A Mother's Tears • Ch. 9 of 16
Shared Heartbreak
We drove about an hour out of town until reaching the halfway house I’d be staying at for the next month. It was a two-story home with a front desk and a room by the entrance they’d use to drug test us every time we’d come back in from the outside. There was a couple from rehab that had made their way into the same halfway house as me so I knew someone I could talk to before mingling with the rest of the people. They were always together. It was so sweet how even though they’d bicker between themselves, they always sat by each other in group gatherings.
A beautiful woman of about forty began sitting next to me in the circle at our daily meetings and always stared down at the floor in deep contemplation. She had dark brown eyes and crimson lips and would awaken anyone with her allure. We introduced ourselves and slowly began a tight-knit friendship that’d last the rest of my stay there. We’d pass notes to each other on a regular basis. They were about our pasts—, things we experienced, loves we had, moments of hardship. We bonded through our shared-heartache.
“We should get out of here for a day,” she eventually said to me.
“That’s a great idea,” is all I could think of saying. We’d planned on meeting outside by the bus-stop.
“Let’s go around six,” she suggested. Dusk would be coming soon—, my favorite time of day. She signed herself out of the house at around five and I did the same a half hour later. We met up exactly where we said we would. The bus pulled up and we entered with confidence, knowing it was our escape vessel for the moment. We sat in the first two empty seats we saw with her by the window. She stared at the passing stores and homes, probably wondering if she’d ever live that type of life again—, where she too, could enjoy the simpler things like shopping or strolling around beautiful neighborhoods. The bus rolled past the busy streets off Woodward Avenue as we watched—, waiting for the right time to get off, cross the street, and get back on. We weren’t headed anywhere specific, we just needed to get away for a while. I could tell she was deep in thought. We didn’t speak. The people entered and exited the bus at random and still, we sat silent, not noticing anything outside ourselves. Finally, she parted her pursed lips;
“He hit me so hard once that he broke my jaw.” I didn’t know who she was talking about nor did I need to, I understood she only wanted someone to listen—, though she spoke no more. Moments of nothingness passed by. Then;
“I’m sorry,” I said. Her eyes had already watered over and were glistening in the late afternoon’s sun. We just needed an outlet to purge our emotions through—, this bus ride was perfect for putting distance between our temporary home and heavenly freedom. The bus slowed to make a stop in Ferndale and we figured that’d be a good place to get off. We got up and left the seats we’d made ourselves so comfortable in. Once outside, she turned and gave me her signature look.
“That was my first time on a bus,” she said. “Thank you.”
“For what?,” I asked honestly.
“For everything.” That was all we needed—, to temporarily run away. Finally back at our halfway house, we hugged and went inside to resume the monotony of life therein.
Unrealized Redemption
A tall man walked into my room one day and introduced himself as a new roommate. He had small dreadlocks and a deep baritone voice that sounded assertive when he spoke.
“You read the Bible?,” he asked me one day while reading it himself.
“Sometimes,” I replied, though “rarely” would’ve been a more accurate answer.
“Some good stuff in there,” he said. “He’ll prepare a feast for you in front of your enemies, you know.” I hadn’t heard that before so I stood there wide-eyed at the thought of such redemption. With being so down the past few weeks, I took to the idea quickly.
“Really?,” I asked. He nodded his head and pointed on the page to the verse itself. I hadn’t read much Scripture throughout my life but I’d later find out how true its words are.
My roommate and I were out one evening exploring the area around our halfway home. The sun had already set and soon we’d have to turn around and go back. First, we wanted to make one last stop. Walking through the neighborhood at such a late hour was exciting enough, but we were headed toward the center of the city. We needed to remind ourselves what normal people did on Saturday nights. We walked through the crowd and looked at the glammed up people waiting to get into different bars and clubs. They represented freedom for us; freedom from the mundane meetings we had to go to, freedom from the problems we’d created for ourselves prior to coming to the halfway house. They were who we used to be, only they hadn’t reached our stage yet. Maybe some would, others might keep the party going until either their bodies gave out or their lives imploded. It didn’t really matter—, for that moment in time, we envied them.
There were spotlights coming from a club a few feet away that pierced the windows and shined onto the pavement outside. We walked over and put our faces up to the glass; staring, wondering how it felt to be amongst those mingling inside.
“I’ve been here before,” my roommate said of the club. In a way, we both had—, being inside those same spots that served courage per ounce and blared music so loud you could hardly hear yourself think. I missed it but I understood why I needed to find new outlets for releasing my energy. We traveled the short way back to the house and went up to our room, full of hope for the future.
Christmas, Part 2
Christmastime came around again. I was rereading the scribbles on the bottom of the upper bunk when the halfway home’s night orderly walked in.
“Time to go downstairs,” he said about the living area where we’d play cards, hold meetings, and have morning group. He knew I didn’t really want to go, like always.
“Really?” I asked while hesitating to get up from my bed.
“Yes, really.” I didn’t like meetings and stayed up in my room on the second floor whenever I had the chance, but this time the staff came searching for me. Something was different. Maybe they’d had enough of my mischief. I rolled out of the bottom bunk but he signaled toward the messy sheets anyway. “Make it up first,” he sharply said. So that’s what I did.
I followed some feet behind him, through the curved hallway, down the narrow staircase, and was expecting to walk into the same old space I’d come to know for the past four weeks. Instead of chipping walls, folding chairs, and chatter from the house pay phones, I entered into a fully-Christmas-decorated room with tinsel flowing from corner to corner, cookies and desserts atop the tables, and everyone gathered at the opposite end looking directly at me.
“There he is!” shouted a fellow friend. The housemates parted and through the crowd it was my mom that slowly came into view with the widest smile on her face.
“I wanted to spend Christmas with you, so everyone here helped me do this,” she said.
“This is what selflessness looks like,” the night orderly chimed in. I didn’t have a clue as to what I could do, so I just let out a laugh of disbelief. That’s the type of person Gabriela is. I pushed all depressive thoughts aside, walked over to take a chocolate orange, and split it into slices to share with my mom.
The Quiet After the Storm
The day I was leaving at last came. As Gabriela and I left through the front door for the final time, I could see the car parked in the street and immediately became more excited about going back home. We buckled ourselves in and I looked to the house only to see my forty-year old friend in her bedroom window, staring at us. She made a heart with her fingers as the car pulled away. I waved until I couldn’t see her anymore and by then, noticed the tears in my mom’s eyes. She told me how badly she felt for my friend, having to know she was staying while I was leaving.
We eventually settled in the industrial city of Troy for a couple years before we’d part ways and move out to different places. I’d go to therapy sessions down the street from a bridal shop. It was by appointment only so each time I walked by, the doors were closed and no lights were on. With skateboard in hand, I’d stare through the window at a gorgeous gown. Satin-stitched designs reached down the see-through sleeves and toward the wrists. I imagined the woman wearing matching gloves with silken seams.
“She looks so happy,” I remembered my mother saying of the bride back on the beach in Naples. Again, I nodded in silent agreement. At home, we’d stay up late nights watching Seinfeld reruns, talking about faith, and healing from all of the mistakes I’d made a few years prior. I’d calmed down a lot and in the evenings, would walk the neighborhood with my mom, around the block and back to our front door.
“Where do you think I’ll end up?,” I’d ask her sincerely, not being the least bit sure of my future.
“Wherever God wants you to be,” she’d reply. All throughout the problems she’d faced in the years beforehand with her husband, with me, with working herself into the ground, she’d never once wavered from her faith. It was the most inspiring example of someone staying true to themselves I’d ever seen.
Healing in Houston
A good friend had recently moved to Houston and upon hearing of my hospitalization, he told me to stay in constant contact with him.
“I want a weekly update—,” he said over the phone to me months ago. Now that I was back home, we decided it’d be a good idea for me to fly out and visit him for a little while—, to get my mind back on track.
“Let’s have an entire week where we just write songs, drive around the city, and explore,” I said. So that’s what we did. I flew out to Texas and as soon as I saw him we gave each other a big hug.
“It’s good to see you,” he said, looking at me with a wide smile.
The first thing I noticed was the humidity. I’d always heard that Houston was hot—, but I had to experienced it for myself. We got into his truck and he showed me why they say “everything’s bigger in Texas.” The highways were huge and held up by giant columns of concrete, they reached and wove through the sky at high altitudes. Driving on them, we could see the rooftops to nearby strip-malls and houses as we continued on toward my friend’s home. Once there—, we walked to where he had his drums set up with a couch nearby that I’d sleep on for the next few nights. I picked up one of the guitars and happily slung it over my shoulder. We bought a diaphragm microphone from a music shop that we started using to record different songs through. After all the turmoil of the past year, I was finally starting to re-find myself again.
“So how’ve you been holding up?,” he asked me in quieter tones.
“Good man..., good,” I said. “There’s just so many things I don’t understand.” He gave me a serious look.
“Write about it,” he said. I knew he was right—, that’s where I could find healing and closure. Still—, I didn’t take his advice for many years to come.
Our Own Worlds
I’d been there a few days when he decided to show me one of his favorite spots. We climbed into his truck and drove the short distance to a bar nearby. Walking in, the thick smell of cigarette smoke hung in the air. We approached the bartender working that day—, a blond woman whose hair hung down through chopped bangs.
“Hey guys—, what can I get you?,” she asked us as we took our seats on the barstools. We ordered a couple of drinks and just sat, taking in the atmosphere. It was what one would expect; flickering neon signs, pinball machines, and a jukebox in the corner. There were bikers, business men, and scantily-dressed women all around. Everyone was in their own world and had their own agendas for being there so early in the day. The men were trying their best to hit on whoever was close enough to hear their pickup lines, the bartenders were pretending to be interested in the patrons’ stories, and all I could think about was how best to stand out from the crowd. I didn’t want to be another statistic anymore—, I’d already lived that life and it brought me nowhere. Now, back at the bars and of legal drinking age, I was becoming just like everyone else around me once more.
“So you guys come here often?,” the blond bartender asked. We explained the situation—, that I was just visiting town from Michigan and she continued the conversation, steering it in a more serious place. “Nobody here really knows me,” she said while looking down at the bar.
“Like how?,” I asked sincerely.
“They just come in and assume I’m a certain type of person because I’m a bartender but they don’t know who I really am—, I have so many things I wanna do, you know?” I agreed with her, that it’s tough being put in a box or having a label slapped on by people who didn’t really know you. I briefly went over my own story; mostly to put her at ease that she wasn’t talking to anyone judgmental or critical, that she was talking to someone who was in a lot of ways like herself.
“If you know that you’re more than this—, then you shouldn’t care what other people think,” I said to her, surprised that I still hadn’t taken my own advice up to that point. We kept talking well into the evening. Eventually, we exchanged contact information and would continue to stay in touch for a couple years afterward. We’d speak about how things had changed in our lives and where we still wanted them to go, in what direction, to what end.
Separate Ways
I finally flew back home and was again reunited with my mom, continuing our new chapter together. I started a million projects in our apartment but never finished any of them. Books, music, it didn’t matter—, I just needed to stay busy, keep myself creatively awake. I was always spray-painting something in my room or trying out new riffs on my sky blue Tom DeLonge signature Strat. Friends would come over and we’d walk the streets of random downtowns together, making our way to wherever we were headed. My mom continued to work hard. She’d leave in the morning and get home in the late afternoon. I’d drive to Ann Arbor for our favorite pizza and back—, two hours in all. We started little traditions; cooking together, watching Lost, anything to forget about the last couple of years.
The day eventually came to move out into separate cities. We made a dozen trips back and forth to my new apartment in a suburb of Rochester Hills while she was moving to the quaint city of Franklin, dubbed “the town that time forgot.” She wiped away a tear as we hugged in my doorway. After going through so many things in the past few years—, this moment was more than meaningful. I’d finally be able to show her what I was truly made of, what I could do on my own.
Welcome to the Family
A few months into my new move, my mom called asking for directions.
“I’m headed to the citizenship ceremony,” she said with excitement. I guided her over the phone, road by road until she reached her destination. While she was on her way to the courthouse, I stayed behind in my apartment, knowing it was too soon for me to apply for myself. Looking back on that day, that’s the one thing my mom would’ve changed. “I wish I would’ve had you there by my side,” she’d say.
Gabriela navigated the streets of downtown Detroit with confidence on her way to City Hall where she was finally going to be sworn in as a United States citizen by the best country in the world—, a dream coming true in real time. She was rehearsing the National Anthem in her head when God winked at her once more as the Star Spangled Banner started playing on the local radio show she was listening to. The smile she felt taking shape across her face let her know that everything was going to work out just fine.
She reached the building with enough time to spare so sat in the car silently and prayed for the entire experience to go smoothly. Inside, the tall American flags framed the scene on either side of the lobby as she passed through the metal detectors and was on her way with the rest of the hopefuls obtaining citizenship that day. Entering the designated courtroom, her excitement only grew as she wondered how she’d feel after the ceremony was over. What a difference a mere hour would make. The wooden bench she sat on was full with people she’d be sworn in beside. Everyone there knew that this was a new beginning for themselves, a fresh start to further opportunities and bigger dreams. The judge entered the room to hushed voices and much anticipation.
“All rise,” the bailiff said, and with that the entire assemblage stood at attention. One by one, each person was called to the front of the courtroom to be presented their citizenship diploma. It was a different type of graduation. My mom sat, not hearing her name. There were only a few people left when the bailiff finally called out;
“Gabriela Carlan.” She walked over to receive her papers. While shaking the judge’s hand, he smiled to her and said the golden words my mom had waited so long to hear.
“Welcome to the family.” With right hands covering their hearts, the group sung the National Anthem in unison. Another dream had been fulfilled. My mom’s emotions rushed over her as she realized she’d finally been accepted by her adopted country. The next day, even mere colors seemed to be brighter and more vivid. Since then, she feels an extreme pride every time she looks at the American flag. She soon after visited her family in Romania and upon reentering the States, she heard the words that brought tears of honor and joy to her eyes;
“Welcome home, Ms. Carlan.”
Adulting 101
Back in Rochester Hills, I’d met some amazing people but my new atmosphere was already getting to me. Even though I was giving it a decent chance as the years slowly rolled by one after another, I began feeling a sense of stagnation. I’d stare at the posters of Quentin Tarantino films taped to my walls and wonder when I’d leave my own mark on a fading generation of yesteryear. The fiery passion I’d had growing up was getting blown out by the constant winds of real life. There was little accomplishment. Moving out didn’t count, everyone was doing it. The days passing by got increasingly predictable. Everything I did I’d done a thousand times before. Nothing was new, excitement for tomorrow vanished—, only my DVR stayed active recording shows every few days. They kept me interested to go through the next half hour but it was never enough. Friends would come over and see me in my impassive state.
“Let’s go out tonight,” they’d say. We’d try the few local spots around us but they all blended into the same vibe eventually. The job was stable, the girlfriend was gorgeous, but the fervor for life dwindled. I started losing sense of my inner-self.
“I hate when you’re like this,” a good friend would say whenever he’d see me detached and deep in thought, hovering over my drink when out. I couldn’t help it—, the emotion just seemed to stick. He preferred the person everyone knew I could be when I wanted to; the lively, laughing boy who joked about everything. Still, I was less and less like my old self. My situation slowed to a crawling pace. I was growing old going nowhere but grocery stores, fast food chains, gas stations, etc. Finally, an idea surfaced. A fresh thought crossed my mind and I visualized it coming true. I didn’t need to know that it was the right move anymore—, it was a move in and of itself and that was enough for me. All I cared about was change and this would provide me the ultimate opportunity for it. I called Gabriela as soon as I figured out the logistics.
“Mom, I think I wanna move to Chicago,” I said over the phone. Unexpectedly, she answered in a much more positive tone than I’d thought she would.
“Okay..., I think that’s a good idea.”
“Really?,” I asked.
“Yeah, I think you need a change of scenery.” She was never more right. A few weeks later, I was packing up my things in boxes and selling off furniture that wouldn’t fit into my new studio apartment. I was about to replace all my past mistakes with a million better memories. I was finally getting excited about life again.