The Time Bubble Box Set 2, стр. 288
It looked like the sort of scene you might expect to find ina kitchen the morning after a party, but it had been a long time since therehad been anything to celebrate in this house. This mess was entirely of mymother’s making.
There were two empty red wine bottles and a three-quartersfinished bottle of Bacardi Spiced Rum on the table. It was perfectly possibleshe had drunk all of that just the previous day. That’s how bad things had got.Of my mother, there was no sign. She must be sleeping it off either in bed oron the sofa, where she frequently crashed out.
What was I going to do? What could I do? Hide all the booze?Tip it down the sink? That wouldn’t stop her and would just get me screamed at.It was way too late now, anyway.
Perhaps I could try and talk to her. I remember I had triedin the past without much success, but now I had advance knowledge of exactlywas going to happen, maybe I could get through to her.
It was only just getting light outside, and just after 8amaccording the kitchen clock. Sweeping away some of the detritus littering thekitchen surfaces, I located the coffee machine and prepared to put together mymorning fix. All that caffeine probably wasn’t doing me much good, but it was alot less harmful than what was flowing through my mother’s veins.
Once the coffee pot was bubbling away, I got to grips withthe business of clearing up the mess my mother had left the kitchen in. I hadtackled the dishes and the takeaway boxes when I heard the telltale creak ofher footsteps on the stairs. It was early, but then she had probably gone tobed early after she had drunk herself into a stupor, as she did most days.
I remembered my mother looking bad in her final days, buttime had taken the edge off my memories of how bad a state she was really in.
She hobbled into the room in a baggy old T-shirt and jeanswhich were both way too big for her. This wasn’t surprising and she had beenlosing weight continually during that last year, possibly a symptom of theillness inside her.
The clothes looked dishevelled, and I strongly suspected shehad not only been wearing them for several days, but had also slept in them.Also, even though I was several feet away from her as she entered the room Icaught the unmistakeable whiff of alcohol.
The skin on her arms and face was dry, almostparchment-like, and there was a yellowish look around her eyes. This was not mymother – not the mother I had grown up with. This was a hollow husk of what shehad once been.
Trying not to show any signs of the shock I felt at herappearance, I tried to put on a brave face.
“Morning, Mum,” I began. “I’ve got a pot of coffee on. Wouldyou like some?”
“Amy, you know I can’t stand the stuff,” she replied,grumpily, as she made a beeline straight for the table, eyes set on the Bacardibottle.
“How about some breakfast, then?” I suggested, alreadyknowing what the answer would be.
“I’m not hungry,” she snapped, reaching for the bottle. Iremembered that she rarely ate during the day, existing pretty much ontakeaways at night in her later days.
I had to try and say something, even though I knew it woulddo no good.
“Mum, you really shouldn’t be drinking this early in themorning,” I began.
“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do in my own home, Amy!”she retorted angrily.
She was always like this. Any suggestion that she should cutdown on her drinking was met with hostility.
“I’m not, Mum, but think of what it’s doing to your health.”
She laughed a dark, gallows humour-type of laugh, exposingher rows of blackened, rotting teeth.
“Do you think I care?” she said. “What have I got that’sworth living for?”
“You’ve got me,” I replied.
“Yeah, when it suits,” she replied. “How long before youbugger off back to Australia or wherever?”
“I’m here for you, Mum,” I replied. “I want to help you.”
“It’s too late to help me,” she replied, resignedly. “You’dbe better off out of it, living your own life.”
Sadly, I knew she was right, but I wasn’t giving up. Even ifI couldn’t do anything today, maybe I could on my next trip. If I could justtry and get her to open up, I might be able to discover something I could workwith next time.
“Mum, why are you being like this? Is it because of whathappened to Rachel?”
Immediately I knew I had said the wrong thing.
“Don’t you dare mention her name in this house!” she yelled,her jaundiced eyes blazing. “If she was here, she wouldn’t be giving me thisgrief. Rachel would have understood.”
The message was cloud and clear. Rachel was better than me.Rachel was her favourite, and it had been the wrong daughter who had died. Thatwas what she was implying.
But I knew that simply wasn’t true. She had always treatedus equally when Rachel had been alive. The only advantage my sister had over menow was that she wasn’t here and I was. Her death had raised her onto a pedestalin my mother’s eyes, at a level that I simply couldn’t attain whilst stillalive.
“Mum, Rachel’s gone,” I said softly. “Please let me helpyou.” I reached for the bottle, but she snatched it away before I could gethold of it.
“Leave me alone!” she screamed as she removed the lid andupended the bottle into her mouth, glugging it down like there was no tomorrow.
“Mum, stop!” I shouted. I had never seen her drink out ofthe bottle like this before. Was this her response to my attemptedintervention? To just drink even more to spite me? It seemed all I was doingwas making things worse.
Suddenly she broke off from downing the rum with a sharp cryof pain. Attempting to place the bottle back on the table, she missed, and itfell to the floor, shattering on the earthenware kitchen tiles.
Bending almost double, her hand went to her right