Joey, you were a dependent last year. We don’t owe you any money. This is absurd.”
As chocolate spittle and accusations of stealing fly in my face, I stand up to leave. I walk away from the barbs Joey hurls at my back, trying to appear normal, but suspect my smile looks as natural as lipstick on a corpse.
“I hate you! It’s your fault I can’t get ahead! Who fucking steals their kid’s money? And I’m not going back to college. Not to please you. Fuck that!”
Tossing what’s left of today’s sweet treat and now sour illusions into the trash, I walk back to my car. There’s an hour and a half left on the two-hour meter. Stunned by the dissonance between my expectations and my son’s audacity, I’m unable to move any farther. I’m unable to drive. I slump forward into the steering wheel. Oh, how I long for the simpler days. Those of scabby knees and Popsicle breath and easy answers.
It was so good to see my mom again. It means so much to her. And to me. I didn’t realize how much I miss my parents. They are so supportive of me and it’s really nice to have that. I feel sad cuz I feel like I’m letting them down you know? I just want to make them proud and I’m not. Someday I WILL. I can never be good to anyone I love unless I am good to myself. I have gone from being a spoiled little shit, who had everything, to someone who couldn’t support anyone other than myself and that’s not good enough for me. [Email from Joey to a friend.]
When Joey shows up at the back door, a few brown leaves from the walnut tree drift in behind him. A blotchy rash covers the parts of Joey not covered by his T-shirt, but he doesn’t want to talk about that so I give him a hug and pretend nonchalance at this rare visit.
Pulling a stool up to the kitchen counter, Joey leans forward.
“Mom, I need twelve hundred dollars. I quit my job at the restaurant. You wouldn’t believe the bad stuff going down over there. I’m starting a new job in a few days, but I need money to pay my rent and bills until I get my first paycheck.”
Setting aside the meatballs I’ve been preparing for dinner, I look at my watch. Rick will be home from school shortly; this little discussion will need to be quick.
“Okay, Joey, since you have a new job lined up, I’ll loan you the money. But. Don’t ever ask for money again. You need to learn from this and be prepared for when things don’t go quite right. You cannot expect to be rescued. This is not a gift. I expect to be paid back on a schedule and on time—and this will include the twenty-eight hundred dollars you already owe us for your health insurance since moving out.” Looking at his eager-to-please face, I see, and seize, an opportunity. “I’ll loan you this money only if you remove whatever it is that’s holding open the huge holes in your earlobes.”
You want money. I want you to look less scary. Win, win.
Moving into the living room, we sit down, stretch out our legs, and giggle at our sneaker collisions on the shared yellow tuffet. Together we map out Joey’s financial situation—he owes thousands of dollars in past-due bills and overdrawn accounts, but promises he will get and stay on top of things now—and then we gab. About nothing and everything. A pretty darn good moment.
When Rick and Joe get home, I tell them how masterfully I handled the situation. They both look at me like I’m an idiot. It does seem stupid to have loaned Joey all that money now that I see the transaction through less befuddled eyes.
Mother’s Day. Not even a phone call from Joey.
Holes—the things that aren’t—are every bit as real as mountains—and so, what isn’t happening is every bit as real, and significant, as what is. The phone that doesn’t ring, the missed birthdays and holidays, the no-show coffee dates, the end of the pretense of returning to college—these are the holes. The convoluted lies and excuses, the lost jobs, and the reports of unremitting disasters at Joey’s apartment—alcohol poisoning, shattered glass and gushing blood, emergency rescues, and an arrest—well, these are the mountains.
I don’t know why Joey was arrested, but I go to the courthouse to show him he’s not alone. A show of support. And hope. Joe would be here too, but he has to work. As I wait in the slowly moving line to be scanned for concealed knives, guns, and nunchucks, I’m caught between two giants wearing black leather, spikes, and razor-edged irritation. I’ve never been in a courthouse before (other than to get my marriage license, but that must have been at the happy entrance) and I feel ridiculous in my Petal Pink lipstick and matching handbag.
When I find Joey slouched on a bench in a crowded waiting room, I’m so relieved. He looks up, and I smile. But his face contorts as he leaps to his feet; on the verge, it appears, of vomiting out a rabid beast.
“What the fuck are you doing here? Go away. This is some stupid fucking charge by a stupid fucking cop. I don’t need you here fucking things up. I don’t fucking want you here. Leave me alone.”
So, that’s what I do.
Joe, Rick, and I have just finished dinner and are digging into dessert when Joey stops by the house with a bouquet of fall flowers and an apology.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I was stressed out,” he says. “Not everybody has a parent who would show up in court like that. I realize that. So thanks.”
“Well, what happened today?” I ask. I don’t ask about the crime.
“The judge put me on probation. Drug education and community service shit. Asshole. But he can’t stop me from smoking pot. I love pot, will always smoke pot, and no one can stop me.”
“Joey,” I sigh.
“Have you ever tried it? You should. Everyone should.”
I tell Joey I think his life is out of control and that he needs help.
“Maybe a twelve-step or addiction treatment program,” Joe adds, wiping a few cake crumbs from his lips with his napkin. Eyes averted.
There it is. The thing Joe and I have whispered about between ourselves but have been afraid to say out loud to our son.
“Yes, I need help!” Joey hollers. “What kind of parents are you? You won’t give me the car I earned, you won’t pay for me to go to college, and you won’t give me money when I’m having tough times. How am I supposed to be able to afford to live on my crappy income in this crappy town? Work and more work, that’s my life, and I have no hope of ever getting ahead because you never help me out. Parents who love their kids help their kids. I need real help, not the sort of shit you’re talking about. Addiction treatment shit. Fuck you. I’ll just keep getting help from the people who really care about me—my friends. I don’t need or want your kind of help, which is useless. How dare you accuse me of having any kind of problem? YOU are my problem.”
When I call around to some of Joey’s old friends, I hear that I’m overreacting.
“Everybody our age tries drugs. Unless it involves needles or crack, it’s not something to be worried about.” I don’t believe them. I continue to worry.
Today, I really
