Fractured Years

My mom has always been adamant that soulmates don’t exist. “Relationships only work if you put in the effort to make it work,” she used to tell me. I always found it ironic with all the hallmark shows she watched. Almost all of them have the same plot with similar looking characters, but she would watch them religiously. I suppose fiction is better than reality. I suppose maybe at some point my parents were like those characters in the hallmark shows with the over the top love gestures, the fleeting touches, the longing looks, but now it’s almost the opposite. Now, there’s more yelling than romantic music playing in the background. 

I remember when I was about seven years old, I came home from school to a lot of yelling. My brother was already there, hidden. I covered his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut. My mom was stomping around the living room. My dad was talking behind her. I don’t know what he said, but my mom took a pillow and chucked it at his face. Then another. Then another. It was like a pillow fight but with a lot more anger and a lot less fun. At some point, my mom had locked herself in the guest room. My brother and I were coloring when my dad appeared. “Go upstairs, try to convince your mom to come out,” he would coax us. I went, I was the oldest. I knocked and called out, receiving no response. I never do. When I go back down I know my dad is annoyed but he doesn’t comment on the lack of my mom by my side. A few hours later, my mom finally came out, significantly loopier then when she went in. She hugged my dad. I don’t think he noticed, he was probably just relieved she was done being mad. 

I remember at ten years old, I was in the kitchen doing homework when my dad walked in holding four different bottles. “Lily!” he yelled angrily. My mom appeared, glass in hand, with some liquid that kind of looked like grape juice. He started yelling at her about the bottles. She stood there frowning, but she didn’t say too much. He was making so many gestures with the bottles still in his hand, I worried that one of them would shatter. One of them looked pretty close to coming out of the clutches of his grip, but his hold was firm. I don’t remember how long I silently watched but at some point the bottles ended up in the trash can, and now both of them were angry. My mom looked like she wanted to throw her glass at his face. I just wanted it all to end. They had been fighting for close to two hours when my dad finally took the glass from her hand and dumped the contents in the sink. I remember thinking it was wasteful. After all, I would always get reprimanded if I poured myself a big glass of milk, but couldn’t finish it. “Don’t believe what your dad says,” she told me later, “I only drink once in a while. He only catches me on the days that I do.”

When I was eleven years old, my mom told me how she met my dad. She had been sitting in the park, one that she went to on a daily basis to relax and contemplate the people that passed by. On that particular day, she was feeling down, although she told me she didn’t remember why, when a guy walked up to her with flowers in hand. The first thing she noticed was his dazzling smile that filled her with a strange kind of warmth. He was rather awkward, she recalled, but he said something about her being beautiful before giving her the flowers. They talked for a little bit before he had to excuse himself for an organic chemistry class, but he gestured to the flowers where his number was written. She said this all with a fondness that only came when she talked of the past, of how they used to be. When there were no fights, no responsibilities, no hatred. When it was just the two of them against the world.

I remember when I was thirteen years old, I found my mom on the floor holding a bottle to her lips, drinking it as if it was water. When she saw me 5 minutes later, she offered me a lazy wave. She peered to make sure no one was behind me before she beckoned me over. “Do you want some?” she asked, her words slurring together. I took the bottle from my mom’s clenched hands, carefully setting it aside. “What happened?” I asked her before she burst out in tears. “Your dad…” she began before unleashing a string of sorrows while I gently stroked her hair. Her thoughts were jumbled and incomplete, but I was used to understanding her gibberish. Halfway through, she gave up and passed out on my lap. I sat there for hours gently playing with her hair, fuming at my dad for bringing this upon my mom, upon me. I didn’t yet fully understand how relationships worked, but I knew this was not at all like the happily ever after I read about from romance books I found scattered within the house. In those books, there are a lot of things said as if they came straight out of a poetry book, acts of service for the ones they love, even if there was some miscommunication, they always made up in the end. I began to wonder if my parents would ever make up like they did in the books, if they would come to an understanding and begin to like each other again. 

I remember when I was sixteen, I lost my mom. I was driving, letting my mom in the passenger seat rant about all her misgivings. I hadn’t known at the time that the water bottle she was drinking from did not in fact contain water. My mind had been on my schoolwork, a concert, a big test I had the next day. I hadn’t realized how my mom stumbled to the driver’s seat after asking to drive or how her movements were slowed as if she was stuck in a pool of water. I barely noticed the way the car slightly swerved or varied in speed. If I had, I would’ve taken the wheel. Maybe if I had stayed driving, my mom would’ve been ok. When I was sixteen, I got into a car accident. My mom had been driving, intoxicated, she ran a red light. The impact was sudden, shattering. I remember being dizzy and faint while a love song continued to play over the radio. Someone pulled me out. I remember looking for my mom but everything was so blurry. I think at some point I went unconscious but I remember thinking, vowing, that I would never take a sip of alcohol. 

I remember when I was eighteen, I had my first boyfriend. He asked me out in a flurry of flowers, chocolates, and kisses. Overwhelmed, I was swept away off my feet, craving the affection I so deeply lacked and needed. His words and his touch were sweet, but his actions were jagged, slicing my heart. I knew soulmates didn’t exist, I knew relationships weren’t like the movies, so I kept holding out my bloody heart. I winced as the cuts went deeper and deeper, never giving it time to heal. But forgiveness was love, at least that’s what I learned from my eighteen years of life. So I continued to hold out my heart, even as the blood dripped from my fingertips. 

Now I’m twenty one years old. I had my first sip of alcohol, despite my earlier promises. Alcohol dulled the pain of the scars I had managed to keep hidden from the world. Its relief was addicting, unlike anything I had ever imagined. I thought I had only taken a few sips, until there was no more liquid left in the bottle for my parched soul. I was about to grab another when my mom’s face flashed through my mind. I walked away. I couldn’t believe myself. After everything, had I learned nothing? I stepped outside into a downpour of rain, soaking my hair, my clothes, my thoughts. “Miss, are you ok?” I heard behind me. A man with a dazzling smile stood there, umbrella in hand. He raised the umbrella, shielding me from the rain. Alcohol cursed through my veins as I took his hand, feeling the immediate, addicting warmth of his touch. He was taken aback, but he didn’t pull away. “Thank you,” I muttered quietly, offering a small smile. He gave my hand a reassuring squeeze as a response. We stood there for a little until my vision became clearer, and I realized the absurdity of my actions. I pulled away, profusely apologizing, my cheeks red with embarrassment. He gave me a heartwarming chuckle before pressing his umbrella in my hand and walking in the opposite direction. It was only when I looked up that I noticed a tiny piece of paper tucked between the wires. I unfurled it. “You’re really pretty. I hope that we can get to know each other more :) XXX-XXX-XXXX.”