Thirteen Years Ago
I pull myself up off the grungy tile floor and rinse the vile taste out of my mouth again. Hopefully, this time, it will be over. I wipe my mouth off with the hem of my t-shirt because it’s cleaner than any of the towels in here. Still a bit unsteady on my feet, I make my way out to the living room and sink into the sofa. I contemplate the upholstery, and I think at one time, it might have been a light cream color with blue flowers, but it’s hard to tell these days. Now it’s just a suspicious gray color with large spots of questionable origin. My “roommates,” for lack of a better term, couldn’t care less about interior design. One of them, a guy who’d shown up a few weeks ago, snorts and rolls over from his spot on the carpet.
The clock on the wall reads five. It’s a gray overcast day, and it’s tough to tell the time for sure. There is a definite lack of light coming in the windows as a result of the trash bags taped over them. It might be five a.m. or five p.m., or who knows, and probably most likely, the clock is broken. I suppose it doesn’t matter. The dismal weather suits my mood. I never expected to spend my seventeenth birthday in a flophouse in the East Bay.
I rummage around in the detritus on the table, looking for the bag of ginger chews I bought at the shop earlier this week. I finally find them under a bag of pot and several empty cigarette packs.
I tear open the wrapper and pop one of the chews in my mouth. My grandmother swore by these for all kinds of stomach ailments. I’ve been trying to pretend all week that I’m sick. I must have food poisoning. Or the stomach flu. I’d even tried to convince myself that I was still hungover, but I haven’t had a drink in over a week. Not since the vomiting started. Deep down, I know the truth.
Along with the ginger chews, I’d bought a pregnancy test. And all I want to do is drink. I want to get as drunk as I can so I don’t feel any guilt and shame. I don’t want to hear my parents’ condescending voices telling me how much of a disappointment I am to God. How much of a disappointment I am to them.
I left home nine months ago. My parents are super religious, and according to them, I am on an express train to hell. I drink, I smoke, I dance, and I have sex with boys. And therefore, I needed to be beaten into submission until I could see their God’s grand, glorious plan for me. Fuck that shit. Oh yeah, I swear too. If I’m going to hell, why not enjoy the fuck out of myself.
But I don’t want that for my baby. I want to be better. I reach behind the couch and find the drug store bag I’d stashed back there. I grab the pregnancy test and take it with me into the bathroom. Everyone is asleep or passed out right now, so I have a few minutes alone to await my fate.
I unwrap the stick and sit down on the toilet. I read the instructions and follow them to the best of my ability. While I wait, I consider my options. I’ve always wanted children. I want to love them in a way that my parents never could. I’d just hoped that I’d be older and married and shit. If I’m going to be a mom, I need to reconsider my language. But I don’t have a husband or even a reliable partner, and going home isn’t an option either. The last thing I want from those people is their help. And it’s not like they want to help their seventeen-year-old, alcoholic, pregnant daughter. They would take my baby away from me and kick me to the curb.
And except for the last eight days, I haven’t drawn a truly sober breath since I was fourteen or so. I’ve always been able to make it a day or two, but I’ve always been able to find a way to take the edge off, but that isn’t something I can do pregnant. I might be a complete fuck up, but I won’t do that.
My mind keeps drifting back to when I was a freshman in high school, and some people came to speak to our health class about alcohol abuse. There was a girl, about twenty, who talked about her drinking problem, and how screwed up her life had been. And then she told us how she stopped. Maybe that could work for me too.
The timer on my phone goes off, and I make myself look at the stick.
Positive.
I’m pregnant. The bile rises in my throat again, but this time out of fear, not hormones.
I take a deep breath and say a quick prayer to a God hopefully more benevolent than my parents’. And, if I can’t fully believe in God, maybe I can believe in that girl who came to my school. I pull up my contacts and scroll down a few lines to find the number that’s been there for months. My finger hovers over the name for a few seconds before I press send. There’s no going back now.
“Good afternoon, Alcoholics Anonymous. Can I help you?”
“Yeah, uh, my name’s Miriam, and I think I need some help with my drinking.”
