Part 1
I looked for work. I spoke to people. I took notes. But I soon ended up in the middle of one of the uptown area's well maintained squares, this one behind an office building with a lot of shrubbery and secluded benches, old gravestones and monuments here and there. I found a nice spot in the center, sat on a bench and drew my legs up, hugging my knees and closing my eyes in the warm sunlight.
Around a nervous stomach cramp, I employed a technique that Mum had taught me to help with my studies, tests and stuff. Relaxing as well as I could in that position, I breathed slowly in through my nose, out through my mouth while I tried to empty my mind of all the tumbling, chaotic thoughts and conflicting emotions. After a few minutes, I slowly opened my eyes and began to mumble out loud.
"This is fucked," I murmured."
After a short pause, I answered, "Nothing is the same anymore. You're proceeding as though things are, but they're not. You have to adapt, like she said."
"Adapt? How do I
adapt
to this? If it was just the financial situation, I could. Fuck, I have, but Mum... she... throws everything into question. Doesn't she?"
" ... Yes, she does."
"No, it's our
other
mother.
She's
the one who throws everything into question."
"Yes. Yes, but your real mother isn't exactly your real mother anymore, at least not how you remember her. She said that herself and you saw it on the train all the way across the country, sooo..."
After a pause, "Maybe she just needs time to recover, to come back to what she was."
"Yeah. Maybe. But not yet. See, that's the thing. We need her the way she is."
I then fell into deep, silent thought for a minute. It probably seems odd, but talking to myself was something I always did when I was upset and needed to work things out, probably for the same reasons some people feel better after writing their problems in a diary or whatever. I've always done it and always assumed every 'only child' did. In any case, it usually helped me to at least find an objective standpoint from which to view my problems for what they really were, sometimes even to find a solution.
"The problem... is that Mum is crazy. There, I said it. I'm making the mistake of thinking of her as two people because that seems to be the easy way to understand her and that seems to be how she sees it too, but she's not. My other mother is as much my mother as the person I always knew.
"Sooo... what? What does this mean? She seemed pretty sane all these years, at least when we weren't being punished, but now things are desperate and she drinks, which brings on what would seem like another personality. We just deal with that, right? She deals with our financial circumstances, then we deal with her."
"Wrong, not that simple. You know it isn't. She's crazy whether she's sober or not, the booze only brings it out. And she knew that. She practically told us she was crazy a couple days ago, told us that things would change, tried to warn us. She knew herself what would happen when she started drinking. But... when did she get the booze?"
" ... Oh, shit! She was always asking how long we'd be every time we went out on a trip to get stuff. Once we were gone a little over an hour and that would have been plenty of time."
"Right... we thought she was afraid to be alone."
"Hm. And I'll bet that's why we never saw her with a drink in our life until all this shit with Dad came down on us. She
did
know, enough to stay away from it. She even told us that we were the stable one. Fuck, did you hear her refer to herself in the third person?"
"Yeah... She also made it clear that things like what's wrong with her... runs in families. Oh, fuck.
That
explains a few things, doesn't it?"
"Don't be stupid. ... I think... I think... She's depending on that, this stability she sees in us. More than she let on... Now that I think of it, it's almost like... I don't know. Can't quite see it."
(pause)
"The longer she has to be like this, the worse she'll get. She said that crazy people only ever get worse. ... I think she ran a bit wild a long time ago, probably after she got out on her own after all that shit with her family. She experienced a side of herself that scared her and she managed to straighten up. Now that side, my other mother as we call her... she's like the nuclear genie of her own life. Effective, but once deployed..."
(pause)
"And she's
been
deployed."
"And she's relying on us to not let her alter ego destroy her. But... if she had anything left to compare to what that alter ego can accomplish, my other mother never would have seen the light of day. She said she was battling some tough personal decisions, didn't she? Oh yes indeed, she did."
"It may be possible that it's our turn to take the reins, to be the 'man of the house' after our other mother is gone. After all, that personality is a fucking force of nature, but she expects us to shut it down once it does what it's supposed to, even told us that we could."
"And here's where things get sticky. She'd also expect us to not let her go too far. Like letting us see her in bra and panties because we asked her to show us. Sssshit!"
" ... Yeah, you're somethin' else, aren't ya?"
" ... Fuck off."
" ... You're falling for her."
" ... Fuck
off
."
"You need to see this for what it is."
"(siiiiigh!) I have no idea what this is. How the fuck should I know? I took Business Prep, not Psychology. How in the fuck do I deal with Psycho Mum?"
"Don't say that about her, it's not nice. And don't be stupid. Adapt, like she said. Learn more, learn what you need to know. Get your shit together! You owe her for
everything
and, no matter how you love her, your love for her as your mother, your 'real' mother if you will, comes first."
"Yeah... time to get my shit together."
A half hour later I was at the Library. In a nutshell, here's what I found:
Dissociative Identity Disorder: This is a mental affliction that is often brought on by repeated, usually severe childhood trauma, physical, sexual and/or emotional. (her mother) People who have this disorder show at least two distinct personalities which are in control of that person's actions at different times and often abuse alcohol.
This, as near as I can tell, is what's happening with Mum. At least when she drinks.
Sociopath: A person who displays antisocial behaviour and has a tendency to become aggressive, threatening and even violent when a situation isn't to their liking. (the slumlady) They also display a lack of remorse for others, irresponsible and impulsive behaviour and tend to abuse alcohol and other drugs. This is another condition that is formed and starts during childhood, usually at about age fifteen and, again, this disorder is believed to be caused by early abuse and even exposure to another such personality. (Sheila and Marie)
That would be the personality of my 'other mother'. Apparently, during my frighteningly ironic conversation with myself in the square, I was wrong about not thinking of her as two separate people.
Walking back towards streets closer to home, my worries still gnawed at me. As you can imagine, my recent education didn't make me feel any better.
"Holy fuck," I murmured to myself. "So, Mum's got a split personality which comes out when she drinks and... that personality is a
sociopath
?"
" ... Oh, shhhit. This can't be. No
way
," myself frightfully replied.
Part 2
"Steve!"
somebody shouted.
I looked around, jarred from my thoughts and guilt concerning Mum, and spied Pitbull on the sidewalk a ways behind me. I waved and backtracked until we met.
"What's happenin', man?" he greeted.
"Not much, just looking for work and stuff. How 'bout you?"
"Comin from a friends place," he replied, taking a cigarette out of the package Mum gave him the day before. "How's your Mum?"
"Good. Your grammie?"
"Oh, she's happy in her new place and everything. Can't thank you guys enough."
"It's no prob. Actually, it was kinda fun."
"Yeah!" he laughed, "Especially when your Mum slapped Grace in the head. She hits hard, doesn't she?"
"She's... spirited. Hey, I just remembered I gotta go down to the recycling bins and grab some big pieces of cardboard. Wanna come if you're not busy?"
"Sure."
I was lucky enough to find a box that had held a large, flat screen television, flattened and not cut into pieces. I was wondering if I should hit the dollar store for something to stick it up with when Pitbull nodded subtly towards the street and spoke.
"Don't stare, but you see that guy goin' in the black
Crown Vic?"
I glanced in the direction of his nod, spied the sedan in question and kept it in my peripheral, confirming, "Yes, I see him."
"He's one of those people I told you about that you want to avoid. His name's Merle Cunningham, an RCMP agent."
"A cop?" I queried, taking a casually glancing, but closer look.
"No. A rat. The cops gave him that car and he's on their payroll."
"Everybody knows?"
"Yeah, everyone in the South end does. He used to run here a while back. We all avoid him, but he's a big wheel now, anyway. He deals in large amounts."
"You mean... Wait, you said he worked for the cops."
"He does, but he still deals."
"The cops don't know?"
"Sure they know. They don't touch him, otherwise he wouldn't be much of an agent, so he gets away with almost anything. That guy is practically above the law and that's why you just don't go near him. It's a sure thing the fucker has a gun and he wouldn't hesitate to use it."
"Holy shit. But how does he operate if people know he's a rat?"
"I don't know. Like I say, he deals at a higher level than most people in the South end, probably with out of towners, but still... people talk, y'know?"
"Yeah."
Part 3
Now, Preacher?
You may say your peace now.
You're now looking, for the last time, at the mortal body of Frances Elroy Duffy
,
born to John and Edna Duffy, good, God-fearing folk. Who raised me up to be a good man and a good Christian, a good husband to my beloved wife, good father to my children, who I leave behind, hoping that they, and all of you, will learn this here lesson which I leave you with. When you take the devil into your mouth, you're doomed! For he is lying there in wait for you inside that bottle of whiskey. Waiting for you to take him into your mouth. Waiting to get down into your guts where he can do his devil's work. Liquor is the most foul, evil thing in this here world. It destroyed good men like myself. It'll destroy you too. Beer is not much better -- it's slower, cheaper. So take these words of advice. And remember, you heard them from a poor sinner, got no more cause to lie, 'cause he's going to meet his maker. Now he's ready. Well that's all I've got to say.
"What's this?" Mum asked upon coming through the door with a white plastic bag from the supermarket in one hand, purse strap over her shoulder and separating her boobs.
