The Gist of Everything
Liquor, lies, and the things left unsaid
November / December 2007
by Quade Hermann, from Geist
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Illustration by Ian Kim
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My mother stands at the top of the stairs, thin as a skeleton and reeking of booze.
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“Are you drunk?” I ask.
“No,” she says.
“Have you had anything to drink today?”
“No,” she says.
Lies, all lies. There are always more.
“Have you eaten?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“A peanut butter sandwich.” She sees my look. “And a glass of milk.”
“There’s no milk in the fridge.”
“I just finished it,” she says, irritated. This is her house, after all, her life. Who’s the parent here?
I could look in the garbage can to see if the milk carton is there, or under the sink to check how much is left of the 40-pounder of Bacardi white that was full yesterday. Or we could have a peaceful visit instead. Maybe it’ll give her a reason not to drink the next time she feels the need.
She’s not the only one who can lie to herself.
My mother has always been a fibber, a peddler of relative truth. In her hands, facts curve and shift until they’re true, but not true. It’s usually harmless, and often entertaining.
“Your Uncle Frank was a hero,” she declares. “He was decorated ten times.”
“It was two times, Gail,” says my aunt with a twinge of impatience.
My mother waves away disagreement with a slosh of rum and water. “The point is he was goddamned brave.” It’s the gist of the thing that’s important, and whatever serves the gist of it is true enough.
As my mother’s social drinking became heavy drinking and then slipped across the line into hard drinking, she hid it behind charming exaggerations and comical in-accuracies. The one true thing was her need for liquor, and over time everything else in her life became a lie. She never missed a day of work. She balanced her checkbook and kept a lovely home. She was so adept, so clever at hiding the truth, that it took me years to see it.
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