All This Life

Kathleen refuses to reach out to her son, saying that contacting him while he’s still a minor would also open up things with Larry, and she’s not strong enough to deal with that. She knows the first couple years of sobriety are brittle, and she needs to take care of herself. If she relapses, she’ll never right this wrong.

“It’s his eighteenth birthday,” Kathleen says. “He’s an adult. I’m out of excuses and scared about it.”

“Scared?”

“I did the worst thing a mother can do.”

“But that’s done,” Deb says and keeps scouring the caricature. “So what are you going to do now?”

“I don’t have any idea,” Kat says.

And that’s the problem. She’s lost. Kathleen can’t get any grip on the right move. A part of her thinks that he’s her only son and that entitles her to intrude back into his life, despite her unforgiveable behavior since his accident. Another part of her feels that’s selfish — she’s made her miserable bed and she needs to stew in these soiled sheets forever, forget about her son, she’s ruined that relationship and must live with the consequences of her selfishness. Of course, she tries to dismiss the latter interpretation, but it rolls into her mind like fog. She never declares a winner in these warring debates. She hears both sides, then gets frustrated and tired and sad, settling for brackish inaction.

She had time, damn it. He wasn’t eighteen. Not an adult. Under Larry’s jurisdiction. Now that those excuses have burned off, leaving her free to make a decision, she’s so bent up about it that all she can do is draw the meanest caricature in the world and hate herself.

“Good thing I have an idea,” Deb says, “and you are going to sit right here in my shop while I finish tattooing that woman. You’re going to watch her take that gnarled fucking scar and have it topped with something wonderful. That’s what you’re going to do. And maybe you’ll feel inspired to get off your ass and contact him, Kat.”

Deb hands the caricature back to Kathleen and begins to restock her station, filling up the ink caps with what she’ll need to complete the work.

Kathleen actually relaxes after Deb calls her on all the bullshit. It’s what she adores about her sponsor, her prying right into the matter’s heart. Certainly, Kathleen could keep feeling sorry for herself, what she lost, what she gave away, the resentment she feels about how unfair it was, a child being injured like that. She can’t ever imagine forgiving herself. She might be carting around the caricature that she’d done earlier that day, but she’s been carrying her own since the day she left Traurig.

Kathleen can remember a time clean of any caricatures, any distortions. She and Larry maybe not fairy-tale-happy but far from mean to each other. When Rodney was first born. Their perfect boy making all the tiredness worth it, all the double shifts for her husband while Kathleen stayed up all night with the baby. She’d swear the first three months of Rodney’s life were one long day — a repeating one, the opposite of a mythology-style punishment. Barely kept track of the time of day besides the dark or light. He would scream if he was set down, demanding to sleep straight on Kathleen’s chest, so she carted him around everywhere. He slept while she listened to him breathe, worrying about SIDS, worrying about things much more practical than a weather balloon.

She was so sleepy and never changed out of her bathrobe. Covered in leaked breast milk. Smelling of Parmesan cheese that had been quickly aged in her son’s stomach and spit back up, leaving pale stains on the robe that looked like clouds.

It actually became a joke, Larry saying, “You’ve sprouted another cloud,” and Kat laughing like an overwhelmed but satisfied new mom, feeling a purpose she’d never known.

They were exhausted parents trying to figure out what they’d gotten themselves into. The loss of any semblance of free time. Loss of freedom and fun. Loss of identity. Loss of sex. Loss of any intimacy between spouses, juggling all these new responsibilities. The house was in shambles and rent was late and they hadn’t grocery-shopped in who knows how long and hygiene was in dubious states, but despite all that they were happy — happy! — rallying together to figure all this out.

Back then they were portraits, not caricatures. No hyperbolic features. No funhouse remixes. No exaggerated facial details for comic effect.