My mother comes to visit me. My parents live in Tokyo and I don’t see them very often. They are responsible for getting me into the treatment center. I haven’t always liked them, and I have hurt them over and over and over through the course of my life, but they have always loved me. I am lucky to have them.
My mother sees my apartment, laughs. She asks me where I sleep, where I sit, I tell her the floor. She shakes her head and says not good, James, not good. She calls someone in Michigan, which is where they used to live, they still have a house it sits empty now. She asks the person about furniture in storage, how easy is it to access, she asks if they can send me a bed and a desk and a table. She hangs up, says I’ll have a bed and a desk and a table in a few days.
We go downtown. We walk down Michigan Avenue. My mother and father are both from suburban Chicago, met here, were married here. They didn’t have any money when they were married, they spent their honeymoon in a downtown hotel. As we walk, my mother points out restaurants they went to, parks where they sat, held hands, kissed, stores where they wandered, looking at things they couldn’t afford, hoping someday, someday. It’s nice to hear her memories, I like that she’s sharing them with me. It feels like a door opening, a door to her, to my father, to their life. It’s a
door that I have never acknowledged before, a door that I’m happy to step through, a door I’m fortunate to have still be open.
We go to lunch. A fancy place, a place my mother knows and loves, she tries to eat there every time she’s in town. We wait for a table, sit, napkins on lap, glasses of water. My Mom starts asking me questions. How are you doing, I’m okay. How are you feeling, depends, I go up and down, way up and way down, mostly I’m down. Is it hard staying sober, yeah it is, every second of every day is a struggle, I know I’ll die if I do it, sometimes I feel like I want to die. Do you need help, no, I’ll get through it, I gotta believe I’ll get through it. She asks about Lilly, I just shake my head. She asks what happened, I just shake my head, say it didn’t work out, I don’t want
to talk about it, can’t talk about it. She says that’s too bad, I had hoped
that would work out for you. I cannot respond.
As we finish our meal, someone approaches our table. I vaguely recognize the person, but can’t place him.
James?
Yeah?
David. From school.
I still can’t place him, pretend.
Yeah, how you doing?
Good. What are you doing here?
This is my Mom. We’re eating lunch.
He looks at my mom.
Nice to meet you.
Mom speaks.
You too.
He looks back at me.
I’m surprised to see you because I heard you were in prison. For popping some cop.
My mom cringes.
Where’d you hear that?
I’m not sure.
As you can see, I’m not.
I guess. You living here now?
Yeah.
You wanna get together sometime?
Sure.
He reaches into his pocket, draws out his wallet.
You still partying?
I shake my head.
No.
He takes a card from his wallet, hands it to me.
If you ever get the urge, call me.
Will do.
See you later.
Yeah.
He walks away. I look at my mom. She speaks.
I hope you never call him.
I won’t.
He seemed like an asshole.
I laugh. My mom has never spoken like that around me.
I have no idea who he is. I know I went to school with him, but other than that, nothing.
Good. He’s an asshole.
I laugh again. We finish, leave, walk some more. My mom shares more of her memories, I listen, walk further through the door. We see the hotel where they spent their wedding night, a pizza place that my grandfather loved, a department store where my grandmother liked to buy presents. We see a jersey from the Chicago hockey team. My parents went to one
of the team’s games the night after they were married. They couldn’t afford to do anything else, it was a big evening for them.
It starts to get dark, close to the time my mom will leave. Before she leaves, she wants to buy me some plates, forks, spoons, knives. Right now I use paper and plastic that I get from take-out restaurants. She thinks having normal possessions like plates, forks, spoons, knives will help normalize my existence, help me adjust more easily. We go to a store, look around, everything I like is black. My mom laughs, thinks it’s strange that I like black plates and black utensils. I tell her that as much as she wants me to normalize, there are some parts of me that will always be a bit off. She laughs. We get all of the beautiful, semi-normal, black items.
We go back to my apartment. Put everything in the cabinets above my sink. My Mom has a car coming to pick her up, take her to the airport, she says she needs to go. I thank her for the day, a great day, probably the best day I have ever had with her. She smiles, starts to cry, she’s happy, happy I’m alive, happy I’m becoming human, happy we can spend a day together without screaming. I give her a hug, walk her out, open the car door for her. The car pulls away.