Chapter 7 - THE PHONE CALL FROM MY MOTHER
Mom called during my third weekend with the Turners.
I had not spoken to her in almost two months.
The second Helen handed me the phone, I knew from her face who it was.
I went onto the back porch.
“Mom?”
“Baby.”
My whole body turned eleven years old.
“Where are you?”
“I’m okay.”
“Are you coming to see me?”
“I’m trying.”
Same answer.
Always.
She said she had entered treatment again.
She had a room.
A job interview.
She was going to get everything straight.
I wanted to believe her so badly it felt physical.
Then she said, “Your worker told me about those people.”
“The Turners.”
“They trying to take you?”
My stomach tightened.
“No.”
“Because you’re my son.”
“I know.”
“Don’t let people make you think I gave you away.”
I stared into the backyard.
Walter was digging beside the fence.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You know I love you.”
“I know.”
“I’m going to fix this.”
I closed my eyes.
For years, every adult expected me to choose whether Mom was good or bad.
I could not.
She was my mother.
She had sung to me when I was sick.
She also disappeared.
She had stolen groceries when we were hungry.
She had also spent money on pills.
She loved me.
She failed me.
Both were true.
Then she asked something that made everything harder.
“If I get clean, you’ll come home, right?”
I could not answer.
“Liam?”
“I don’t know.”
She began crying.
“You’re all I have.”
There it was.
The sentence that had held me beside her for years.
You’re all I have.
At nine, it sounded like love.
At thirteen, I finally understood it was too much weight for a kid.
Helen opened the back door slightly.
She did not interrupt.
She simply stood where I could see her.
I looked at her.
Then said into the phone, “Mom, I want you to get better even if I don’t come home.”
Silence.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“You want those people instead?”
“No.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Mom.”
“You’re choosing strangers.”
My chest tightened.
Then Helen started to step away.
I shook my head.
Stay.
She stayed.
That was the first time I chose something different while my mother was still asking me not to.
After the call, I cried so hard I could not speak.
Helen sat at the opposite end of the porch.
Not touching me.
Eventually I said, “I hate her.”
Helen looked toward the yard.
“No, you don’t.”
I glared at her.
“You don’t know.”
“You’re right.”
She nodded.
“Maybe you do right now.”
That was better.
Then I whispered, “I still want her.”
Helen’s voice softened.
“I know.”
“Does that make me stupid?”
“No.”
“Would it make you mad if I went back?”
She took a long time.
“Scared. Sad. Maybe angry at the situation.”
“At me?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
I looked at her.
She smiled sadly.
May you like
“I’m sure I’d have feelings. Adults do. But my feelings wouldn’t be your job.”
That sentence changed my life.
