <strong>the</strong> long shadow of <strong>the</strong> person we could have been. I regret how<br />
selfish and irresponsible I’ve been as <strong>the</strong>ir daughter. How many things I <strong>to</strong>ok for granted. My<br />
mo<strong>the</strong>r’s constant emotional nourishment. My fa<strong>the</strong>r’s hard work and unwavering support.<br />
I have lunch each month with my dad now. He is different than <strong>the</strong> man who raised me. Looser,<br />
funnier, and more engaged, faster with his smile. He still reads <strong>the</strong> newspaper every day. Watches <strong>the</strong><br />
evening news. There is so much more kicking around in his head than I ever gave him credit for. Just<br />
because someone is quiet doesn’t mean <strong>the</strong>y have nothing <strong>to</strong> say.<br />
One afternoon, we start talking about drinking. My dad quit ten years ago, worrying <strong>the</strong> alcohol<br />
would interfere with his medications. Though he’d never been much of a drinker when I was a little<br />
girl, by <strong>the</strong> time I was in college, his consumption had crept in<strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong> armchair-drinker red zone. He<br />
could put away a bottle a night without realizing it.<br />
Because he quit so easily, and without complaint, I assumed it wasn’t a big sacrifice. But he tells<br />
me that’s not true. It had been rough. He still misses it all <strong>the</strong> time. “I would definitely say I have<br />
alcoholic tendencies,” he tells me, and I look at him. Once again: Who are you?<br />
In <strong>the</strong> four years of my sobriety, he has never said <strong>the</strong>se words <strong>to</strong> me. Alcoholic tendencies. I<br />
continue <strong>to</strong> be startled by how much of my personality derives from him. My self-consciousness, my<br />
humor, my anxiety. I may look and talk like my mo<strong>the</strong>r, but I am equal parts (if not more) this man.<br />
What else has my dad not <strong>to</strong>ld me? How much more has he kept inside, because no one ever thought<br />
<strong>to</strong> ask? And do I have enough time <strong>to</strong> dig it out?<br />
I’m aware of <strong>the</strong> ticking clock. My mo<strong>the</strong>r loses her keys <strong>to</strong>o often, and she forgets what she’s