Page 94 of Rescue

“And I’m done,” I say. “I’m done, Mom.”

“What doesthatmean?”

“It means goodbye.”

I don’t hear whatever she cries into the phone because I’m already turning it off. I can’t listen to her anymore, can’t have these same arguments over and over. She’s no different than she was when I was twelve years old, out late on a school night, singing in shitty dive bars in Detroit where the men leered and a cloud of smoke hung heavy over the room. She’s been using me since the moment she realized I could sing.

So why does it hurt so bad? If it’s nothing new, why can’t I brush it off? Why does the pain of it seem to open up a hole inside of me, threatening to pull me in?

“I’m tired of feeling this way,” I whisper to the empty room. Then again, louder. Again, until I’m yelling it. I throw the phone at the wall, feeling the tears come, so frustrated with myself I can barely stand it. I want to break things, want to scream myself hoarse.

I want to drink.

You’re stronger than you were. James’s words flit through my brain, and I try to believe them. But I don’t. I’m not stronger. I’m not different at all. At the first shitty thing that happens, I fall apart completely. Just like I always do.

Call Lennon, a voice in my head urges.Call Lennon.

So I do, praying that he can fix this. That he can fix me. But he doesn’t answer. He’s still at the club, where it’s too loud to hear a phone. And what would happen if he did answer? What would I even say?Sorry you’re dealing with the mother who abandoned you, Len, but my mom is being super mean to me right now.

“What’s the point?” I wipe tears away from my eyes. “He can’t help me. Just like I can’t help him.”

I walk to the minibar and pull out all of the little bottles I can hold. Because I’m not any stronger than I used to be. And there’s no sense in pretending I am.