Wicked Games

“Mom?”

Her movements are slow as she lifts her lazy eyes toward me. Then a wicked smile curls her mouth. “There she is. The prodigal daughter. This is her, everyone!” she shouts. 

Several people look in my direction, more out of curiosity than interest. And maybe a little pity.

“My lovely daughter who asked my boyfriend to break up with me!”

“Mom,” I hiss, grabbing her arm in an attempt to yank her to her feet. But my injury prevents me from being as strong as I usually am. I wish I’d taken this into consideration and called someone for help. But who? This has always been my burden, and mine alone.

“You just can’t let me be happy, can you?”

“Come on. Let’s get you out of here.” I ignore her statement, attempting to pull her off the barstool, to no avail. “The bartender was nice enough to call me instead of the cops. The second we’re outside, you can tell me all about how I’m a horrible daughter for asking the man who provided alcohol to an alcoholic to keep his distance if he really cared about you and your recovery.”

“Well, your little plan backfired,” she sneers.

“You’ve got to get her out of here,” the bartender warns as his eyes float to patrons who start fleeing in droves. “I’m losing customers because of her.”

“I’m sorry.” I wrap my arm under her shoulder blades, but she’s dead weight. There’s no way I’ll be able to get her out on my own. “Can you help me get her outside? Please. She has a problem—”

“No, I don’t,” my mother interrupts. “You’re the one with the problem.” She shoves a sharp finger into my chest. “You can’t stand anyone being happy.”

I clench my jaw, drawing in a deep breath before I do or say something I’ll regret and make an even bigger scene, resulting in both of us getting arrested. 

Looking back to the bartender, I implore one final time. “Please. I’m begging you.” My voice trembles, a lump forming in my throat. I’ve been in this situation with my mother more times than I can count. I’ve had to drag her out of numerous bars before they called the cops. But I’ve never felt as helpless as I do right now.

The bartender blows out a long sigh, throwing the dishtowel hanging over his shoulder onto the bar. “Fine.”

Gratitude fills me, the bald man akin to a guardian angel at this moment. “Thank you.”

He simply nods, then comes out from behind the bar and hoists my mom to her feet with ease. Thankfully, she doesn’t fight it. Once we’re outside, I gesture to an empty bench at a nearby bus stop, and he brings her over, depositing her onto it.

“Thanks,” I say again.

“You bet.” He begins back inside before pausing, looking over his shoulder. “You did the right thing by asking that guy to stay away from her. I would have done the same.”

I smile, savoring his words. It may not seem like much, especially considering he’s telling me something I already know to be true, but living with an alcoholic, loving an alcoholic is a constant battle of doubt, second-guessing yourself, and wondering if you handled a situation correctly. 

When he retreats into the bar, I dust some of the snow off the bench, then plop onto it, ignoring my mother’s venomous stare. Opting to order an Uber instead of trying to hail a cab, I pull my phone out of my purse. Maybe if I offer a big tip, the driver won’t mind helping a severely inebriated woman into the car.

“You must feel proud of yourself,” she taunts. “Huh? You’re responsible for Aaron leaving me, then decided to come here to gloat.”

I shake my head, looking at my Uber app to see the estimated arrival time of the car, as well as the model and license plate. Thankfully, it’s only a minute away.

“You’re the one who called me,” I remind her through gritted teeth. “If I didn’t come, that bartender was going to call the cops.”

“I should have let him.” She wavers on the bench as she tries to sit up straight. Placing my hand lightly on her shoulder, I push her back. She barely notices. “I would have been better off spending the night in the drunk tank instead of having to sit next to someone who only wants to ruin everything good in my life because she can’t hold down a relationship for anything.”

I pinch my lips together, briefly closing my eyes, just wanting to get her home so I can put this night behind me. Like so many similar nights that came before it. Thankfully, the Uber I’d ordered turns the corner, and I wave the driver over.

“Okay, Mom. I need you to cooperate for a minute and get into the car.”

“You want me to cooperate?” she retorts, barely able to even enunciate the word. “Like you wanted Aaron to cooperate with your plan to destroy my life?”

My hands ball into fists as I remind myself not to apologize for any steps I take to remove a trigger from my mother’s life. Instead, I try to focus on the immediate task at hand. There’s no rationalizing with her when she’s like this.

“I understand your frustration. And I’m happy for you to make a long list of all the ways I’m a shitty daughter—”

“And you are.”

“But when we’re home,” I plea in a strained voice, feeling like I’m trying to bargain with a three-year-old who doesn’t want to take a nap. “Okay?”

“Hey, lady,” the driver calls out. I lift my eyes to his. He points to my mother. “Is she drunk?”

“She’s just a little under the weather.” I return my attention to my mother, ignoring the curious stares from passersby on the street of the popular restaurant and bar area in SoHo.

I wrap my arm around her body and use every ounce of strength I possess to pull her up, gritting through the ache in my leg. When I realize I’m successful, I exhale, holding onto her as tightly as I can to prevent her from falling.

But the massive quantity of alcohol she consumed, coupled with my unsteady balance from my injury and the snow-slickened sidewalks, makes this a difficult task. She wavers on her feet before crashing to the ground, taking me with her.

When I land with a hard thump, I cry out in pain, which only causes my mother to laugh hysterically.

“This ain’t worth it,” the driver says. “Find another ride.”

I don’t even look up to watch him drive off. I can’t. I fear I’ll lose what little hope I’ve miraculously held onto through everything.

I’ve dealt with my mother in this condition for what feels like most of my life. I never thought twice. It was just always something I had to do. I honestly believed if I did everything right, if I focused on keeping the stress out of her life, regardless of the personal cost to myself and my own dignity, she’d eventually get back on her feet, eventually stop drinking. 

But now I’m exhausted. Broken. Defeated. And for the first time since I realized my mother had a problem, I allow my tears to fall, allow the emotions I’ve kept locked inside to flow out. 

“What did I ever do to deserve this?” 

Despite the pain, I clutch my legs to my chest, wanting to hide from the world, to press that imaginary reset button on my life. Sirens wail, horns honk, happy voices converse as people pass, not one soul stopping to help the poor, injured twenty-something struggling with a drunk. I shouldn’t be surprised. I learned long ago the only person I can count on is myself.

“Karma really is a bitch, isn’t it?” my mother slurs. “This is what you get for ruining my life. For always ruining my life.”

I shift my eyes to hers, tears obscuring my vision. I should just leave her here, should let her fend for herself, but I can’t. No matter what she’s done, no matter the vitriol she spews, I’ve always put up with it, refusing to abandon her like my father did.

“I would have been better off if you were never born. Then your father never would have left me. We were happy until you showed up.”

“I know.” I nod, swiping at my cheeks, my throat closing up. I don’t have the strength to fight her anymore. Life has sucked everything out of me. I don’t even have the energy to return to the bench, my limbs too heavy to move. 

Instead, I stay on the sidewalk, my teeth chattering, my fingers growing numb from my lack of any winter attire. Another reminder of how I can’t do anything right. 

I pull my legs tighter against me, feeling like it’s the only thing keeping me glued together. I try to cover my hands with the sleeves of my thin shirt, but my clothes are wet from the snow, my body shaking from the combination of my sobs and frigid temperatures. I’m not sure tonight could get any worse.

“Chloe?” a deep voice cuts through. 

I stiffen, unable to breathe, to move, to think, wanting to wake up from this nightmare that keeps getting worse with every passing heartbeat.

I thought I’d hit the lowest of the low, sitting on a dirty New York sidewalk, too weak to drag my drunk mother into a cab, snow falling around me, my body shivering because I didn’t have the wherewithal to protect myself from the elements. But no. Fate or karma or whoever had to make sure the one man I didn’t want to see me like this bore witness to my breakdown.

“Chloe,” he repeats when I don’t react, keeping my head buried in my legs. This time, his tone is less confused, more sympathetic.

“Please go,” I manage to get out through my wheezing breaths, my tears falling even more relentlessly.

His hand touches my shoulder. I snap my head up, shrugging him off. I have no idea what I did to deserve being saddled with an alcoholic mother for the past fifteen years of my life. But I took it all in stride. I didn’t break down when my mother failed to show up for my high school graduation. I didn’t break down when I had to quit college to work so she didn’t lose the house. I didn’t break down when I saw that first property tax bill and knew I no longer had a choice but to sacrifice the last shred of dignity I had in order to pay it. But this right here, having Lincoln look at me this way, his eyes glassy with emotion… It fucking destroys me.

He licks his lips, shaking his head, speechless.

“Please. Go,” I say again, this time louder, my words drawing the attention of several passersby. “The last thing I need right now is you gloating about what a fuck-up I am,” I sob, my entire body quivering, but no longer from the cold. From the raw emotions filling me. “I know I am. I’m trying so fucking hard. I just… Please. Leave me alone.”

When he doesn’t make any move to retreat, I bury my head back in my legs. “You’re the last person I want to see right now.”

“Chloe,” he says again, just as Professor Gordon’s familiar voice calls out to him.

“Linc, the car’s here.”

Without looking at him, I can sense his hesitation. I bring my legs closer to me, sending a silent prayer to the big man upstairs to grant me this one favor and make Lincoln leave. Seconds pass, seeming like hours. Finally, he exhales deeply. When I hear the crunch of his footsteps retreating in the snow, I steal a glance and watch him walk away. It’s what I wanted, but it makes me cry even harder. Makes me feel even more alone.

Burying my face once more, my tears continue to fall, releasing everything I’ve kept hidden for years. It doesn’t seem to faze my mother. She keeps her head on my shoulder, berating me. I tune it out. I can’t listen to it anymore. 

Officially out of options, I’m about to reach into my purse to call Izzy when I feel a warmth wrap around me. A weight lifts off me and I dart my eyes to my left, disoriented, watching as Lincoln hoists my mother off me and carries her down the block toward a yellow cab idling in front of an upscale French restaurant.

Once she’s secure in the back seat, he returns to me. I want to scold him for not listening when I told him to leave me alone, but the comfort of his wool coat surrounding me is too inviting. 

Fishing a handkerchief out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket, he hands it to me. I dab at my eyes and cheeks as he wraps his arms around me, helping me to my feet.

When I limp, he glances down at my leg, but doesn’t ask what happened, as if he can tell I don’t want to talk about it. It only makes him hold me even tighter as we make our way to the cab and he helps me inside before sliding in next to me.

“Where to?”

“My place.” The last thing I want is to sit in a cab all the way out to Brooklyn when my apartment is mere minutes away.

“Which is?” Lincoln arches a brow.

I blink, caught off-guard that he doesn’t even know where I live. I guess we never got to that point.

Turning my attention to the driver, I rattle off my address in the West Village. With a nod, he merges into traffic.

I relax into the seat, closing my eyes as a shiver rolls through me. Lincoln pulls me against him, rubbing my arm, and I rest my head against his chest, the metronome of his heartbeat offering a brief escape from my reality.

“I’ve been where you are,” he says after a beat.

I raise my eyes to his, my brow wrinkled.

“Exactly where you are,” he emphasizes, then looks forward, keeping me in his warm embrace.