The bright LED screen of Simon’s phone was a strangely welcome guide as I threw the BMW door open into the night. He was normally on the damn thing too often for his own good, but the streetlight had gone out sometime between this month and the last, and it was enough to navigate the parking lot.
“Margaret Anne–please–”
Alex is the only one who deigns to call me Margaret, even though it was the inebriated decision of both Alex and the Drunk to give me a stupid name to begin with. I don’t know how most parents say their kids’ names when they’re tucking them into bed at night, or bidding them farewell as they board a school bus, but I’m sure it’s not how mine do. When Alex calls me by my full name, every bit of disdain and regret for my existence spills out with it.
Alex is an civil litigator, having spent years devoted to a firm where breaking down barriers was more important than being home for dinner. Simon doesn’t know what that means yet; he only knows it means Alex doesn’t have time for us. Alex has–on more than one occasion–brought Simon to the store or a “work event” while I was in school, only to leave him there and forget all about him. Once the cops were called and they had to bring Simon home. I think they yelled at Alex for a while and said if it happened again, we’d have to go and live with our other parent. Alex just laughed in the cops’ faces. What other parent? My ex? Please.
Alex is a piece of work, but sometimes the Drunk manages to be even worse. Every time the Drunk gets out of rehab, Simon and I get to spend a week with “the other parent,” who isn’t much of an improvement. I found out last year that Alex keeps paying for it, which is kind of stupid because it doesn’t seem to be working. Without fail, the addiction always cycles back to reclaim its victim.
I grab Simon’s free hand and hoist him, in a well-practiced maneuver, out of the vehicle and onto the pavement. He doesn’t react much. He’s still staring at his phone.
“Call me if things get out of hand. If–”
“We’ll be fine,” I respond flatly, slamming the door shut. Alex was never good at goodbyes; I wasn’t, either. Why waste time on conventional farewells we don’t mean?
Needless to say, Alex and the Drunk don’t get on well. I always wonder how they ever managed marriage. When Simon and I have to go from one parent to the other, they park on either side of a McDonald’s in the ‘burbs and we walk from the BMW to the Drunk’s ’92 Corolla, which is parked strategically out of the BMW’s view. If they even see each other, the only calm I know would be interrupted by an onslaught of bickering.
Simon’s palm is sweaty as I begin dragging him to the other side of the lot. He used to ask if we could get an ice cream before we switched, but he’s stopped asking. He doesn’t talk at all, now, because he knows not to associate the switch with things he enjoys. I, on the other hand, have come to appreciate the lonely walk from one disaster to the next. I feel strong, and I’m strong for Simon, too.
The light from the phone nearly blinds me as it moves off the pavement and reflects off the old Corolla, which still manages to maintain a shine. It looks like it was just washed, which is odd, because I know the drunk can’t afford a car wash. The driver’s door swings open with more force than necessary and the Drunk steps out, the old vehicle’s frame groaning at the loss of its only passenger. That car was held together by prayers and the years of mud caked between its organs, nothing more. If we took it through a car wash, it’d fall apart.
“How are my babies?” the Drunk exclaims loudly. Simon is embraced first, then me. I don’t smell alcohol like I sometimes do, just cigarette smoke and cheap fragrance.
As long as the support checks from Alex clear, the Drunk somehow manages to stay on their feet. Despite the endless periods of joblessness, the Drunk has it pretty well for someone who can’t resist a bottle. We pile into the car as the Drunk babbles on and on about wonderful life is and how they’re so excited we’re there. When I was younger, I liked to believe this meant they would get sober, but I know better than that. Every time the switch occurs is a momentous opportunity for great change, and every time it ends with a return trip across the parking lot.
“So, you kids are going to love this–I got us a new place now. It’s in a good part of town, not like the last one. And you’re going to have your own rooms!”
I know the Drunk is trying, but I can’t get excited. We’ll be out of there in a few weeks, tops.
I look over to Simon to gauge his reaction, to see if the Drunk’s promises registered with him. Like before, he only stared at his phone.
The Switch 