going to wear through the laminate finish. Then I stand at the sink, looking out the window as I wash my hands again and again. I can’t help but feel that Matthew’s welfare is directly related to me. If only I were a better mother, a better person, a better Christian, my son’s life would be on a better track. If anything happens to him tonight, I know it’ll be my fault. All my fault. All my fault.
I feel certain that some evil person has attacked my son, robbed him, mugged him … Or perhaps it was a hit-and-run driver. I read about one in the paper just last week. I go and look out the front-room window, longing to see his little light coming down the street, but all I see is darkness. Darkness that keeps getting darker.
My heart beats faster and faster as image after image assaults my mind. First I imagine my Matthew twisted and bleeding on the side of the street, crying out for help, but no one stops. And then I see my son tied up and gagged, stuffed into the trunk of a big black sedan. And it’s more than I can stand. I see myself identifying his lifeless body at the morgue, a white tag attached to his toe.
“O dear Lord, please help my son! Protect Matthew, Lord. Please, please protect my son.” I am on my knees now, a familiar posture, as I hunch over the couch and repeat this prayer again and again, as if these words will be the magic charm to keep all harm at bay.
I’m not sure how many times I say these words, but it’s as if I’m stuck and can’t stop. I will never stop praying these words until I see my son again, whole and well. And suddenly I hear the back door open, and Matthew walks into the kitchen. Make that staggers.
“Wha’s up?” he says with a crooked little smile and a noticeable slur.
I stand and stare at him, then turn and point to the clock. It’s after midnight now. “Where have you been?”
“Jus’ hangin’ wif friends …” He tries to walk past me but bumps into me, and I smell the distinct stench of alcohol on him. He tries to continue on his way, but I stop him in his tracks, firmly holding him by one arm as I stare into his watery eyes.
“You’ve been out drinking, haven’t you?”
“Nah …” He stupidly shakes his head. “Some of my friends were drinking, but not me. I don’t drink.”
“Don’t lie to me!” I grab him by both arms, actually shaking my six-foot son as if he were a ten-year-old.
“Stop it, Mom.”
“What’s going on here?”
I turn to see Rick enter. He sets his lunchbox in the sink and walks over to where I’m still holding on to Matthew, my fingers digging into his arms.
“She’s outta control,” Matthew says like he thinks it’s funny.
“He’s drunk.
Your son is drunk.”
“My
son?” Rick looks at me curiously.
“Our son!” I glare at both of them now. “Matthew just got home. He’s obviously been out drinking, and he’s had me worried sick and—”
“I don’t feel so good.” Matthew tries to pull away from my grasp, slowly twisting from side to side.
“Let him go!” Rick says, but I continue to hang on. “
Ruth!
Let him go! He’s going to throw up!”
I reluctantly release my son, and he staggers toward the bathroom but not in time. He bends over, clutching his stomach with both hands, and vomits in the hallway, right on the carpet.
“See.” Rick points to the mess. “I told you to let him go.”
“Thanks.” I glare at him.
“Better clean that up,” he tells me. “It’s gonna stink.”
“Why do
I
get to clean it up?”
“You’re the one who wouldn’t let him go.”
Matthew eventually makes it to the bathroom, and it sounds like he’s throwing up again. And I’m almost glad that he’s sick. It serves him right. Perhaps it’s the Lord’s way of warning him about his stupid choices. But Rick goes to check on him.
Turning my back on both of them, I head to the laundry room for a bucket and some disinfectant. Then as I’m cleaning up my son’s vomit, I am infuriated to
I feel certain that some evil person has attacked my son, robbed him, mugged him … Or perhaps it was a hit-and-run driver. I read about one in the paper just last week. I go and look out the front-room window, longing to see his little light coming down the street, but all I see is darkness. Darkness that keeps getting darker.
My heart beats faster and faster as image after image assaults my mind. First I imagine my Matthew twisted and bleeding on the side of the street, crying out for help, but no one stops. And then I see my son tied up and gagged, stuffed into the trunk of a big black sedan. And it’s more than I can stand. I see myself identifying his lifeless body at the morgue, a white tag attached to his toe.
“O dear Lord, please help my son! Protect Matthew, Lord. Please, please protect my son.” I am on my knees now, a familiar posture, as I hunch over the couch and repeat this prayer again and again, as if these words will be the magic charm to keep all harm at bay.
I’m not sure how many times I say these words, but it’s as if I’m stuck and can’t stop. I will never stop praying these words until I see my son again, whole and well. And suddenly I hear the back door open, and Matthew walks into the kitchen. Make that staggers.
“Wha’s up?” he says with a crooked little smile and a noticeable slur.
I stand and stare at him, then turn and point to the clock. It’s after midnight now. “Where have you been?”
“Jus’ hangin’ wif friends …” He tries to walk past me but bumps into me, and I smell the distinct stench of alcohol on him. He tries to continue on his way, but I stop him in his tracks, firmly holding him by one arm as I stare into his watery eyes.
“You’ve been out drinking, haven’t you?”
“Nah …” He stupidly shakes his head. “Some of my friends were drinking, but not me. I don’t drink.”
“Don’t lie to me!” I grab him by both arms, actually shaking my six-foot son as if he were a ten-year-old.
“Stop it, Mom.”
“What’s going on here?”
I turn to see Rick enter. He sets his lunchbox in the sink and walks over to where I’m still holding on to Matthew, my fingers digging into his arms.
“She’s outta control,” Matthew says like he thinks it’s funny.
“He’s drunk.
Your son is drunk.”
“My
son?” Rick looks at me curiously.
“Our son!” I glare at both of them now. “Matthew just got home. He’s obviously been out drinking, and he’s had me worried sick and—”
“I don’t feel so good.” Matthew tries to pull away from my grasp, slowly twisting from side to side.
“Let him go!” Rick says, but I continue to hang on. “
Ruth!
Let him go! He’s going to throw up!”
I reluctantly release my son, and he staggers toward the bathroom but not in time. He bends over, clutching his stomach with both hands, and vomits in the hallway, right on the carpet.
“See.” Rick points to the mess. “I told you to let him go.”
“Thanks.” I glare at him.
“Better clean that up,” he tells me. “It’s gonna stink.”
“Why do
I
get to clean it up?”
“You’re the one who wouldn’t let him go.”
Matthew eventually makes it to the bathroom, and it sounds like he’s throwing up again. And I’m almost glad that he’s sick. It serves him right. Perhaps it’s the Lord’s way of warning him about his stupid choices. But Rick goes to check on him.
Turning my back on both of them, I head to the laundry room for a bucket and some disinfectant. Then as I’m cleaning up my son’s vomit, I am infuriated to
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