Free If I Fall by Anna Cruise

and her hair hidden, she looked even more fragile, even more breakable.
    Her eyes were clouded with worry and sadness. “Is everything OK, Meg?”
    My mouth hung open. It was the first time she'd asked about me—about how I was doing—since my dad had left. Probably longer than that, I realized. She'd been a mess for months. I tried to think back to a time when she'd been a normal mom and realized that I couldn't remember. She'd always drank, but usually it was at night, after dinner. A bottle of wine as she sat on the couch, watching TV, a bottle of wine that disappeared as the night progressed.
    I studied her. I had a hard time remembering the last time I'd actually seen her upright, much less take a shower. Probably when Aunt Sara had come by to break the news about the house. I didn't know what she did when I wasn't home but when I was here, she never seemed to leave her room, much less move off of the bed. I wondered what had motivated her to do so today.
    “Megan?”
    I remembered her question. “Um, yeah.” Then I stopped. “I mean, no. Dad turned off my cell phone.” The anger resurfaced. “Did you know anything about it?”
    Her face tightened and her eyes welled with tears and I wanted to kick myself. Damn. She was still just as fragile as she looked.
    But she kept it together, at least long enough to mutter, “No. I don't know anything about anything .”
    She pressed her lips tight and, without another word, closed the bathroom door. Something clattered to the floor —a brush, I thought—and she let out a heaving, gasping sort of cry. Her recovery had been short-lived, thanks to me. Just the mention of him could reduce her to tears.
    Emotions twisted inside of me, anger and guilt and sadness swirling into a noxious, toxic stew. For the first time in a long while I felt myself sinking, falling into the same vortex that held my mother captive.
    I turned to go, anxious to leave before it swallowed me whole. The fading sun streaked into the room, igniting the dust motes that floated in the air, transforming them into sparkling crystals. It glinted off something on her bookcase, a blinding flash of amber light. A bottle. Rows of bottles—wines and brandy, rum and vodka. My mother's personal stash.
    Quickly, before I could change my mind, I crossed the room and grabbed the bottle closest to me. I unscrewed the lid and brought it to my lips. The liquid burned my throat but I didn't care. I drank more, swallowing huge mouthfuls. The heat coursed through me, seeping into every pore, melting some of the anger and sadness that had almost consumed me moments earlier. I took one last swig, wiped my mouth, and put the near-empty bottle back on the shelf.
    I needed someone. I ran to the kitchen and picked up the phone.
    “ Miss me already?”
    He was still in his car. I could hear the music blare and the engine sputter in the background.
    “Come back.”
    “ What? Like right now?”
    “ Uh-huh.” I didn't want to be alone. I didn't know what I'd do if I was. “I need you.”
    There was a soft knock at my door fifteen minutes later. I opened it and he thrust a Wendy's bag into my hands as he peeked into my house. The brandy had worked its warm magic, calming me down, settling my nerves. I greeted him with a smile and a kiss and I wondered absently if he knew I'd been drinking.
    “You sure it's cool I'm here?”
    We always went to his house. Mostly because we could lock ourselves away in his room but also because my house was on the market. We never knew who was going to be dropping by. Or when.
    “Yeah. It's too late for showings. And she won't be coming out tonight.” I held up the bag. “What's this?”
    “ Dinner. I'm starving.”
    He followed me into the kitchen.
    I set the bag down on the table and he unpacked it while I searched for glasses and something to drink. There were a few cans of Coke in the pantry. I fished some ice cubes out of the freezer and set the glasses and cans down on the table.