Page 33 of Love Me (Charlotte Monarchs Hockey #1)

My stomach tightens at the thought of getting closer. I want to spin around and run back down Hastings instead of crossing the street toward her, run back to Purebread, back to the life I’ve worked hard to create for myself.

“Hey, Ma,” I say when I reach her. I don’t quite know what to do, but she’s still my mom, so I extend my arms and offer her a hug.

“Luke.” She steps into them and wraps her thin arms around me. She’s so fucking frail that I might break her ribs if I tighten my grip.

“You wanna grab a bite to eat?” I ask.

My protective instincts kick in immediately. I need to save her. Get her out of here. Get her off these streets. At the very least, get her a decent meal.

I’ve attempted to help her on multiple occasions.

The first time, I gave her money to get herself a safe place to stay.

It didn’t take me long to realize that was the wrong way to go about it.

But I was young and thought the issue was more about having money to get her off the streets than getting her help for addiction.

The next time I tried, I convinced her to go to rehab.

I spent the entire summer living in Gabe’s spare bedroom so I could be close to her in case she needed me.

I even stayed an extra few weeks after her program ended to make sure she stayed sober.

She did—until two days before I was scheduled to return to Detroit.

I couldn’t just leave her, so I took her with me.

I thought living with her son, having family back in her life, would help her stay stable and clean.

But Mom isn’t just an addict. She also has mental health issues, which is the real root of her problem.

I don’t know if they’ve been there all the time or if they were brought on by Dad’s death or whatever the fuck she smokes.

Instead of staying away from drugs and the streets, she found new “friends” who were just like her old ones.

I can handle myself in the neighborhood I grew up in, but when Mom started hanging out in parts of Detroit I didn’t want to drive near, let alone pick her up from, I knew I couldn’t help her.

The final straw was when I got an anonymous call telling me where I could find her. The address brought me to an abandoned house on Detroit’s East Side. When I went in, I found her crumpled in a corner of an empty, burned-out room.

I thought she was dead, but I should have known better.

Kat has nine lives.

I’d already found her OD’d once back home. Who knows how many more lives she has left?

Fucking East Side. It’s not just a place. It’s a way of life. And we can’t seem to break away.

I focus on my mom, waiting for a reply.

“I’m good. Just ate,” she lies, scratching the sleeve covering her right forearm. I doubt she’s eaten in days.

“Where are you staying now?” My voice is gentle, though I want to grab her and shake her and tell her to look at me. Really look at me.

She shifts her weight from foot to foot. “Up the road.” She points back toward the Regent though I’m not sure if that’s where she means. Then she rubs her neck. Her short, dirty nails leave faint red lines behind.

This was my life at one time. Standing on a nasty street in Vancouver trying to have some sort of conversation with my junkie mom.

I’ll always be grateful to my dad for getting me involved in hockey.

I can’t imagine what my life would be like if I grew up hanging out on the streets.

By the time Mom dumped us here, I already had a clear vision of how I wanted my life to go.

Even at eleven, I wasn’t about to let her addiction and all the problems it brought us get in the way of that.

Mom finally looks at me. Except, she’s not looking at me. Her bloodshot eyes stare through me. She takes a ragged breath and wraps her arms around herself.

“How’ve you been, Luke?” she asks, looking down the street.

“I’m good. Just met with a kid who plays for the Giants.”

“You playing yet?”

“No, Ma. I can’t play anymore. Doctor’s orders.” My voice is low, somber, and as dead as Mom’s eyes.

“Why do you listen to them? You should be on the ice.” She raises her hands, then jerks them to her sides, as if trying to control her motions. “Are you in pain, baby? You need something? ‘Cuz George can get?—”

Gotta give her credit for trying to find common ground to talk to me about. I reach out and take one of her hands in mine. “I don’t need anything, Ma.”

Instead of releasing it right away, I hold on, hoping she feels some sort of comfort from my touch.

She looks at our joined hands then back down the street as if she’s waiting for someone.

She probably is. Our visits are never very long. Being back home is always a jumble of fucked-up feelings, but this time, it’s even worse. Last time I saw her was a few months after she sold the house I’d bought for her. She said she didn’t have any money left.

The windfall lasted longer than I expected.

I had my concerns when I bought it but wanted her to have a place to go to every night—in a safer neighborhood than the one she raised me in.

I didn’t have any rules about what she did there or who she brought home.

I just wanted the peace of mind that came from knowing she had a roof over her head that wasn’t a pay-by-the-hour hotel room.

When she told me she sold the house to have savings for retirement, I knew she was lying. If she wanted to save for retirement, she would get a job. And despite knowing how she used the money I gave her and why she sold the house I bought her, I still helped.

But now I know I’m just enabling her. Maybe I’m killing her. I’ve already seen her overdose twice. She’s probably been at that point multiple times since, but I don’t want to know. It’s time to say goodbye.

“Here,” I say quickly, letting go of her hand and reaching for the backpack I have slung over my shoulder.

Since I vowed never to give her money again, I filled the bag with essentials—toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, deodorant, and water—as well as a few things I figured she probably needs, like shoes, socks, and underwear.

I also slipped in some gift cards that will let her buy things at grocery, convenience, and clothing stores.

I never thought I’d be taking care of a parent like this, but I know she doesn’t think of the necessities. I put it all in a backpack because I don’t know if she has a place to store the stuff and a backpack is easy to carry.

Mom’s bony fingers circle the handle on the top of the bag. I reach up and slide my hand through her thin, brittle hair now peppered with wiry, gray strands where full, light-brown locks used to be.

“Can I take you to get a cut?” I ask.

She shakes her head and bats my hand away. “It’s all right.”

“Ma, let me do something.”

“You have, Luke. You came to see me.”

Mom doesn’t get too affectionate anymore, so anything I get gives me a rush.

But when she moves to touch my cheek, I flinch involuntarily.

She catches it and snatches her hand back.

Her eyes flash, showing life where there was none just a moment ago.

That split second transforms her previous indifference into anger.

“Sorry, Mister High and Mighty. I forgot that you’re too good for me to touch you.” She tightens her grip on the backpack and steps away from me.

“Ma,” I plead, reaching for her. “It’s not like that. I?—”

It’s not in my heart to continue because it is like that, isn’t it? I do feel superior to her, don’t I? Who knows what she’s touched or the last time she washed her hands? Despite all my attempts to help her clean up, she’s still living on the streets.

But I won’t admit that to her. Despite everything, I wouldn’t hurt her intentionally. I don’t want to be that kind of person. “I needed to see you, Ma.”

“Why? To show off how happy you are? To rub it in that you’re better than me? You lived here, too, Luke.”

“Not by choice,” I growl.

Mom snarls. “You could have gotten a job and helped pay some bills after your father died. You could’ve stepped up and been a man like he was. But you didn’t. You chose hockey like a selfish brat. You chose hockey over me. And now, this is where I am.”

Her words cut like the rusty steak knife she slashed across my palm when I was twelve after she found out I stole a bag of weed from the stash she was keeping for a boyfriend.

She thought I swiped it for myself and my friends, but I didn’t.

I traded it to the high school kid who worked the counter at the ice rink in exchange for skate rental and ice fees.

After a few weeks, he felt sorry for me.

He gave me a pair of his old skates and let me skate for free anytime he worked.

I thought pursuing my dream to play hockey was helping the family. I worked my ass off to be the best. The fastest, strongest, hardest worker on the ice. Making it to the WHL, the AHL, and the NHL isn’t easy. I thought once I made it, I’d be able to take care of her—to change her.

Except I didn’t really understand what addiction was.

I bought her the house as soon as I had the money.

A small part of me hoped that having a place to go with no worries about mortgage payments would give her a sense of stability.

She hadn’t had real stability since Dad died.

I hoped that would be the first step. Once she was safe and settled, I could talk to her about rehab.

In hindsight, I probably should have switched the order. What did I know? I was just a kid trying to realize my own dream while doing what I thought was the best thing to help Mom.

“I’m gonna go, Ma,” I say. “I’m… I’m not coming back next time.”

“Sure. Walk away, Luke. It’s all you’ve ever done.”

My hands shake at my sides, so I stuff them into my pockets. I used to ignore her comments and try to let them roll off my back because I know it’s the disease talking—the depression, the addiction.

I can’t say it doesn’t hurt like hell when my mother spews words that lance straight through my heart and into my deepest insecurities.

But this time, I’m angry and fed up—and over it. Her life is her own. I can’t waste any more of mine trying to help someone who doesn’t want to be helped. I can’t keep coming back here to DTES to relive all the horrible situations Mom put me in.

“Fuck that, Ma! Fuck that ! I’ve done everything I possibly can for you, and you know it!” I yell. Despite my anger and frustration, I tack on a mumbled “I love you” before turning around.

“Luke!” she calls out.

Hope fuels the speed with which I spin around. Maybe she’ll return some of the feelings I’ve expressed now that I’ve let her know I’m never coming back.

“You got any cash on you?” She rubs her eye with her knuckles, then wipes at her nose, her hand jerking from one place to another.

I shake my head. “No.”

“Fuck you, Luke. You’re a fucking liar!” she yells as I walk away.

I don’t look back, though Mom is still cussing me out. I hold my head up and keep walking down Hastings back toward Gastown. Once I’m far enough away that I know Mom can’t see me, I pull out my phone and call Gabe.

“Meet me at Steamworks,” I tell him, referring to the local brewery just up the road from where I am. “I need a beer—or twelve.”

Beer and a visit with Gabe are exactly what I need to ease some of my anxiety about leaving my mom behind for the last time—or at least what I need to take my mind off it. The finality of it is crushing me on the inside.

There’s always a wave of mental anguish and self-loathing reminding me that I should be stronger, that I shouldn’t have to rely on drinking to handle a bump on the road of life.

It was scary enough when I had to ask for help weaning myself off painkillers after my surgery.

Those pills took away all my feelings. It was fucking amazing, but I never want to go back to that.

A nagging voice in the back of my mind keeps telling me I’m going to end up back in DTES, sharing a room in an SRO with my addict mom.

Instead of scaring me straight, it makes me wish I didn’t have to catch a flight later and could just drink until I pass out on Gabe’s couch.

Because so far, drowning myself in mind-altering substances has been the only way for me to block out the past and the pain.

I guess I’m a Mama’s Boy at heart.