Joyful Puppet

Even in borrowed high-heels and two pounds of make-up, my fourteen-year-old self didn’t look old enough to enter a bar. The doorman eyed my scrawny legs and asked for my ID. I turned to leave, but Mom took my arm and ushered me past the confused man and into the establishment. “It’s okay,” she stated, “I’m her mother.”

My mom’s friend and my older cousin followed us to a table. Mom and her friend were on the dance floor almost before we sat down. Dancing wasn’t something Mom did; it was something she became. A joyful puppet, and the music her puppeteer. I’ve never seen anyone smile when they dance the way that she did. I watched in awe as Mom’s unrestrained joy drove the dancing crowd to abandon inhibition.

She tried to get me to dance, but I felt more comfortable sitting with my cousin and trying to be inconspicuous. Mom had ordered me fries and a coke, but after a while, my cousin’s whiskey and coke caught my curiosity. The taste of the whiskey provoked my gag reflex, but I felt pretty cool stealing sips. Sips led to gulps and gulps led to guzzles. I didn’t care about being inconspicuous anymore. I let the music into my body and prepared to dance. But when I stood, I discovered that the floor had somehow slanted. My body teetered left and I stumbled forward. Whiskey and high heels had bamboozled my legs. I needed to gain control, to fight the fog enveloping my mind.

A sudden need for quiet and solitude took me on an erratic journey to the bathroom. I squinted in the bright light. Something wasn’t right. The air was fuzzy. I sought the serenity of a stall and relished the quiet privacy as I leaned against the door. My body banged against one side of the metal stall and bounced off the other before I was able to get my pants down and do my business. After, I somehow perched myself on top of the toilet tank and dug a cigarette out of my purse.

The deep drag of warm nicotine filled me with calm, steadied my confusion. But the whiskey retaliated and tried to throw me off the tank. I braced myself with my hand against the stall and fought to stay seated. I exhaled and the smoke turned the fuzzy air into a dirty cloud of confusion. I gazed into the cloud and tried to think. Then there was a face. The most beautiful face. Who was she? Perhaps an angel. I took another drag and contemplated her beautiful presence through the haze, wondering who this lovely woman was and why she was smiling at me. The smoke, and my mind, cleared a little. “Oh,” I said. “You’re my mom.” She dropped the cigarette into the toilet and reached for me. I was found.

“You’re like a baby deer,” she laughed as she steered me back to my chair.

The beautiful face is in heaven now, and unrestrained joy is her eternity. But her love still reaches for me. Still finds me. Love never dies.