“Dorothy, shut up.”
“No, I won’t and you can’t make me,” she whispered furiously. We were back in our small room with the small bed we shared,-where we learned to hate each other quietly while Father was dying. We were at the kitchen table silently eating macaroni again while he dominated our lives from his sickbed down the hall. Now we were about to walk into my house where Lucy was hurt, and I marveled that Dorothy did not recognize a script that was as old and predictable as we were.
“Just what exactly are you trying to blame me for?” I said as I opened the garage door.
“Let’s put it this way. Lucy’s not dating is not something she got from me.
That’s for damn sure.”
I switched off the engine and looked at her.
“Nobody appreciates and enjoys men more than I do, and next time you start to criticize me as a mother, you ought to take a hard look at your contributions to Lucy’s development.
I mean, who the hell’s she like? ”
“Lucy’s not like anyone I know,” I said.
“Bullshit. She’s your spitting image. And now she’s a drunk, and I think she’s queer.” She burst into tears again.
“Are you suggesting I’m a lesbian?” I was beyond anger.
“Well, she got it from someone.”
“I think you should go inside now.” She opened her door and looked surprised when I made no move to get out of the car.
“Aren’t you coming in?”
I gave her the key and the alarm code.
“I’m going to the grocery store,” I said. At Ukrop’s I bought gingersnaps and apples, and wandered the aisles for a while because I did not want to go home. In truth, I never enjoyed Lucy when her mother was around, and this visit certainly had started worse than usual.
I understood some of what Dorothy felt, and her insults and jealousies came as no great surprise because they were not new. It was not her behavior that had me feeling so bad but, rather, the reminder that I was alone. As I passed cookies, candies, dips, and spreadable cheeses, I wished what I had could be cured by an eating hinge. Or if filling up with Scotch could have filled up the empty spaces, I might have done that. Instead, I went home with one small bag and served dinner to my pitifully small family. Afterward, Dorothy retired to a chair before the fire. She read and sipped Rumple Minze while I got Lucy ready for bed.
“Are you hurting?” I asked.
“Not too much. But I can’t stay awake. All of a sudden my eyes cross.”
“Sleep is exactly what you need.”
“I have these awful dreams.”
“Do you want to tell me about them?”
“Someone’s coming after me, chasing me, usually in a car. And I hear noises from the wreck that wake me up.”
“What sort of noises?”
“Metal clanging. The air bag going off. Sirens. Sometimes it’s like I’m asleep but not asleep and all these images dance behind my eyes. I see lights throbbing red on the pavement and men in yellow slickers. I thrash around and sweat.”
“It’s normal for you to experience posttraumatic stress, and it may go on for a while.”
“Aunt Kay, am I going to be arrested?” Her frightened eyes stared out from bruises that broke my heart.
“You’re going to be fine, but there’s something I want to suggest that you probably won’t like.”
I told her about the private treatment center in Newport, Rhode Island, and she began to cry.
“Lucy, with a DUI conviction you’re likely to have to do this anyway as part of your sentencing. Wouldn’t it be better to decide on your own and get it over with?” She gingerly dabbed her eyes.
“I can’t believe this is happening to me. Everything I’ve ever dreamed of is gone.”
“That couldn’t be further from the truth. You are alive. No one else was hurt. Your problems can be fixed, and I want to help you do that. But you need to trust me and listen. ” She stared down at her hands on top of the covers, tears flowing.