To Have, Or Have Not

The silence in my home was deafening.  The pain, too big for any room to contain, let alone my head.  No matter how I try to silence the endless thoughts of Charlie, I cannot.  What is her day-to-day routine?  Does her father pray with her at night?  When she wakes up in the morning, what are her first thoughts?  Is she wearing pajamas or nightgowns now?  Does she miss me?  Has her voice changed?  Is her hair long or short?  Does she miss my help with her homework, movies on Sundays with popcorn and braiding her hair?  I could not stop the questions.

            After leaving Charlie with her father two years ago, I eventually moved out of my mother’s small apartment and into my own place.  It wasn’t big but it provided everything I needed. It had a small living room, which wasn’t much bigger than a doctor’s waiting room, a meager kitchen, with just enough room to stand in the middle of the sink, stove and refrigerator.  My bedroom was quaint, tucked behind the kitchen and hiding a small toilet and stand-up shower.  I referred to it as a “grandmother cottage.” Hidden behind the house of my landlord’s family, who were strangers to me.  They didn’t keep track of my comings and goings. Their house barricaded mine from the street.  Sheltering me from the possibility of Charlie’s father finding me.  I felt safe with the newfound anonymity it offered. The one downside though, was that the cottage was built adjacent to train tracks.  The only thing separating my small bedroom window from the train was some dried-up weeds and an old wire fence.  The train would rattle the windows and wake me at all hours of the night.  It was a constant reminder that there is always something bigger than me out there.

It’s two forty-five am. I’m just getting home from a night shift at the bowling alley.  I was a bookkeeper by day and a cocktail waitress by night. From the front door, I reach toward the kitchen light and switch it on.  I fling my shoes off at the door and unbutton my blouse.  “Shit!” I noticed a button missing.  “Damn,” I thought, “one more trip to my mothers.” Taking it off, I throw it on the arm of the chair in the living room.  Walking into the kitchen, I smell something rotten, like death.  Resigned, I open the fridge and pull out the bottle of vodka.  I pour myself a tall glass, adding some vermouth and call it a martini.  The smell seemed to be coming from the back of my refrigerator.  Sitting at the kitchen table, I placed my feet up on the table and stare long at the base of that fridge.  “What the hell is that?”  For a second I think it could be a dead mouse.  Too tired to move that fridge I hope it would just disappear.  Perhaps it’s just the garbage that needs to be thrown out.  I escape those thoughts and reach for my cigarette case.  I pull out a cigarette and lighter and light the cigarette.  Taking a long drag, I tense up my stomach and my shoulders creep up to my ears.  But, as soon I let that smoke go, my muscles relax.  The tobacco moves through my body like a golden elixir smoking out any regrets or fears I may have. I imagine I am Lauren Bacall in To Have or Have Not.  “You know how to whistle, don’t you, Steve? You just put your lips together and blow.”  These women made femininity look so effortless and powerful, but I didn’t have any power.

Finishing that first drink now, I attempt to drown the impending doom with yet another.  Foregoing the vermouth, I pour the vodka into that tall water glass.  Swirling it around.  I watch how the alcohol leaves an opulent residue on the empty spaces of the glass, just at the top. There was no lover; there was no Charlie and no real sense of where I wanted to go in life.  I was going down and going in circles.  I pried myself out of that chair and took off my pants, leaving them on the floor.  I turned on the radio next to my bed.  Marvin Gaye was singing Sexual Healing.  I lowered down to my bed and remembered what it felt like to be touched.  I hadn’t thought to ever touch myself.  Max was still my first and only lover.  We were only fourteen when we became sexually active and I had never even explored masturbation.  I repeated the lines of Bacall to Bogart and imagined I was her and Max, Bogart.  My hands touched my breasts.  I moved my hands down my thighs and fell back onto my bed.  I touched myself, imagining Max touching me.  I attempt to shut out the violent images.  My eyes close.  All goes black.

I wake up.  The sound of the morning train rages through my bedroom window, over my bed and out through the kitchen and living room.  I open my eyes.  My head hurts and I discover that I have wet my bed again.  “Shit, I have to stop drinking before bed.”  I jump up and dart to the shower.  Its eight fifteen and work begins at nine at the paper company.  I cannot be late again.  The radio is still on from the night before.   The disc jockey is giving the weather forecast: more clouds, more rain and more cold.  Typical for February.

Charlie’s birthday is just a week away and I make a mental note to call her and see what else she wants for her birthday.  I’ve ordered her a coat she saw last year but I wasn’t able to afford it then.  I need to tell her it will be arriving late because I couldn’t order it until my credit card balance was paid down after buying my season tickets to the Giants.  “Oh shit, who am I kidding?  She’s going to be disappointed again,” I tell myself.  Even I am getting sick of my excuses.  Everything I do always seems to fall short of me being a good mother.  I am constantly letting Charlie down.  Turning the water on, I unsnap my bra and pull off my underwear.  Flinging them both into the sink, I hop into the shower. The water is still not quite hot but I have no time to wait for it.  I just need to get the smell of booze and urine off of me and wash out the cobwebs in my head.