Make It Two

by Kevin Saito

365 days. 8,760 hours. 525,600 minutes.  

That’s how long it’s been since my last drink. The chip in my pocket feels like a lead weight, and I wonder how many of those days, hours, and minutes I’d trade not to be the one sitting here.

She lies beneath the sheet, her body small and frail. It’s like I can see her diminishing with every passing moment. There are so many different tubes and wires sticking into and coming out of her, I’m not sure where the machines begin and my mother ends.

‍ ‍Beep. Hiss. Beep. Hiss.  

The rhythm is steady. Constant. Mechanical. All traces of the woman seem lost in the hum of the machinery sustaining her. The doctors have already been through, their words all running together to form one incomprehensible string of bullshit in my head. No viable chance of recovery. Organs shutting down. Decisions need to be made.

Outside the room, a cart with a sharp, squeaky wheel rolls past. I can hear whispered conversations in the hall. The squeak of rubber shoes on the tile flooring. The hospital’s intercom crackles and the name of a doctor I don’t know echoes through the corridors, calling him to room 214. The business of life being conducted by those who usher in death.

‍ ‍Beep. Hiss. Beep. Hiss.  

Fighting back my tears, I take her hand in mine. It’s cold and thin, her skin like paper. Air catches around the tube in her throat, forcing out a noise that almost sounds like a word. Her eyelids tremble and for a moment, I think she’s about to wake. She doesn’t.

The sounds around me begin to fade and soon, all I can hear is the machine forcing breath into my mother’s body.  

‍ ‍Breathe in.

‍ ‍Breathe out.

‍ ‍Breathe in.

‍ ‍Breathe out.

With the third breath, the doors slide open. Of course it’s this place. The cracked skylight of the Shoreline Galleria looms overhead. Most of the stores before me are dark, their doors covered by metal gates, their windows by old newspapers. A few shops seem to be hanging on. For what, I’m not sure. The mall is quiet.

The fountain in the middle of the concourse is dry. The light blue tiles are cracked and dotted with the dark outlines of the coins that had once filled the bottom of the fountain. Remnants of wishes that had gone unfulfilled.

“Well, this place is depressing.”

Her voice makes my heart lurch and I fight back the emotions welling within me. Rolling my one-year coin across my knuckles, I nod and force a laugh out of my throat.

“If you think this is depressing, you should see what I just left,” I say. 

She surveys the mostly empty concourse. “It’s dying.”

“More like, it’s already dead.”

She turns to me. “Almost. But not quite,” she says. “Come on.”

We ride down the escalator and the sound of pop music playing through the mall’s speakers—Tiffany’s version of “I Think We’re Alone Now”—and the shrieking, squealing laughter of children fill my ears. By the time we hit the ground floor, the mall is bright. Lively. Electric. The air is filled with the scent of cinnamon and fried treats from the food court, as well as the citrusy sweetness of the Orange Julius.

“You always loved those things,” she says.

“I still do.”

The edges of my coin bite into my palm as I follow her. There are people all around us. But they’re like overexposed images transposed over the world. Light and transparent. There but not really there. As we walk down the suddenly crowded concourse, they weave around us. I know where she’s taking me before we get there. We turn the familiar corner and find ourselves standing in front of the toy store.

Because of course.

Through the window, we watch as a woman kneels down in front of a young boy. She never brought me here on the good weeks. Only after a lapse. An episode. One of her “rough patches.” Only when she felt she needed to apologize.

“It wasn’t an apology,” she says.

“Then what was it?”

“I just knew you loved it here.”

We can’t hear the woman and the boy through the glass, but I already know what’s being said. He’s holding the newest Transformer. She smiles as he jumps up and down. I watch as she takes it to the counter, the boy following her, squealing with delight. Her expression darkens and her frown deepens as she pulls the cash out of her wallet. She hesitates for just a beat before turning the smile back on and handing the money to the cashier.

The boy, with the toy tucked under his arm, takes her hand and together, they walk out of the store. She’s smiling down at him as he beams with pure joy. I can see through her smile though. I can see the pain behind it. The power in our house was turned off three days later.

“You loved that toy,” she says. “You even slept with it.”

“I would have rather had food in the house.”

“You say that now.”

“I was a child.”

“I was trying.”

“I know.” I grip the coin so tight it hurts. “That’s part of the problem. You were always trying. You just never changed.”

She opens her mouth, perhaps to tell me again that she tried. She seems to think better of it. Instead, we turn silently and watch the pair walking down the concourse until they fade into transparency with the rest of the crowd.

“Do you really think I didn’t know why you’d bring me to the toy store?” I ask. “You were always a smart boy,” she replies.

“Then why bring me here?”

“You know why.”

“Because you were trying to buy my forgiveness after one of your rough patches.”

A frown creases her lips and she lowers her gaze. But then she raises her head again and offers me a smile.  

“It wasn’t always bad,” she says. “We had some good days too.”

“I guess we did.”

“Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Just… come with me.”

We walk deeper into the mall. The song has changed from Tiffany to Duran Duran’s, “New Moon on Monday.” The music distorts, becoming something eerie and sick sounding. The there-but-not-there people drift around us, giving us a wide berth, as if some part of them senses we don’t belong among them. We pass a Hot Topic, edgy rock music drifting through the open doorway. When I glance through the window, I see an image of the shop, paper over windows that are dirty and cracked and a door that’s gated and chained. It all lasts just a blink before everything becomes bright and vibrant again.

We stand before the bike shop. In the window, I see the gleaming chrome frame of the Diamondback Silver Streak. The tires are sturdy. Knobby. The rims gleam brightly and the well oiled chain glistens in the overhead lights. The image flickers. Rust spreads across the frame. The tires sag, the chain is dry, and the rubber handlebar grips crack—decay superimposed over the new, gleaming bike in the window.

“You loved that bike,” she says. “You were so happy when I bought it for you.”

I watch the young boy wheeling the bike out of the store, his face bright, his eyes shining. She walks beside him, looking down at him with adoration. The bitter sting of disappointment after she’d missed his birthday evaporated with that look—and with the bike.

The boy was optimistic.

Excited.

“You were so proud when you learned how to ride that bike,” she says.

The small, fond smile that curled my lips fades. “I never learned to ride it.”

She turns to me. “What? Of course you did.” 

The image changes. I see the boy standing on the sidewalk wearing his helmet, his knee and elbow pads, the bike beside him. He’s bouncing on his feet. Excitement on his face. He looks up and down the street. Waiting. He waited until long after the sun had gone down before wheeling the bike back into the garage.

She didn’t come home for two days. I watch the boy as he watches her staggering through the door, hair tousled, clothes askew, eyes bloodshot. She doesn’t even acknowledge him as she walks into her bedroom and slams the door behind her. He doesn’t see her again until the following morning.

“I remember it distinctly. You were so proud—” 

“I never learned to ride it.”  

The image changes again. I see the boy in the garage checking the tires, oiling the chain, the light in his eyes dimming but still hopeful. But the days turned into weeks, which turned into months, and all the while, the bike rusted. The chain dried up. The tires flattened. The plastic grips on the handlebars cracked and peeled away.  

“You promised to teach me to ride it,” I say. “You never did.”

“Of course I did. Don’t be silly.”

“It was just another promise you didn’t keep.”

She’s silent for a moment and gnaws on her bottom lip. She turns to me, a confused expression spreading across her face.

She doesn’t remember.

“I didn’t teach you?” she asks. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I never learned to ride.”

When I look at her again, she’s holding a cigarette. She lifts it to her lips and draws deeply, her eyes faraway as she exhales a thick plume of smoke. She’s trying to remember. Finally, she shakes her head and looks down. 

“You could have asked somebody to teach you,” she finally says.

“I wanted you to teach me.”

She recoils like I slapped her and suddenly can’t meet my eyes.

“I just wanted you to keep one of your fucking promises,” I say. “Just once.” She takes another drag. The bell on the bike rings out.

‍ ‍Beep.  

‍ ‍Beep.  

She exhales another cloud of smoke.  

‍ ‍Hiss. 

‍ ‍Hiss.  

Her face clouds over with emotion. “I meant to keep my promise. I really did.”

“You always meant to keep your promises.”  

Her face brightens slightly, as if she hears a note of forgiveness in my tone. 

“That was the worst part,” I say.

I grip the coin tighter, the scalloped edges cutting into my skin. 

“You’ve kept your promise,” she says.

“So far.”

She takes another drag then drops her cigarette and crushes it beneath her shoe. 

“Come on, let’s go,” she says.

We walk down the long concourse. The crowd of there-but-not-there people thins. The music slows; the voices become distorted. The storefronts around us flicker between what they were and what they are. The smell of cinnamon and citrusy sweetness gives way to antiseptic and something medicinal before it all snaps back into place again. It’s confusing. Disorienting.

I squeeze my eyes shut and count to ten. And when I open them, the scene has changed again. I’m surrounded by dark, polished wood, red vinyl booths, brass railings, and faux Tiffany lamps. It’s immediately familiar. It’s a place I know all too well.

“Pull up a stool,” she says.

She’s sitting in her usual seat at the bar picking peanuts out of the bowl in front of her. She pops one into her mouth and chews. Through the windows, I can see the translucent shoppers and mall denizens passing by like they’ve not got a care in the world.

“Sit,” she says.

I take the stool next to her and look around. More of those there-but-not-there people are sitting in the booths. Two older men are seated at the bar, sitting a few stools down from us. Everybody is involved in their own little worlds. Nobody is paying attention to us.

“Drink,” she says.

I turn back and see the glass sitting in front of me. Scotch. My usual poison. She has the glass to her lips already, eyes closed and an expression of near rapture on her face as if tasting the sweetest ambrosia in the world. She drains the glass then sets it down.  

I stare into the glass in front of me, feeling my heart quiver as the familiar craving grips me. I reach for the glass with one hand. My other hand though, instinctively curls around the chip, letting the edges bite into my palm. I pull my hand away. She picks up her glass, refilled now, and takes a long swallow. She drains half of it in one go. Setting the glass back down in front of her, she turns to me.

“You hated seeing me drink,” she says.

“I hated who you became.”

She lifts her glass and peers at me over the rim as she drains it. She sets it back down again and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“We’re cut from the same exact cloth,” she says.

The amber liquid in the glass beckons me. Her glass is full again and she picks it up, the pattern all too familiar.

At the time, I didn’t understand it. Didn’t know what was happening. I was just too young to understand. Back then, all I knew was the longer she stayed, the more she changed. She looked at me funny. She was louder. She laughed a lot more—often at stupid things. Or sometimes, at nothing at all. And she always forgot what she’d said, even if it was something she’d said five minutes before. I learned to watch the level in her glass the way other kids learned to watch the clock.

Just one more. One more and then I promise we’ll go. It was just one more promise in the long string of promises she never kept.

“Don’t judge me,” she says.

“I’m not judging you,” I reply.

“Then what are you doing?”

I stare at her for a long moment. “I understand now.”

Her face brightens slightly, as if she’s somehow hearing absolution in my words.

“I understand how the wanting swallows everything else.”

She frowns and, for a heartbeat, looks like she might begin to cry. Instead, she turns away and raises her glass, downing it in one swallow. She sets the glass down hard—too hard—and stares straight ahead.

“I hated you for choosing it,” I say, my tone hard.

“I know.”

“But… I chose it too.”

“Then you understand.”

“I do.”

She slides the glass closer to me. “Drink with me.”

I stare into the glass and lick my lips as I grip the coin in my fist. I can practically taste the Scotch. Can practically feel the way it burns as it slides down my throat and settles in the pit of my belly. It’s warm. Comforting. It really is like falling into the embrace of an old lover. I squeeze the coin in my fist harder, wincing as the scalloped edges cut into my palm.

Letting out a long breath, I push the glass away. “No.”

“Come on, baby. Just have one drink with me.”

“I hated that you chose this,” I tell her.

“I loved you. You know that, right?”

“I know you did.”

She looks down into her glass and her shoulders loosen. Her face softens.

“But you always chose it over me,” I say.

Her face grows tight again. “That’s not fair.”

“No. It wasn’t.”

She sighs and stares into her glass. Her eyes shimmer with tears and her face turns red, pinched with emotion.

“I always wanted to stop. Meant to stop. I wanted to keep my promises to you,” she says. “I always thought I’d have another morning… another chance…”

Her voice trails off and she turns away, her face marked with shame.  

“So did I,” I say. “I spent my whole life waiting for you to wake up.”

She turns to me. “You’re still waiting.”

The speakers overhead crackle, the music distorts, and I hear a voice calling for some doctor I don’t know to report to room 214. The sharp squeak of rubber soles on tile echoes through the bar and the world around me flickers, sterile white tile and stainless steel superimposed over the dark wood and red vinyl. The image stutters and shakes like one photo negative laid over another.

‍ ‍Beep. Beep. Hiss. Hiss.

The sound of a ticking clock echoes in the back of my mind. She turns to me as if she can hear it too and feels like time is running out.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“For which part?”

“For… everything. All of it.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

“I know.”  

A lone tear races down her cheek. “Can you forgive me?”

“I understand you.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“That’s where we are, Mom.”

A small, sad smile touches her lips. But she nods in understanding. The smell of antiseptics and medicine grows thicker and the buzz of whispered conversations rings in my ears. Beep. Beep. Hiss. Hiss.

“What am I supposed to do?” I ask.

Her eyes drift to the untouched glass in front of me then to the coin sitting in my palm. “What you’ve already done,” she says.

“I don’t understand.”

“Keep the promise you made to yourself.” She stares at the coin. “You made it a year.”

“You didn’t.”

She stares into her glass again. “No,” she says then looks back up at me. “Make it two.”

The glass squeals sharply as I slide it across the bar…

‍ ‍Breathe in.  

‍ ‍Breathe out. 

‍ ‍Breathe in. 

‍ ‍Breathe out. 

… the cart with the squeaky wheel passes by the open door of her room. I open my eyes and stare at the coin in my palm and the deep grooves in my skin from gripping it. My mother’s hand rests limply in my other hand, her skin cold and brittle like old paper. Her eyes are closed. The machines breathe for her.

“Are you ready?”

I raise my eyes to the doctor standing near the head of the bed. The words are stuck in my throat and I can barely breathe. I nod. He presses his lips together, shooting for an expression of compassion but falling woefully short.

‍ ‍Breathe in. Click.

‍ ‍Breathe out. Click.

One by one the lights in the stores that fill the mall go out. The toy store. The bike shop. The bar. My mother stands at the far end of the concourse, holding the bike upright. Slowly, she turns and wheels the bike away.

The image flickers—what was, what is, what might have been.

The last light goes out.

366 days. 8,784 hours. 527,040 minutes.