Say You Mean It - 2.1

Hey everyone. I decided to post more of this, because honestly I'm not feeling too good about it. I want to know whether or not I'm wasting my time with this, or if you guys think I should plod on. So just let me know what you really think. Hope you enjoy it.

2.1

She didn’t come back to the hotel room until well after four in the morning. The sound of something falling and crashing on the wooden floor woke me up, and I forced myself not to go back to sleep. It was another routine I had developed over the years—whenever I heard Mom stumbling through the door, usually drunk, I would sit up and blink groggily at the clock beside me.

“Where are my earrings… the diamond earrings… I left them somewhere, in the vent maybe… Are you insane?” Mom’s slur became more pronounced when she saw that my eyes were open and looking straight at her. “What are you doing up so late?” She giggled in amusement, as if the very idea of being bothered by the fact that her daughter was up at four in the morning was hilarious.

I didn’t say anything, taking note of the broken vase on the floor—that must have been what had woken me up. “So are you? Huh?” Mom snapped, leaning over to slap my foot in its hiding place underneath my blankets, missing completely. I still didn’t answer. She wouldn’t remember anything in the morning, anyway. I watched as my mother tripped and dragged her way across the room. She was wearing some kind of black slinky dress that basically ended right below her thighs. Except now it had ridden up even higher and was stuck in the side of her thong.

“Tonight was so much fun. I like this place… There are some juicy men in this town!” Mom giggled, some more finally throwing herself down on her neatly made bed. She hiccupped and rubbed her face in a pillow.

Inwardly moaning, I shoved aside my warm comforter and swung my feet to the floor. She hadn’t pulled this stunt in a while, but Royce’s little stage flirtation must have bothered her more than I realized. Hopefully the photographers didn’t get any pictures of the thong-exposé. Mom was already going to pay for the drinks and the idiot men I had no doubt she’d been with.

I padded across the soft carpet and approached Mom, the smell of alcohol stinging my nose. I’d always been sensitive to strong smells. Mom once said it was my father’s best skill as a chef.

“Now Royce can wallow in his self-pity,” Mom mumbled. It came out more as a big groan, but I’d had a lot of practice at this.

“Was Greg with you tonight?” I asked her as I turned a lamp on, not really expecting her to say anything back.

“Who’s Greg?” was my answer. Then she grumbled something else, flapping her hand at me in her customary way. I bit my lip, thinking about calling Greg to let him know what had happened tonight, if he didn’t already. Usually Greg—Mom’s bodyguard—would keep the photographers from getting too much dirt, so I prayed that he had been there. I liked Greg. He was one of the few people who greeted me by name.

“Autumn,” Mom hissed, reaching up to try and swipe at me as I bent over her. She missed, of course. “Autumn. Autumn!” Mom’s tone rose to a shout when I didn’t answer again.

“What?” I sighed, helping her sit up so I could fix her skirt. Next I held Mom’s legs up, jerked the comforter and sheets from beneath her, and then draped them over her. Forgetting whatever it was that she wanted to say to me, she snuggled down deep in the blankets, scowling.

“Your hair looks terrible,” she told me, eyes fluttering shut.

“Okay, Mom.”

“You should care,” she insisted drowsily. “I care. I do. Just like Royce cares about me. I know he does.”

I paused a moment, hurting inside. “You don’t care about me, Mom,” I whispered. My eyes were dry, though; I’d long cried myself out. There were no tears inside my body. Probably never would be. The truth was, I hadn’t cried since I was thirteen. Every attempt to do so since then I’d found what I did now: I couldn’t cry.

“He has to care,” Mom was mumbling. “Because I don’t want to…”

I moved away, but couldn’t help asking, “Don’t want to what?”

She breathed deeply, and I knew she was already asleep. She wouldn’t move until noon tomorrow, so it was a good thing Greg wasn’t making us pack up until three. I headed back to bed, watching my feet carefully so I wouldn’t trip over the shoe Mom had thrown by the TV. I climbed back in my plushy bed, taking comfort in the warmth that still lingered there.

And as I often did on these trips, I tried to comfort myself with happy thoughts, like Peter Pan or Maria in The Sound of Music. At least she hadn’t said anything else to me about my hair or my clothes. At least I wouldn’t have to deal with Mom puking—she wasn’t as drunk as that. At least we were leaving Salt Lake City and just one step closer to the tour ending.

At least my seventeenth birthday was only a week away. Which meant that I was also all the closer to being eighteen and legal to leave my mother forever.