Drunk Mom Read Online Free Page B

for my boyfriend, wooden ecological toys for Frankie; this was after all the parties. Sometimes it was just one person, one bottle. It was nothing. It was celebrating.
    So I’ve been drinking a little since my friend’s wedding, god, no, not that much, technically, practically nothing, a sip here and there in thestream of celebratory sips. And now, not much at all. Every other day, if that, but it’s mostly wine, it’s civilized. I drink it with my meals. I try to learn about wine. You can pair one wine with fish, another with red meat.
    I don’t say any of this to my friend. But just in case I say, Yeah, I’ve got it under control.
    I know you do, he says like I’m not even there.
    I say, Another one?
    Sure.
    My friend matches me drink for drink. He is at least twice my size.
    We talk about babies.
    Or I talk.
    The C-section scar is still raised and red and crazy-looking. Really something. He doesn’t want to see it. That is fine with me.
    Things are starting to spin slightly.
    I tell an anecdote about baby’s projectile poop and my friend laughs. There are a few more rounds of drinks, the dinner crowd is starting to arrive. He asks me about the art project. We’ll get to it, I promise.
    I talk more about babies but at one point he cuts me off and says he has to pick up his own kid from soccer practice. He asks me if I’m going to be okay going home in this state.
    I’m fine.
    I get back on my bike. I make one stopover on my way home. This liquor store is close to home and I try not to come here too often. The drunken teenage buskers and behind-the-Dumpster types are shockingly observant. You’d think they would be out of it, but no. Some of them have started saying hello when they see me, so lately I try to avoid this store. But today I risk it and stop by to pick up something extra for later on.

    I didn’t have a drink, you’re pissing me off with these accusations, I say to my boyfriend when I get home.
    He sniffs me again.
    Please.
    How was your meeting, he wants to know.
    It was fine. We talked about art.
    Your project?
    What else.
    Are you sure you’re going to be okay if I leave?
    Of course. I’ll be fine. You’re being really weird.
    I’m sorry, he says.
    When he gets back, I’m unconscious on the floor. He relates the whole story to me later, through clenched teeth.
    The baby is in his wicker basket. The baby is screaming, possibly trying to outdo the bombastic sounds coming out of the speakers. All the lights are on. The boyfriend notices I’ve changed my dress while he’s been out. I notice this too, on waking the next day.
    The story continues.
    First, he turns off the music.
    He talks to me. Tries to talk to me. My ear against the carpet.
    He suggests I get up.
    I do nothing.
    He orders me to get up.
    Nothing.
    Eventually, he has to give up and lifts my head and slaps me, hard, across the face. He tells me this, his eyes not wavering, not leaving my face as he says it: I had to slap you.
    So he slaps me.
    Nothing.
    He pulls me up to my feet and lets me drop. He drags me to the bathroom and splashes my face with cold water. He shouts.
    Nothing.
    I am eventually dragged to bed, upstairs, deposited there with my clothes on. The door is closed.
    Downstairs, in the wicker basket the baby is soaked in piss and milk and not calming down.
    After my boyfriend rocks him for a while, the baby finally falls asleep. His face remains too pink hours later, irritated by all the accumulated snot and tears. He is barely 12 pounds, and his arms and legs remain curled up—they are still formed to fit in a womb. His eyes can’t focus yet; there are still soft spots on his skull.
    My boyfriend sits in his office chair with the sleeping baby in his arms, watching him breathe. My boyfriend doesn’t sleep all night. He watches him breathe, all night. He didn’t care if I was okay, he tells me. He was just watching the baby. Breathe.
    There is no reason to hate me or to panic, I say when I get up the next