Lydia Bird - While You Were Drinking: A daughters journey

Looking back, I dont remember my mom coming into the room, just an awareness of her being there, the comfort of her presence, her face side lit by dim light from the hall.

Youre my child, she said.

The house felt safe around me, the shape of it in the night, the mountains beyond my bedroom window, the Los Angeles basin spread out below. A coyote yipped distantly. The cat at the crook of my knees curled more tightly, with a quiver and a sigh.

You understand, Mom said, sitting loosely on the edge of the bed. I shifted sleepily so I could see her better, noticed the way she ran her tongue along her front teeth, keeping her lips closed. Your father and Layne dont understand, she said, but you understand.

This didnt sound rightDad understood everythingbut I didnt mind. Looking back on that night, I remember my mothers posture, the distinctive mannerism with her teeth, and know shed been drinking, but I didnt know at the time, I didnt realize that she was bestowing upon me such intimacy precisely because I couldnt understand, I wasnt old enough to understand. At the time I just felt honored, a chosen member of her mysterious world.

My junior year in high school, my dad had to work several nights a week, and my sister was away at college, so Mom and I were often alone in the evenings. She would come to my room like she had when I was little, wanting to talk.

You know, she said one evening, leaning unsteadily against the door while I tried to do homework, if Cynthia and company get you intoadventures your father wouldnt approve ofyour fathers going to blame me.

Cynthia and I had known each other since we were five. She was wilder and more rebellious than I was, and Mom got a kick out of her. Cynthia would hang out at the house with Mom when I wasnt around, the two of them smoking cigarettes and talking. She liked getting Mom talking at the funny, irreverent stage of drunk, when she was not yet mean and unpredictable. She considered my mom much cooler than her own; I considered her mom steady and comforting.

Cynthia had been sleeping with her boyfriend for a couple of months, which Mom knew, because Cynthia had told her. She also smoked dope with Susie Meyers in the culvert down by the grammar school. Mom didnt have much to worry about, though, in terms of me and adventures. Unlike Cynthia, I didnt have a boyfriend and was terrified of any substance that would change me the way alcohol changed Mom.

He wouldnt blame you, I said, for simplicitys sake.

He would, you know, she said, her tone confidential, nicer than her words. I wouldnt be thrilled, either. But I wouldnt take it as hard as Dad. Dad is rather old-fashioned. She said it almost affectionately and smiled, a little lopsidedly. Dad was 12 years older than Mom, and she said this sort of thing a lot.

Hed accept that I can make my own choices, I said.

Ha! she said, snidely. Her mood could shift so quickly. You wont have to take it when he blames me.

Mom, I said, controlling my voice. Could you leave? I have to study.

She left, briefly. When she came back she said, sweetly and sadly, You know, Lydia, you really dont help things any, by rejecting me.

I took a breath. Im not rejecting you. I just cant talk to you when youve been drinking. I made myself use the real words, rather than the euphemismswhen youre like this, when youre not yourself.

Talk, Mom said. You should try talk. With your father. Hes real good at it.

Leave me alone, Mom.

You think your fathers some sort of god, she said.

Leave me alone!

I yelled it. Loud. Id started losing my temper with my mom, and it scared me.

A few nights later, I was once again doing homework when she came into my room, this time wearing a full slip and nylons. Lydia, Im going out, she announced, sounding pretty articulate, considering her level of intoxication. I dont know where youve hidden the car keys. But I want them and I expect you to give them to me.

I dont think you should be driving, Mom, I said evenly, as if her attire were nothing out of the ordinary.

I dont think you should be driving, she shot back in a thin, pretentious voice, the cadences just right, mimicking me.

I didnt respond. She stood there a moment, then turned with unsteady aplomb and walked back down the hall. I could hear her opening and closing closet doors and drawers in the bedroom, then clattering in the bathroom, occasionally dropping things, which didnt seem to faze her. I was about to go see what she was up to when she reappeared at my door.

She was wearing a fitted skirt, her blue silk blouse, and high heels. Shed put on makeupeyeliner, lipstick, penciled eyebrows. Her blond hair was up in a French roll, done somewhat less expertly than if she hadnt been drunk, but it looked good, sort of loose and hip.

Im serious, Lydia. I want the keys.

Where are you planning on going? I asked.

To a bar.

I pushed my book aside and stood up.

OK, I said, surprising myself as much as her. Ill drive you.

You arent old enough to go to a bar.

I know Im not old enough to go to a bar. Ill drop you off, and when youre ready to come home you can call and Ill come back and pick you up.

Fine, she said. I just have to get my purse.

I retrieved the car keys from under my mattress. Partly, I didnt want to hear about this all evening, over and over, until she was drunk enough to pass out. Partly I was intrigued. Going to a bar wasnt something my mother did. She drank at home, straight gin, sometimes starting in the afternoon, sometimes opting for the bottle over breakfast. She drank at social events, keeping the intake initially in check, the life of the party, saving her meanness for Dad on the drive home. My mother didnt drink alone in bars.

I wrote Dad a note, keeping it brief, saying I was driving Mom downtown but not saying where. I told myself I was doing the right thing, the same as taking her to the market when she insisted on going and was too far gone to drive herself.

I left the note on the kitchen counter and followed Mom out to the garage.

Its probably best that you take me, she said as she pulled the passenger-side door shut. So I wont have to worry about the car if I decide not to come home.

Her threats to leave were usually accompanied by threats not to come back, so I didnt think much of it.

Where would you go if you didnt come home, Mom?

I dont know yet.

I drove out the driveway, then down the familiar curve of Skyview Drive. I hadnt had my license for long and still felt lucky every time I drove, particularly the little Olds F-85, which wed bought in 1962 to drive to the Seattle Worlds Fair, our first big family vacation.