Mother's Day

Mother’s Day

It was a cold Mother’s Day. I had already given Mom her two gifts: a new Anne Tyler novel and a flower-patterned bookmark, both of which I had bought from a bookstore a couple of towns over. I used some of the money I’d earned babysitting to buy them. Mom seemed to appreciate it.

While beginning to read a new novel that I had bought for myself at the bookstore when I’d picked out Mom’s presents, I, from my spot on the living room sofa, saw Dad chopping up stalks of celery.

I called over to him, “Makin’ Bloody Marys, Dad?”

He answered, “Yup…I bought a bottle of vodka this morning.”

“We didn’t have any in the house?”

“I found a bottle downstairs, but it was only about a quarter full.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I did find a bottle of Jack Daniels though in the basement that’s about three-quarters full. I’ll probably leave that out for Uncle Steve. I’m pretty sure he likes Jack and Cokes.”

“Yeah…I think I kind of remember him drinking a couple at my Bar Mitzvah.”

“Today, Jack and Pepsi will have to do.”

“D’ you know where Mom is?”

“Shower. How come?”

“I do’ know. Just curious.” I decided to go back to reading my book.

A few minutes later, Dad told me he needed to go out to the supermarket to pick up limes to go with the Coronas and oranges to go with the Blue Moons.

When I heard the garage door close, I immediately sprang up from the sofa and padded to the kitchen. The bottle of Jack Daniels sat next to the bottle of Smirnoff, as a short, pudgy man sitting beside his tall, fit, better-looking chum. The liquor excited me, but I decided to begin with a beer. I ripped open the many magnet-decorated refrigerator door and found a precious supply of golden liquid. I removed a bottle of Blue Moon, used an opener to pry off the ridged cap, and began to chug. With each gulp, cold foam massaged my throat.

When I finished the bottle, I walked downstairs and decided to set it down next to a row of previously finished bottles Dad had drunk, which sat atop the chipped garage floor and leaned against the wall. Neither one of my parents cared much if I had had a drink or two, but what about three, or four, or more? I knew they wouldn’t approve of that, so I hid the first, planning to drink plenty more throughout the course of the day.

As I closed the door to the garage, Mom tapped me from behind. I spun around and said, “He…ey, M…Mom.”

“Hey, Cam. What did you need in the garage?”

I needed to invent a believable reason. I said, “I was just seeing if…we had any gloves that I could use for bench pressing at the gym.”

“Oh, okay. When you get a chance, can you please feed Roscoe. Remember, one and a half cups.”

“‘Kay.”

“Oh, and do you know where Daddy went?”

“Yeah, he just went to Pathmark to pick up limes and oranges to go with the beer.”

“Okay, I’m going upstairs to finish blow-drying my hair.” As Mom walked upstairs, she called down, “Remember to give Roscoe fresh water too!”

I walked back up to the kitchen to make Roscoe’s breakfast, just as Mom had asked. While I scooped the final half-cup of kibble into Roscoe’s food bowl, I felt my cellphone vibrate. I reached into the pocket of my navy cargo shorts. Then I placed my right thumb on the home button -- it was an IPhone -- and the phone unlocked. I found that Marisa had texted me. I had met Marisa through an IPhone app that helps lonely, horny teenagers, like me, meet. She was nineteen -- two years older than I was. The text message read, “Heyy hansome.” I was tempted to send back, “Thanks for the term of endearment, but it’s actually spelled ‘handsome’ (with a ‘d’).” Instead though, I sent, “Hey Gorgeous;)”

Then I dropped the cellphone back into my pocket and used my forearm to turn on the sink, allowing lukewarm water to flow down, moistening the kibble in the food bowl. As I did this, Roscoe sat, eyeing me from the kitchen floor. Panting, he bobbed his blonde-furred head up and down, whiter teeth than mine smiling cutely.

“Hey Roscoe,” I said in a high-pitched voice. Roscoe tilted his head pensively. When there was enough water in the bowl, I set it down on the granite countertop next to the Smirnoff and Jack Daniels, pushed the sink’s temperature knob all the way to the right, and filled up Roscoe’s smaller bowl with cold water. Then I brought each bowl over to Roscoe’s dining spot -- the part of the kitchen floor against the door leading to the backyard. Waiting for my command, Roscoe sat, even more excited than he had been before. I made him wait for about twenty seconds until I pointed to his food bowl and said, “Okay.” Roscoe immediately attacked the soupy kibble and water mixture. As I watched Roscoe eat, I heard the garage door buzzing open. Dad was back.

Soon after, my relatives arrived. All six of them had traveled in Uncle Steve’s minivan. The first two who walked in were my younger cousins: Lawrence, seven, and Cynthia, four; they were followed in by their grandparents (not the ones I’m related to), Arnie and Barb, both in their early sixties. The last two to enter were Uncle Steve, forty-eight, and his wife, Randi, thirty-six who, although not blood-related, is quite unfortunately my aunt.

The seventh person who would be sharing Mother’s Day with us and who is by far the most genuine of the bunch was Grandma. She had slept over the night prior. She sat next to me on the couch in the living room while the six relatives I have just introduced entered.

Of course, the first person to begin talking after all of the initial kissing and handshaking was Randi. Mom was her first target.

“Carole! How are you?”

“Everything’s been fine. How about you?”

“Oh everything here has been awesome! I just recently, actually, began a new blog and it’s going so well because writing is, as you know, one of my passions.”

“That’s great Randi. What is your blog about?”

“Okay, so it’s geared toward single Jewish women in their late twenties and early thirties, and it’s basically a guide on how to pick up Jewish guys.”

“Oh, very cool. How’s it been going so far?”

“Let me tell you, Carole…It is such a blast. Like writing, and like giving advice to single Jewish women is so fun.”

“That’s great…so how are the kids?”

“They are fabulous. Cynthia just had a dance recital last weekend…”

“Oh, how’d that go?”


“It was so adorable. So, so adorable.”

“That’s good. And how’s Lawrence?”

“Lawrence is awesome. He adores, adores, adores his karate class.”

“Nice…How’s school been going for him?”

“Really good. He is so in love with school and I think that he’s found a passion.”

“Oh yeah, what is it?”

“As bizarre as it may seem, I think Lawrence has a passion for oceanography.” (Just a reminder: Lawrence is seven).

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, not once, not twice, but three times in the past like month, he’s asked Steve and I…” She should have said, ‘Steve and me,’ “…like science questions about the ocean. Like last week when we all went to the beach, he said something like, ‘Mommy, Daddy, why are the waves bigger than last week?’ and when we tried to explain to him how like the ocean changes from day to day, he found it so fascinating.

“That’s great, Randi.”

“Yup…So, how’s Rachel at Princeton?” Rachel is my sister.

“She’s doing well. She’s actually taking a course in computer science and I think she’s really enjoying it.”

“That’s awesome, Carole. Computer science is an awesome skill to have. I have so many friends who fell in love with computer science in college. One of my friends at UCLA actually started off as a cosmetology major, then took a computer science class for fun and loved it, so she decided to switch her major to computer science.”

“Yeah, we’ll see how Rachel feels at the end of the semester. I mean, it’s definitely too late to switch her major from music to computer science now, because she’s a junior, but if she really feels she enjoyed the course when she finishes in May, I could definitely see her taking a more advanced comp’ sci’ course next year.”

While Mom and Randi were talking, Dad and I were both stuck chatting with Randi’s parents.

“So Marc, how’s work going?” Barb asked squeakily.

Dad answered, “Ehh, same old, same old.”

“And how’s school going, Cameron?”

It’s goin’ o…” my voice cracked a bit “…kay.”

“Are there any schools you’re thinking of for next year?”

“I know I probably would like a big campus. I was thinking maybe Ohio State or UPitt. Also, I’ll probably apply to some SUNYs. If I get accepted to Binghamton, that’ll probably be a big consideration.”

Then Arnie said, “Now, I don’t know what your grades are like, but you should definitely consider UCLA. That’s actually where Barb and I first met and it really was a blast. And both Randi and her sister, Liz, went there and they loved it, too.”

“I’ll definitely add UCLA to my list of schools that I’m considering.”

Dad then left me alone with them. He excused himself by asking Arnie and Barb if they wanted anything to drink.

Barb squeaked, “What do you have, Marc?”

“I could make you guys Bloody Marys or Mimosas, and we also have light beer and soda.”

Barb asked for a Mimosa and Arnie asked for a beer. Then Dad went into the kitchen, and Barb asked me, “So Cameron, how’s bowling going? Are you getting a lot of strikes?”

“Ehh, I haven’t been bowling too much lately.”

“But you bowl for your varsity team, right?”

“I actually didn’t play on the team this year.”

“Why?”

The truth was that the coach was a jerk and I was more than sick of him, but I answered, “My SAT class conflicted, plus I might not have even had time if I hadn’t been taking the SAT class simultaneously because it’s actually a really big time commitment, and school in general is a lot busier this year than it was last year and the year before.”

“O…kay, I…see. Do you still play chess?”

“No, I haven’t played in a while.”

Then Arnie said, “You know, I actually have a friend, or had a friend (we’ve lost touch) who used to play chess over the phone with his friends. I don’t know how that worked, do you know how that would work, Cameron?”

I explained, “Well, each square can be named by using the letters and numbers that line the edges of the board. So like, if I move my rook over one space after castling, for example, I would say over the phone, ‘rook from…’c’ three to…’c’ four.’ Usually in tournaments, players write it down.”

“How come they write it down?” Barb asked.

“So they can study games they’ve played in tournaments. Like if a guy loses and he wants to see where exactly he went wrong, he can use the chess notation he wrote down during the game to analyze strategies that he might want to alter in the future.”

“Very interesting,” Barb squeaked.

Then Dad came back, holding Barb and Arnie’s drinks. “Here you both are,” Dad said as he placed the Mimosa and the Bloody Mary on the wooden coffee table.

“This Bloody Mary looks beautiful,” Barb squeaked, and Dad replied, beads of sweat dotting his forehead (Dad sweats very easily), “Thanks, I try,” and then asked me, “Hey Cameron, can you help me with something?”

“I answered, “sure, Dad,” and followed him into the kitchen and out the back door into the backyard.

When we reached the backyard, Dad whispered, “I just wanted to save us from having to continue talking to Barb and Arnie.” We both laughed. Then Dad reached his hairy paw-like hand into a blue and white cooler full of ice and beer, and pulled out a corona light. He said, “I’m gonna go get a lime from the kitchen. Feel free to take a beer.”

As Dad walked back inside, I fished out a beer from the cooler. Just as I had done earlier, I opened the bottle and began chugging. When Dad came back out, half of the beer I had begun was gone from the bottle.

“Whoa, slow down, Cam.”

“Just thirsty.”

Dad laughed a bit and said, “A’right, a’right, just slow…”

“‘Kay, no probs.”

“Oh damn…I didn’t bring a lime out for you. They’re in the kitchen if you…”

“No, it’s fine, Dad.”

“You sure you don’t want a lime?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

As Dad and I sipped our beers, we heard the glass door separating the family room from the backyard slide open. Uncle Steve stepped out holding a glass of dark liquid.

“Hey Steve,” Dad said, “how’s the Jack and Coke?”

“Oh, it’s good, Marc.” Uncle Steve set his drink down and removed his glasses to wipe them.

“So, how’s Randi?” Dad asked.

“Ahh, she’s irritating.” Dad and I both laughed a bit. Uncle Steve took a few tortilla chips from a bowl Mom had set out on the outside table and scooped up some salsa with one of them.

He asked, “So, how’ve you guys been?”

“Pretty good,” Dad said.

“I’m gonna go take a smoke,” Uncle Steve said as he pulled a pack of Camel Lights out of his pocket. Dad followed him toward the backyard gate’s door and asked if I wanted to join.

I lied by saying, “I actually have to go to the bathroom.”

They walked into the front yard and I stayed in the backyard. I eyed the cooler. I made sure no one was in the family room who could have potentially seen me through the glass door, and quickly grabbed then drank my third beer of the day.

* * * * *

By the time we all sat down for a late lunch, I was feeling fairly out of it; I sat in-between Grandma and Randi; a basketful of bagels sat in the center of the table, and a plateful of colorful fish sat next to the bagels, saran wrap half pulled back and tucked underneath the plate. I rose up from my seat.

“What d’ya need Cam?” Mom asked from her spot at the table, a few chairs down.

“Just gettin’ some soda, Mom,” I said. When I reached the granite countertop, which was each of the drinks’ home, including slender Smirnoff and pudgy Jack Daniels, I removed a glass from the cabinet, my hand shaking a bit, and began to pour fizzy Pepsi from its two-liter container into the glass. When the glass was a trifle more than half-full, I stopped pouring for a moment.

Spontaneously, I reached for Jack Daniels, twisted off his fat, black cap, grabbed his deep, dark mahogany potbelly with two hands, and dumped a few splashes of his contents into the Pepsi. I took a sip of the mixed drink. Unlike the massage that each of the three beers’ foam had given my throat previously, the whiskey stung my throat and burnt my esophagus as it slid downward towards my stomach.

I brought the drink back to my spot at the dining room table. The drink had at least two shots worth of whiskey, and a few drops flew out as I set it down on the tablecloth. My elbow dug into Grandma’s arm as I sat down. I turned to her, and said, “Sssorry, Grandma.”

“Take some lox, honey…it’s really good…” Mom said, “…and try the scallion cream cheese with it. Here Cam, want me to slice a nice everything bagel for you?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said too loudly.

“So Cameron, see any good movies lately?” Grandma asked.

“Uhh…nnnot really anything new. But I saw umm…but I saw One Flew Over the Cukoo’s Nest with Dad the other day.”

“Did you like it?”

“Yeah, I thought umm, I thought it was really good.”

“Cameron, how’s the writing going?” Barb squeaked from across the table, “Your mom tells me you’re doing a creative writing program in the Berkshires over the summer.”

“Yeah, umm, I umm like to write, so uhh it should like be good.”

I took a large sip of the mixed drink, scrunching up my face, as a reaction to the taste.

Then Barb asked Mom, “What town in the Berkshires is it in, Carole?”

Mom answered, “Great Barrington.”

Randi chimed in, “Oh, Great Barrington is such an awesome town.”

I skeptically asked Randi, “When umm were you umm in Great Barrington?”

Randi thought about it for a moment and said, “Steve and I were there like five years ago,” and Uncle Steve added, “Yeah, we ate lunch in Great Barrington…beautiful town.”

Mom and I made eye contact, and she winked at me. We both find Randi extremely irritating.

As we all gabbed at the dining room table, I continuously made trips to the kitchen, covertly mixing myself Jack and Cokes, or as Dad had joked earlier, Jack and Pepsis. By the end of lunch, I had eaten approximately two and a half bagels with cream cheese and lox, two slices of noodle pudding, three helpings of mashed potatoes, a turkey leg, some pot roast, and a large scoopful of buttered peas and carrots. I had also drunk the quantity of about two sixteen-ounce glasses of Pepsi and four or five shots of Jack Daniels.

All of the men at the table were finished eating and Dad declared, “I’m going downstairs to watch the Yankee game. Anyone who would like to join me is welcome.” I brought my plate over to the sink and followed Dad down into the family room. My balance was awful. Uncle Steve walked down, holding Lawrence and Cynthia’s hands, and Arnie followed behind him.

While we all watched the game, I saw through the glass door that Mom, Randi, and Barb had all made their way outside. I was too drunk to know I was drunk enough, so I went back up to the kitchen, which was at this point empty, and poured a splash of straight whiskey into a red cup. I tilted my head back and drank it in two large sips. It didn’t taste bad anymore. I removed a Blue Moon from the fridge and brought it with me on my journey back downstairs. As I said before, Mom and Dad didn’t care much if drank one or two beers. Dad thought the Blue Moon was only my second beer of the day. As I started to chug, Dad said, “Cam, you’re drinking that way too fast. Slow down a lot Cam.”

I kept turning my head from side to side. It felt heavy, and the high hat light bulbs appeared to be dancing in circles against the ceiling. When I finished the beer, I went back upstairs into the kitchen and poured a decent amount more whiskey into my cup. Pudgy Jack Daniels had gone from being three quarters full to being three quarters empty. Instead of returning to the couch, I crashed on the daybed next to the bookcase in the family room. I was out cold.

Dad tapped me and asked if I wanted dessert. I didn’t move. I didn’t hear him. When Barb saw me passed out on the daybed, she said to Dad, “I remember when I was able to just fall asleep like that. That was a long time ago.”

Dad responded, “He must be exhausted. When I tapped him, he didn’t even move.” Then everyone padded upstairs, and I remained on the daybed in the family room.

* * * * *

I was half-awake and I could feel it. I could feel that it was getting ready to escape. I tried to stop it, but I soon realized there was nothing I was going to be able to do, so I let it happen. Vomit began shooting out of my mouth onto the daybed’s pink comforter. Some dripped down, dirtying the carpet as well.

I stumbled over to the bathroom, knelt down, and threw up some more into the toilet. While I was in the bathroom, I gripped the towel bar and used the leverage it gave me to help myself get back on my feet. In doing this, I ripped the towel bar right out of its socket in the wall and the bar along with the screws on either side fell to the ground, which already contained scattered patches of fresh, chunky vomit that had missed the bowl. While this was happening, everyone else was upstairs enjoying warm pecan pie and chocolate cake that Mom had baked.

Although my rationally thinking mind was totally gone, I somehow had sense enough to know that the tiny downstairs bathroom was a dangerous place for me to stay in. It’s not big enough to lie down in and the light switch, when flipped on, causes a loud fan to start spinning. If I had fallen, no one would have heard or seen me. So, I decided to walk into the garage.

There I found my two little cousins playing catch. Apparently, they had finished dessert. I sat down, knees against and eyes staring at the ground.

“What’s wrong, Cameron?” Lawrence asked.

I continued to stare at the ground.

“Cameron! What’s wrong Cameron?” Lawrence asked again.

I slowly turned around to face him. “I’m…not…feeling well.”

“Oh…”

Cynthia climbed onto my shoulders. Lawrence told her to leave me alone because I wasn’t feeling well. She listened, and they both went back to playing.

Some time later, Mom found me lying sideways on the garage floor. My hair and face were covered in vomit. “Aww, Honey, d’ you feel terrible?” she asked.

“Yeah…I threw…uhh…up on…the daybed.”

Mom went to go check out the damage. Then she walked upstairs to tell Dad what had happened. When Mom came back into the garage, and I continued to lay on the hard, cement floor, completely unresponsive, she thought that I had been poisoned by one of the many food items that I had eaten at dinner. She sat with me for twenty minutes until she managed to help walk me to the upstairs bathroom, next to my bedroom.

There was such a large accumulation of vomit that Mom felt the need to kick everyone out, so she and Dad could hose out the garage. She said, “Sorry guys, but Cameron got food poisoning, and you guys are gonna have to get going.”

Barb squeaked, “Oh my god! I hope he is okay!”

All of the following is based on what Mom told me. I have no memory of this part. Everyone had evacuated when Mom asked Dad, “What do you think made him so sick, Marc?”

“I don’t know. Cameron was drinking a beer pretty fast when we were watching the Yankee game.” Then Dad’s eyes wandered around the kitchen. When he saw that the bottle of Jack Daniels was only a quarter full, it hit him.

“That bottle of Jack Daniels was about three quarters full, Carole…Look at it now.”

“That was it. Oh my god, Marc! How much did Steve drink?”

“Not much…I think he had at most two Jack and Cokes.”

“So Cameron drank almost a half a bottle of whiskey?”

“I think he must’ve. I didn’t see anyone else go for the whiskey.”

“Oh my god, Marc! What do we do?”

“Make sure that he’s conscious upstairs.”

Mom walked up and found my head hovering over the toilet bowl. I was sitting, wearing my underwear only.