Gash

The morning after, I asked her if she remembered the night.
She stared at me with dead eyes and a blank look on her face.
I asked her again, “Do you remember what you said to me
before I left the bedroom?” She didn’t. I remember that night
vividly. The words spewed from her lips as the dense smell of
alcohol infiltrated my nostrils. They penetrated me like a dull
blade, and stuck inside for far too long.

It was a cold New England night, the kind that leaves you
chilled to the bone from the damp air. I was “home” from
college and had to stay at my mom’s for the weekend.
My friend dropped me off on his way south.

He drove away.
My heart sank.
I’m stuck here.

I stood in the driveway staring at the small apartment with my
bag in hand, mentally preparing myself for the next few days.
I knocked on the door, no one answered. The upstairs
windows had a soft glow. She’s home. The door was unlocked,
so I helped myself in, locked the door behind me and went
upstairs. I put my bag down on the couch in the hallway which
was where I’d be sleeping, then knocked on her bedroom door.

My mom greeted me in her robe, cigarette in one hand, glass
of wine in the other. She gave me an overly eager hug, kissed
me on the cheek and told me how happy she was to see me.
She was in the midst of her nightly routine when I arrived,
drinking a half box or so of wine for dinner, chugging down
cigarettes, and topping it all off with a whiskey nightcap.

I already felt suffocated, trapped like a wild animal desperately
searching for a way out. The light was dim, the air thick. It had
the type of haze that made visible an army of floating dust
particles. Opened envelopes littered the tabletops, red stained
glasses were stacked atop the nightstand while ashes and wrinkled
butts colored with coral lipstick overflowed the ashtray. It
reeked of stagnant cigarettes, booze, and perfume, a scent that
will forever remind me of my mother — The Proust Effect.

This was a time before every man, woman, and child had a cell
phone glued to their dominant hand and I wanted to get in
touch with my friends. “Mom, can I use your laptop for a few?”
I asked. “No.” She replied with snark. “You’re going to break it,
and I paid for that with my hard earned money.”

I calmly explained that I was not going to break her computer,
but was simply going to check my email and get off. After a
dramatic sigh, I was granted permission.

“The screen isn’t loading, is your internet active?”
A fit of rage erupted from her in an instant. Her body language
was that of a drunkard outside a dingy bar looking for a fight.
“See! I told you you’d break it you little shit, get off it! Get
away from my computer right now!”

I wasn’t about to argue with her, there was no point. I took a
sip of water to collect myself, and slowly started to shut the
laptop when I aspirated on my drink. I tried to suppress the
cough, but it exploded from me with uncontrollable force.

During this coughing fit, gasping for air, my mother did not
express an ounce of concern, instead she vomited the words,
“why don’t you just die already?”

And in some ways, in that moment I did.

PHOTOGRAPHY & ORIGINAL WRITING ©KIMBERLY. KAUFMAN