Two days. I've isolated myself for two days except for beer and that damn dog. I've come to the point where I need to just open that damn folder on the table and deal with whatever's in there.
I don't know how many times I've flicked it partially open, just to let it drop back closed. To just do it again. And again. Even the moonlight mocks me. I woke up last night, still drunk, and the moonlight was shining on the folder, almost screaming "READ ME.”
I got up, grabbed two more beers and stared at it, all while pounding the beer, willing myself with some Dutch courage. Didn't work. I stumbled back into bed, pulled a pillow over my head and just let my mind race.
The topics were like runaway trains. My mom: is she alive? Does she regret what she did to me? The gym: wondering if Max created the genius design I know he will. Mav and E: how are they? I think of them a lot in the night. If they have healed any, how newlywed life is going, and how Casa is holding up. My final and most intense thoughts are for her. How is she? I mean, I know that everyone will rally around her, helping her along, but I can't help wondering if she thinks of me. Of us. If she reaches in the middle of the night for me, as I reach for her?
I woke this morning, and realized that being drunk and maudlin is pathetic. Even the dumb ass dog seems to agree and stayed away. I need to do something. What? I don't know, but it has to be more than this.
My first stop is the shower. The hot water rushes over my body, and it's bliss. I quickly wash, wrap a towel around my waist, and head straight for the table. I sit there, dripping wet, and finally decide to open the folder. My shock makes my stop, and I think I've even stopped breathing when I realize my chest hurts.
There she is. It's a mug shot dated four months ago. I stare and try and recollect this woman as my mother. She's ragged. Face older than her fifty-one years, with the windburn of being outside. Her hair is... almost non-existent. Her eyes empty orbs of dark nothing. This is my mother? Impossible. I flip to the next page and it's another mug shot. Dated six months earlier than the last one. I keep flipping and flipping, and the last one? Number 22.
I lean back in the chair, the shock and awe almost astounding. My mother, a prostitute and crack addict.
I didn’t know what to do, until last night when I finally told Sonnie about my mom. Who she was, where she lived on the streets, and what she's done. Sonnie in her infinite matter-of-fact voice told me, "Jesus, Joel! Finish it. Find out the answers to every question you ever had."
"What if she's too far gone to remember?"
She rolled her eyes, pushed a Sam Adams in front of me, and sat beside me. "No woman, not one woman in this world would ever forget giving their kid away. No matter how many years, how high they are, or what they've lived through since. Be Nike and Just Do It."
The conversation went on like this over three beers, me waffling, her calling my shit out. Finally, she pushed me out the bar doors with a parting comment that made sense.
"You already don't know, don't have a mother, and have all these questions. What's stopping you from fixing this?"
The entire walk home, I mulled over her words, the pros, the cons, the fears, all of it.
I finally made it home, and sure enough, Roofer was already on his blanket by the door, and I was still no closer to figuring it out. But her words still rang in my ears. I decided to sleep on it, and promised myself that tomorrow, I would be doing something.
Well it's now today. I made my promise and I tried to find any way possible to do this. I'm still in my flannel PJ pants and I'm still sitting at the table, staring at the file.
All of a sudden, my door opens and Momma A comes in and sits at the table beside me. She pulls the file over, flips through it, and shockingly asks, "What are you doing with Nattie’s file?"
"Nattie’s file? How the hell do you know her?" Momma A chuckles, slipping through the file, snorting at some of the reports, laughing at others, and just looking sad all around.
"Nattie? She's a regular around this town, Joel. She makes a mess of everything she touches, especially herself, but deep down is a lost soul. Kinda like you, as I think on it."
I take in all the stories she tells me, the ones not in the files, and I'm confused. Who is she? The inner person. Momma A just fuels what I already know. I need to find out more. From her, apparently, since from what Momma A is saying, the woman in the mug shots and on these papers is not the same one she knows.
"How do you think I could get her to talk to me?"
She laughs hard. "Nattie just doesn't speak to people. She will offer services for her drugs or you have to intrigue her somehow."
She inspects me up and down, and grins. "From the look on your face, the first option isn't workable, so let's try and make you intriguing to her."
She hustles me up, tosses my jacket to me and rushes out the door, calling over her shoulder. "Warm up that big old truck of yours. We are going shopping!"
---TBC---
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