-When Mom Was Sober-

Some kids think they’ve got it rough. Maybe they’ve been abused, maybe they’re homeless, or maybe they’re just depressed. Well, if that’s the case than they’ve never met me. Right now I’m watching my mom. Are you? If you think she’s dead your partly right. She looks dead, doesn’t she? Those cuts on her arm are because she’s sad. Do you see that small white thing between her fingers? It’s called a joint. Of marijuana that is. Can you smell it? That strange, murky smell? It’s wine. Merlot-Brando to be exact. Do you see the man zipping up his pants as he walks out of my home? Mom calls people like him "one night stands." She probably doesn’t even know his name. Do you hear the music coming from the next room? It’s my seven-year-old sister, Gabriel playing the piano. Mom calls it noise. I think it sounds pretty good, but mom’s usually to drunk to notice things like that.

You’re probably asking a question to yourself right now. Are you wondering who I am? Who am I? My name is Mary Jane Prackett, but most people think it’s such a fuss to pronounce so they call me just M.J. I have freckles, honey-blonde hair, green eyes and I’m nine years old. I’m a little kid and I have to take care of Amy’s kids and sometimes Amy too. That’s my mom. Amy Jane Prackett. All the girls in our family have the middle name Jane and Coby and Jake’s middle names are John. My mom is twenty-three and she’s an alcoholic. Not to mention a druggie and a sex addict. She’s almost always stoned, drunk, or getting laid. I shouldn’t know what these words mean. Most nine-year-olds wouldn’t. But then again, most nine-year-olds don’t have Amy Prackett for a mom. Mom’s had it pretty rough. She has four kids and has had too many jobs –which none of them she can keep- to count.

Sometimes if I try really hard I can still remember what mom was like when she was sober. It was when we lived in Ireland. She was fun and full of life. It’s hard to believe it was just a year ago. She started drinking after we moved to America and she couldn’t getting her writing career started. Mom’s a great writer but no one would publish her work in America. After Coby was born she started smoking the bad stuff. Not long after, almost every night, strange men would come over. After they would leave in the morning I would splash some water on mom’s face and then help her get ready for McDonalds. That’s where she worked. After she would leave I’d get the kids up and fed. Gabriel usually helped, so it wasn’t so hard. Jake, who’s four, is a pretty good kid. It’s Coby who’s the troublemaker. He’s eleven months old and he sure does cry a lot. He’s not crying now. That’s good because I wouldn’t want to get up. Someone has to keep an eye on mom and it might as well be me. So, here I am. I’m sitting on the toilet in the bathroom right across from mom’s room. Sure, she looks dead, but she’s not. And so starts another day. If you were wondering how such a pretty, talented, hardworking girl like mom ever got this low, I’ll tell you. Actually, I’ll let her tell you.

-CHAPTER ONE-

It seems like everyone in this world is writing stories. Some are made up, some are true, and some are a little bit of both. But in order to write a story you have to have something to write about. Some people write about their families or their pets. Others write about mythical far off lands that don’t exist. I write about me. And that is what this story is about. Me. I always liked to write, but my favorite thing to do was to make up stories and then make me the center character. I was always the princess who got kissed by the perfect prince, or the girl who became popular and pretty. No one ever told me I was popular or pretty so I just wrote stories about it. Hoping that maybe someday I really would be someone worth writing about. And I was right. Eventually someone would write about me. I just didn’t know that that person would be me.

I also liked to keep a journal. I poured my soul into my diaries. I had to keep them hidden so my mom wouldn’t read them. If she ever found out where they were I know she would read them. She doesn’t trust me. She never did. Maybe it’s because I’m adopted. She thinks I have bad blood from my real parents. She always tells me they were probably bad people. My parents didn’t think they could have kids. That’s why they adopted me. But 2 years later my brother Jonas came along. My parents always spent more time with Jonas than with me. He was better than I was anyway, so I guess I don’t blame them. He was always so good at sports, especially football. He was also good looking, but I guess that was natural for a full blood Irish boy. I don’t know why, but my parents told me I was half of something. I think my birth mother was French, but I’ve never been to sure about that. Maybe that’s why I wasn’t very pretty. My mom always made sure I knew that. And whenever they went out and took me with them –which wasn’t very often- my dad would always make sure that people knew I was his adopted daughter. That was very important to him. Even though my parents weren’t the greatest, they were all I had and I loved them. But later in my life I would learn that they didn’t share the same kind of love with me. I found this out at age fourteen. That’s when I found out I was pregnant with my first child. I remember it all so clearly. It feels kind of like a dream now, but all I have to do is look at my kids and I know it was no dream. I still remember the day I told Jack.

We were out to lunch at Dubney’s, a nice little café on the corner of Turling and 6th right by the old oak tree. It was a cool day in August and the sky was gray. Leaves were falling. It seemed that everywhere you looked there were leaves on the ground. It was messy, but it made a beautiful sight. A collage of greens and browns and yellows. No wonder this was my favorite time of the year. Today would have been a good day that made feel happy to be alive. But I could only seem to see the storm clouds in the distance, not the sun behind them. I’m sure Jack felt the same way. I still remember where I was sitting. We were both at the red and green booth in the far back corner. I had salad and he had a sandwich, which neither of us ate. We stared into each other’s eyes for the longest time. His green, mine grey. I think that deep down inside he knew what I was going to tell him. Finally I couldn’t wait any longer and I had no idea how to say it the right way, so I just blurted it out.

"I’m pregnant," I had intended to say it strong and proud, but it only came out weak and shameful. He didn’t even look up at me; he just kept staring at his ham and cheese sandwich. For a moment I wondered if he even heard me. But when he did look at me I saw a glimmer of tears in his green eyes and I knew he had heard me.

"I figured as much," He said softly. I thought that he might yell at me or tell me it was my fault, which is why I was so surprised when that was all he said. We were both so young and so immature.

"What do we do now?" I asked, knowing we both had no idea of what to do next.

"Adoption?" He said suggestively. I told him I would sleep on it. When I lay in bed that night, sleep wouldn’t come and all I could think about was what Jack had said. I knew deep down that adoption was probably the best option. I was so young and I knew for sure that my parents weren’t going to raise a baby. In fact I hadn’t even told them yet. I was scared to death of what they might do to me. But even though I knew I should give the baby up for adoption, I felt already bonded to the clump of tissue that had only been in my stomach for three weeks. Both Jack and me were Catholic, so we didn’t believe in abortion. A lot of people told me later that it was just a clump of tissue, but I knew better. I knew it would be a baby. It was a baby. It was a life. I was so confused about everything. My mind was just a giant blur of options and what was to come. But thankfully, God granted me a peaceful sleep that night. Probably the last I would ever have.