When she’d first decorated, she’d been aiming for a Victorian theme, although now her mood, combined with the dark colors and heavy wooden furniture, just seems funereal. An empty bottle of wine sits on the table; if I had to guess, I’d say there were two more freshly finished empties stashed in the oven. My mother thinks I don’t know about her hiding places, but it’s a little difficult to ignore fourteen bottles of wine tumbling out when you’re trying to cook some dinner, or the twelve cans of beer that appear mysteriously in place of the cleaning supplies under the kitchen sink. In recent weeks, or in the three weeks since Robert left, my mother’s drinking has either dramatically escalated, or she’s taken less pains to hide it; probably a little of both. She’s trancelike most of the time, comatose sometimes. The violent-drunk stage won’t come till later. I tiptoe around her and the huge elephant in the room that is her pain. At thirteen, I’m a little perplexed as to why she’s so devastated.
