Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43681 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43681 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
“Lemme cook you kids some bacon and eggs,” Mom says as she opens the refrigerator.
She pulls out all the condiments. Salad dressing. Ketchup. Mustard. Mayonnaise. Her frown grows by the second as she juggles them in her tiny arms. She’s so plastered that she doesn’t realize she’s pulling out everything except eggs and bacon. It’s not like they’re hidden. I see them in the fridge door.
“Mama, let me take those.” I grab the items and deposit them on the counter. “We’re okay with breakfast for now. I was thinking of takin’ Cash out for greasy diner hash browns. You don’t need to—”
“Stop, stop. Leave me alone.” Mom is annoyed with my fussing.
That’s Loretta Shaw, a fucked-up drunk who can’t handle anyone pointing out that she’s a fucked-up drunk. Taking care of her has been the story of my life, but I’m tired of it. I’ve put so many dreams on hold so she wouldn’t be alone. I moved across the country to keep my eye on her. I’ve lived my life for her.
The urge to yell at her is so strong. It simmers at the edges, about to boil over. But I do what I always do: bite my tongue so she doesn’t spiral out of control. She may look frail, but when that woman digs her heels in, God help anyone who tries to move her.
“Mama, please. Sit and tell me what you’ve got going on today.” I loop her elbow in mine and try to steer her to the barstools at the kitchen island.
“Gunner, let go of me.” She swats my hands away.
My eyes land on her gnarled fingers, trembling with the need for more alcohol. Or less? It’s hard to tell anymore.
Her cocktail of pills and alcohol clouds her judgment and pollutes her perception of reality. The more I press her into treatment, counseling, or plain connection, the more she rails against me. As far back as I can remember, I’ve never known when my mom was up or down. All I knew was I had to keep her calm before she blew. And right now, I would do anything to keep my mother from blowing with Cash here.
“Mrs. Shaw, let me make you a cup of coffee.” Cash stands across the counter, battling with the coffeemaker.
“Unless you’re puttin’ a little nip of something good in it, I don’t want it.” Her words are abrupt as she digs inside her huge designer purse and pulls out plastic medicine containers. God knows if she needs any of it. Those hack doctors prescribe narcotics like Tic Tacs.
Finally, her fingers wrap around a tiny flask decorated with red rhinestone roses, and she uncaps it. “Johnny Loveless gave me this pretty little thing. I’ve carried it every day since.” Mom winks at Cash and tips her head, drinking a few quick swallows before recapping it. “You know who Johnny Loveless is?” She wipes her mouth, eyes not even looking in Cash’s direction.
“Sure. I grew up on his first three albums. He’s one of my favorites.” Cash’s eyes dart from my mom’s to mine. I sure as fuck hope she isn’t planning an escape route because I’ll end up in jail for kidnapping.
“He sure was a cowboy in the bedroom, let me tell you.” Mama shakes her head, a deep smile turning up her lips. “The night we played the Opry together, he gave me this. Said he had it made for his wife, but she didn’t sing anywhere near as pretty as I did…”
Fuck, here we go. My mom reminiscing about all her affairs and the marriages she broke up isn’t a conversion I want her to have with my already skittish girlfriend. “Okay, well, always lovely revisiting memory lane, but—”
“Oh, don’t get all jealous of me because you gave up on the career you could’ve had, Gunner. I opened doors for you and gave you the best shot in the business. But instead of climbing that ladder and reaching for the moon, you dropped everything, moved here, and opened a pathetic bar,” my mother rambles.
Good old Loretta Shaw, the queen of country music, the pioneer for women in the industry, and a sloppy drunk who never appreciates what she has unless it can put her in a damn alcoholic coma.
“Hey, Mrs. Shaw. I’d love to hear all about your time in the industry. I’m just coming off my first world tour. There were so many things I want to do better next time. Would you like to take a walk outside with me? We’ll get some fresh morning air and talk music—”
Mom’s eyes hold Cash’s for long beats before she trails her gaze up and down her body. “Do you write your own music?”
“It’s my favorite part,” Cash says with a nervous smile.
“Well, ain’t we two peas in a cute little pod?” Mom grins at me, loops her arm with Cash’s, and lets her guide her out the front door.