Ties That Bind

By Brandy Summers

Confronted with a scenario, a story, or simply asked for advice, most people will tell you what they would do. People lie. It's not until someone close to you shows the darkest side of themselves, until everything you know to be true unravels, that you truly know who you are. When faced with the decision in real time, people do strange things, things they wouldn't admit, and are often ashamed of, things they never thought possible.
As the Malloy family faces the addiction of one of their own, gears change, plans are adjusted or tossed out; friends become enemies and enemies, friends. As the decisions of one person ripple out to those around her, a family is torn apart by addiction, greed and betrayal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brandy Summers
• Release date: May 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301932252

Book preview

Ties That Bind

Brandy Summers

Published by Brandy Summers at Smashwords

Copyrite 2013 Brandy Summers

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

About the Author

Ties That Bind

Family. To some, a support and genetic reminder of being part of something bigger, to me, an ongoing cautionary tale.

Chapter 1

Al-Anon. This is what my borderline psychotic, bipolar, alcoholic mother had emphatically suggested.

"It would really help with my recovery, if you would try to understand my disease."

This word, disease, is a fundamental concept we will always disagree on. Alcoholism is weak, it is careless, it is selfish, it is a choice, not a disease.

Cancer is a disease. Diabetes is a disease. You never see a crowd of people racing to cure alcoholism. I bet those groups would shun my selfish mother. How dare she take something so serious and painful and twist it to make it fit her agenda.

My father is hoping for the best and expecting just that. We need to be patient, give her time. He assured me in a soothing voice, I'm sure it's not easy to ask for help.

Ask for help? How exactly, is me investing more of my time in some phony group with sob stories of other lost mothers and brothers, help? I wasn't always this skeptical. My relationship with my mother wasn't always like this. I have fond memories, early memories. Most I can’t recall, but there are a few that are singed on my memory, those I can’t forget.

I remember brushing her hair. I have her thin hair. I remember her sitting on the living room floor in front of the couch, as I'd sit above, straddling her broad shoulders, with my tools sitting next to me on the stiff divan cushion. Primarily, those cheapy plastic barrettes with the molded bows, that held barely any hair at all. What was the purpose of those things? Decorative I suppose. Who in their right mind thought to themselves, or God forbid spoke the words, "You know what this permed, ratted, eighties rat's nest of a hairstyle needs, aside from taller bangs or one solid curl of sprayed bangs? A bold colored plastic accessory barrette! Where can I find them?!" Good night. Awful.

The only other tools more perplexing than those damn barrettes were the infinity looking hair ties with the hard plastic bulbs on each end. How many strands of hair have fallen victim to these brutal torture implements? To get them nested into your hair was hard enough, but removal without blunt force was a nonoccurrence.

We’d sit and watch soaps, and I'd brush and style her hair. She'd always be just enamored with the finished product. Oh my! I just love what you've done with the different ponytails, like palm trees growing from my very own head, and braids on top! Wow, it looks amazing.

I assure you, the only thing that was amazing, was her ability to not break character while complimenting the medusa madness encasing her dandruff sloughing scalp. How many Head and Shoulders commercials did it take for me to make that connection? Too many.

If my own husband knew, this is where his beloved scratches originated. Something that started as a dandruff removal technique, morphed into a relaxation scalp scratching in study hall, and later a frequent bedtime request in a light child's voice, scratches?

I remember my mother lying on the couch, feigning a chill, intensity increasing as needed to get my dutiful attention. I'd go find a blanket, blanket of choice being a not entirely comfortable scratchy wool blend with a massive koala clutching a bamboo branch, right in the center. It was one of those blankets that may have been soft in its infancy, but has now been washed to discomfort. I'd cover her entirely; toes to nose, then stand back to take in my work and suddenly a foot or hand would be uncovered. "My toes are so cold. Oh no, you missed my hand." More blankets were recruited until my mom was covered in a pile of warmth and my intense satisfaction.

Many of these memories have clear imagery, the koala blanket, the hair ties. I can smell the cheap Suave shampoo and the potpourri on the living room book shelf. I can feel her thin greasy hair and the rough texture of the warm blankets. These are a few I can see clearly, many are gone altogether, but these and a few others I cling onto, like a parent clutching their child's hand in a parking lot, for fear I might lose them forever. When someone's no longer in your life, all you have is what has happened, what they've said and done.

Will I go to Al-Anon? No. I. Will. Not.

The last meeting I went to was an Al-Anon guise. My mom asked that I go with her. Other people bring their family members. I always share such nice things about you guys. I just wish you could go. Malarkey. I took the bait, and mere hours later I'm sitting in a meeting room at Baptist Hospital with a room full of drug addicts and alcoholics. The warmth of summer had dribbled into fall and showed no sign of letting up. The heat outside paired with the stale air conditioning inside created a smoked glass impression on the only window. I escalated from uncomfortable to claustrophobic before taking my first bite of the stale complimentary cookie I'd snagged on my way in. My first thought as I drank in the room, "At least my mom’s not this bad. Twitchy, scraggly beard in the corner may have had drugs as a light" item his list of offenses. Each criminal looking character was worse than the last.

Nearly half the room was comprised of men in various states of despair and unrest; looking similar to the folks you might see at a busy intersection asking for spare change.

Don't look at them, and they won't bother you.

This pearl of wisdom was supplied by my mother, likely on a Plaza excursion. My mom has never been one to venture out, and as a rule, avoided large groups. Birthday parties, sleepovers with a guest list of more than one, these were things we just didn't do. The Plaza was one of few things that combined these two things and continued to appeal to my mother. The Plaza is a place of lavishness and wealth. The shops and restaurants certainly draw the haves in for purchases, and bring the have not’s for window shopping and shoplifting. We were have not’s who packed our lunches and took off in the name of power walking and sightseeing.

Once inside the Plaza compound, there are wonders of architecture and sculpture. Being only blocks from the more youthful Westport, the people watching of cultures blending is choice. However, the ten minutes of the drive closest to this oasis are less than desirable. The Plaza was an island of riches, surrounded by a sea of rough streets.

Miles before crossing Prospect and Paseo, my mom would hit the automatic locks, hands at ten and two with a white knuckle grip on the steering wheel. In the rear view she could see me eying the street people curiously. Bus stops attract a strange brew of characters. As we pulled up to a red light, I could feel my mother tense as the blinders went up.

Don't look at them, and they won't bother you. She could anticipate my curiosity, but interpreted it incorrectly.

Do you have any money? I asked. That man needs money to eat.

He'll just buy booze with it.

She'd said it with such disgust. Those people, and now I'm surrounded on all sides by them, because of her. The group was a fair mix of men and women, age range varied. Some looked harmless; like they'd headed off to work this morning and twenty minutes later they found themselves here in this room, instead of at work in their cubical. The look on their face reflected their surprise, but also a glimmer of indulgence, as though they were humoring the undesirables by not immediately standing up and walking out. My reaction to the group as a whole was similar to the people asking for change, averting my eyes for the most part.

AA, NA, these are groups that give a non-A real confidence and self-worth. As an eighteen year old, I was younger than most everyone in the room and looked younger than everyone in the room. To my right a small Indian gentleman was sitting comfortably. Academic looking spectacles and a sweater vest, he classed up the room to put it mildly. He'd been writing in a notebook ever since we walked in, and I had become increasingly concerned he may be a straggler from an earlier group. As I had this thought, he suddenly looked up, closed the notebook and rose from his seat. Bingo! I just hoped he could make his way to the door without incident. Rather than move toward the door, he cut right and went toward the center. This fellow was the leader of our session.

The small man gave his spiel, and then turned the meeting over to the mob. How quickly people just throw their dirt out for all to see. I'm sure it's cleansing, but wow. Cheating, lying, stealing, abuse, addiction, just a few stories in and I'm sure if it wasn't already clear I didn't belong, it was glaring now. As I tried to control my breathing and look unphased, Good Rodney, thank you for your share. Who's next? With vigor the person beside me shot up from their seat. I looked up to see my mom, absolutely beaming.

My name is Lynne, and I'm an alcoholic.

I must have had a look on my face that showed how inappropriate her bubbly voice and sweet smile were. Does she know this is odd behavior? Does she like the label? Is she high?

It's been 18 days since my last drink. She was rushing the process talk, following procedure but just barely. This is my daughter. I've told you about her. Paige and her sister and brother are such a help in my recovery. She looked down at me with big doe eyes. I thought this would be difficult, but with these guys cheering me on, and my husband of course. My family is willing to do whatever it takes to see me get better...

This went on for what felt like days. After the first few sentences, I could hear my blood rushing in my ears and my forehead beading with sweat. What was she saying? I'd been passive at best. After the first rehab, I made every attempt to avoid my mother entirely. She had gone off to do a stint of detox and rehab at this very hospital, Get clean. is the phrase she used. I thought it was a bit dramatic for a flush or cleanse or whatever they do for alcoholics. Get clean. came with visions of track marks up one arm and down the other, and fingertips with trace amounts of coke being rubbed incessantly along an addict’s unkempt teeth.

After about a week in the treatment facility, there were signs of calm before the storm. Laughter around the house had dropped off almost entirely by the day of my mom’s return and everyone moved more cautiously, not knowing what to expect. Optimistic? Sure, but for me I can only compare it to welcoming a new child into the world, only I was waiting to meet my new mom for the first time. My dad had been aware of my mom's drinking problem for a while. I didn't know what while meant, and he didn’t seem keen on details regarding this particular topic. Maybe the person who my dad was going to pick up would be the answer to my dad's heartfelt prayers. As I was imagining how it would happen, in walked my mother.

Five feet in the door she dramatically held her arms out to each side and dropped her overnight bags and continued walking toward the kitchen. "Did everyone miss me terribly? emphasizing the last word with a British drawl. She turned to look at me with vengeful beady eyes as she hung on the last word. Once she hit the kitchen she casually tossed the literature she'd been given over the week in the garbage. Throwing her purse on the couch she sat beside me, too close. Hugging me to her side she said, I hope things weren't too bad while I was away."

Rehab had caused my mom