I found him passed out in the bathtub with water overflowing the sides, flooding the bathroom and dining room, warping the floorboards and twisting my heart. Earlier that day he strummed ballads on his guitar in the grass while I reclined in the hammock, wind and melody swaying me. It’s terror that consumes me rather than anger He got up, still a little drunk, and we jumped into action. Towels, trip to Home Depot for a wet vac, more towels. We noticed the warped floor boards the next day. “Mom, I’m really sorry.” So many sorry’s. So many times I’ve tried to say and do the right things to prevent the destruction and self-destruction, having yet to accept the powerlessness.
Sometimes our house feels like we have a tiger with a low growl stalking us, and all the other inhabitants of the cage tip-toeing about and ducking the claws. In the next heartbeat, hilarious, clever and sweet, you never know what you might get. The sweet little face I remember staring at me, crossing his eyes to make “two-mommy’s.” Soul-stirring melodies, brilliant ideas, unique perspective. The pain seeping through the cracks, quieted only by another pour. How do you ever stop trying to save the life of the person you gave life?
I will never stop trying to save your life.
I will never stop trying to save your life.
I will never stop trying to save your life.
Even if it’s our undoing.
2
My son Sam and I lived in a cute little gray and white-trimmed Cape Cod-style house with a garden in front and a deck on the side. There was a plastic castle in the backyard even though Sam hadn’t played in it for a decade. Our last name “Blacksmith” was lettered onto the mailbox. A wooden letter “S” hung in the front hall since he was Sam and I was Sadie. The Blacksmith’s were scattered about the Western suburbs of Chicago now, but we came from a line of homesteaders in the old American West. For that reason, we all had names that sounded like we just fell off of a covered wagon. Sadie and Sam Blacksmith, my brother Delbert, my father Bartholomew, my Aunt Clementine. Our people sang plaintive ballads around campfires under starry skies and cured everything with a shot of whiskey. We had only come into the enlightenment that alcoholism was a family disease in recent years. By then we had lost our patriarch, my father, to the disease when I was in my teens. Now we had all taken different roads on similar journeys.
Maybe it was the thrill of uncharted territory in our blood, but Sam and I loved going to garage sales. It was our treasure hunt, like mining for gold, sifting through other people’s junk until we found a nugget.
Sam and I first saw the goblet with The Lord of the Rings logo and characters molded into the knobby glass on one early-morning expedition. There was even a switch on the bottom that turned on a green glow of light. Precious. We didn’t notice the SD card attached underneath the lighted base. We also missed the initials “SB” scratched into the bottom. We handed over 50¢ for this treasure and would find out later how terribly significant the SD card and initials were. It was meant for us, and no one else.
Garage sale-ing, was a verb to us and one of our favorite activities, starting back when Sam was young. It was he and I against the world then. We’d plan our route the night before and get up early to hit the rich neighborhoods first. When Sam was about 5, he thought that everything we owned came from garage sales. When people would say, “Sam, where’d you get that great T-shirt,” he’d reply “garage sale,” even if it came from Macy’s as a gift from his Aunt Clementine.
I’d been making a decent wage now so our garage sale habit was less based on need and more about a shared quest. Our garage sale obsession continued now that Sam was a teenager and his friends all had curtains of hair that hung across their eyes, rode skateboards and had their first drink. I loved that this was still something he enjoyed doing with me. There weren’t many things like that anymore. Around that same time, our house was broken into for the first time.
“Mom, I think someone is in the house!” Sam said in a loud whisper when he came into my room at 2 am. He had always had nightmares and imaginative fears. Now that he was 16, that hasn’t stopped. But this time, it was no dream. I propped myself up and stared hard into the darkness as if that would allow me to listen better. I heard the soft thud of a kitchen cabinet. My cell phone was on the charger downstairs. Damn. I pulled on yoga pants that were strewn over a nearby chair. Sam had a lacrosse stick in his hands, poised to defend the castle.
“Honey, let me see what’s up,” I whispered.
“No way, Mom,” Sam said gallantly.
“Is your phone up here?”
He pulled it out of his pajama pants pocket with a “eureka” expression on his face.
It shattered the silence as it bleeped an incoming text noise, scaring us both shitless. We scurried into the bathroom, locked the door and called 911. We stayed on the phone with dispatch until the police arrived. Only then did we emerge from the bathroom. As it turned out, the sliding glass doors to our side deck were forced open. We didn’t see any obvious items missing. My iPhone SE was on the charger in the kitchen, Sam’s laptop as on the coffee table, the TV was in the usual spot. My purse even had over $100 cash from the Lacrosse boosters T-shirt sale. One male and one female police officer took turns asking us questions. They quizzed Sam about his friends and would any of them do something like this as a prank or if they were high or drunk. He said, “no way.” I thought yes way, but didn’t say it out loud, just gave the female officer a look. She appeared not to pick up on it. They talked to us about blocking the sliding glass door with a strip of wood to prevent it from being opened, and also about getting a camera doorbell. Check and check, I would for suredo both things.
Naturally, neither of us slept well after Westmont’s finest left. Even worse, it was a school night. The next morning came fast. We finally noticed what was missing as we were fumbling around the kitchen, seeking quick and easy caffeine and sustenance. Sam had just cracked open a Red Bull and my hands were wrapped around a mug of steamy Dunkin Donuts Original from the Keurig.
“Where’s my Lord of the Rings goblet?” Sam said, opening and closing cabinet doors and the dishwasher. I helped him look over every inch of our kitchen to no avail.
“You don’t suppose the intruder took it,” I said half joking. Sam let out a half laugh at my half joke. Couple of halflings, we were. Then he left the room for a quick second and returned with something small and square.
“I forgot to tell you I found this in the base of the goblet the first time I put it in the dishwasher.’
“That’s an SD card. And when were you planning to mention it?”
“I forgot.”
Typical, I thought. Geez, no big deal, someone just stashed an SD card in our drinkware.
“What’s on it?”
“Dunno. Never checked. Haven’t thought about it until now.”
“Okay, Sam, do we have one of those SD reader thingies?”
“Not that I know of.”
We agreed we’d pick one up that night after work and lacrosse practice. I was working the early shift at the pharmacy, so I’d be off in time to go to Target for the SD card thingy and then swing by for Sam at lacrosse practice. I asked him who the text was from last night.
“Lucy. Her parents grounded her for coming home high again.”
“At two in the a.m. she needs to tell you this thing that happens every week?”
Sam shrugged. Lucy was sort of his girlfriend, though they didn’t use that term. They were both so physically beautiful in the way that teenagers can be, with slender bodies, porcelain faces and 1,000 watt smiles that got them out of many jams. Lucy had round periwinkle eyes that reminded me of a doll I once had. Lucy, Sam and their friends were full of exuberance and fearlessness, ready to embrace any risk. I’ve read about how the brain isn’t fully formed at their age, especially the part of the brain that plans and makes decisions. Faulty by design, one might say, all that youthful energy and a shortage of sense.
I got to practice and the team was gathered around the coach. I got out of my car for some air while I waited. The coach said something loud and the team responded with a grunt and shout, something like, “Fight fight, Sentinels.” The young men dispersed like noisy, bouncing jelly beans. I gave the coach a little wave, we were friendly and had engaged more than once about Sam. He looked down to avoid eye contact. Uh-oh, not a good sign. Sam and his pal Gavin threw their stinky bags and sticks into the hatch of our Honda CR-V and piled into the back seat. I looked back at Sam for an explanation.
“A few of us are suspended for four games for smoking in the parking lot.” My heart sank. Lacrosse is by far his healthiest distraction.
“Sam,” I uttered with a mix of admonishment and sadness.
“That nark James was such a pussy for telling the coach. We all had like one puff.” Sam was on the defensive and accusatory.
“Don’t act like this is no big deal. There will be consequences at home, beyond not playing lacrosse.”
“Coach said we have to dress and sit on the sidelines, anyway. So stupid.”
“Yes it was,” I said referring to his actions. “And you will be spending more time at home, too.” I said with the ongoing threat of being grounded. The rest of the drive was tense and mostly silent. I was so troubled by the incident I almost forgot about the SD reader I’d picked up. It wasn’t until we were eating dinner in front of the TV, Sam playing some zombie-killing video game, me reading my suspense novel, nibbling on taco salads. We were both masters of escapism, our denial du jour. We were nearly done eating when it popped into my head.
“Sam! Let’s see what’s on the SD.” He was startled out of zombie annihilation mode without protest. We huddled around my laptop and plugged in the cord. Sam inserted the SD card. Image files dotted onto the screen. I clicked open the first couple of JPEGs.
“What the fuck, these are pictures of me as a kid,” Sam blurted out.
I was stunned, but only said, “You’re still a kid.”
Sure enough, there was a cavalcade of photos, including first days of school from several grades, Halloween, pee-wee soccer games, Christmas morning … it was like someone raided my soul, as well as hacked my photos. Who would want to swipe all these photos?
“Are you sure this is the right card,” said Sam the skeptic.
“Of course,” I replied, “I don’t have any others.”
We re-traced the events that led to this moment together. We acquired the novelty Lord of the Ringsglass at a garage sale on the other side of town. A month later, someone breaks into our house in the middle of the night and steals it back? What the blazes could this be about. Sam had discovered the SD card hidden in the base of the glass under the light attachment. Said SD card is practically a documentary of Sam’s childhood. If this was some sort of prank, who would know we love garage sales and Lord of the Rings and who would know we’d be there that day? We were both totally creeped out.
“I’m thinking we should go to the police,” I said, “or maybe we should go back to that garage sale house?”
“Definitely garage sale house,” replied Sam, not having the best track record with the police. He’d had a few underage drinking incidents, but got away with warnings so far at this point in time.
Thinking about all of these photos in the hands of a stranger was absolutely chilling, but it also brought back a flood of memories. When Sam was a little kid, we didn’t yet have Facebook and Instagram to document every second of our children’s lives for the world to see. I went through a phase when he was young where all I would talk about was my kid, show people photos of my kid and funny things he did and said. The photos were all digital, but we still had prints made and I carried a small brag book around in my purse filled with snapshots of him through grade school. It was no small wonder why my social life was empty; I’m sure my kid talk was riveting. For a while I was also rocking that frumpy mom look—sweats, goofy T-shirts and was a little on the chubby side. But it didn’t matter. Sam was and still is my everything, my heart traveling outside my body.
I met Sam’s biological father, Jack Anderson, in my late twenties, when I was on a vacation with my best friend, a quest to cure both of our broken hearts after other relationships had blown up back home in Chicago. We were in New Orleans, captured by the spell of this magical city and it was the perfect antidote. Everything that happened felt fated. Meeting gentlemen strangers in a bar, hooking up in a shotgun house, vampires, pirates, brass bands on the street corner, psychics in the square and a burlesque show with a Parisian flair. It was a Mardi Gras fairy tale.
A couple months later, Sam was the best souvenir I ever got. My biological clock was ticking like a kettle drum, and all I could feel was overwhelming joy at the prospect of being a mother. I had decent insurance from my job as a pharmacist’s assistant. I had a great, supportive family. I could do this. Of course, I informed the bio dad because it was the right thing to do. But he evaporated into swamp fog faster than you can say “voodoo.” I thought fatherhood must have terrified him. In retrospect, I may have scared him off. My role growing up as the oldest sibling in an alcoholic family manifested in me trying to control my relationships, and fix my poor partners into what I thought they should be. I never heard back from him after I sent him a Father’s Day card filled with baby photos when Sam was just a few months old. My note included a suggestion that there were good jobs up here in the North. Now all these years later I had no idea what became of him. Sam got especially curious about his dad when he entered grade school and kids would talk about their dads. “I’m good at math, like my dad,” one fellow student would say. Or even the kid of divorced parents would brag, “My dad is taking me fishing this weekend.” A few rotten kids would tease him about not having a dad and tell him he was going to be a faggot when he grew up because he didn’t have a dad. It infuriated me to think that was probably the rhetoric they’d heard at home from their parents. I overcompensated as best as I could, and carried a cloak of guilt about this burden he would always bear. At one point Sam started telling everyone that his dad was a fugitive criminal on the run. It was a colorful story befitting our family heritage.
When the weekend arrived, Sam and I re-visited the house with the garage sale where The Lord of the Rings Goblet came into our possession. I found the address again in my map app and it was only a 12-minute drive. On our first visit, we had gotten there at 8 am, the first stop on our treasure hunt, and despite the early hour there were already cars lined up on the street. Not the fancy new Lexus and Lincolns of the residents, but the late-model Toyotas and the like of the garage sale aficionados. Our 2015 Honda CRV fit right in. Today, though, We were the only car visiting and it was a respectable late morning hour.
First, we sat in the car parked across from the driveway and watched the house like a couple of detectives on surveillance duty. We saw a large man walking a tiny poodle. We saw a landscaping truck rumble by, probably on its way to do a fall cleanup. At last we saw someone emerge from the house to retrieve the morning paper. Lucky for us, the paper delivery was way off its mark, so the woman had to venture out onto their walkway, giving us time to approach.
“Good morning,” I said cheerily, startling her a bit. She sported expensive yoga clothes an asymmetrical bob haircut. Her eyes narrowed in our direction. I quickly offered an explanation.
“I’m Sadie and this is Sam. We were at your garage sale.”
“Estate sale,” she corrected through clenched teeth, “We’re downsizing.” I noticed the For Sale sign in the front yard and the veins in her well-manicured hands revealing her age, perhaps an empty nester. She didn’t offer her name.
“We have a quick question for you about an item we bought.”
“We have a no returns no refunds policy,” she replied dismissively.
“Oh no, we’re just wondering how you came about the Lord of the Rings glass,” I interjected quickly before she could turn her back on us.
“It lights up,” Sam added, in case she needed a fuller description.
She considered that a moment. “We had a table where we allowed neighbors to add items and I kept a log so they could be reimbursed for their sales. Those items would have had an orange sticker.”
“It did have an orange sticker,” Sam recalled.
“Are you looking to complete the collection? I find that highly unlikely.”
“Sure, yes, worth a try,” I replied, grateful we didn’t have to disclose the real reason we were seeking the owner.
“Well you are in luck, I stuck that log of neighbor items in the recycle bin and they don’t come to collect until Monday. I’ll set the bin by the side door and you can rummage through it. That seems to be your thing, rummaging? But that’s all I can do for you today. I’m late for a date with my personal trainer. Good morning.”
I wondered if she was living the suburban cliché and fucking her personal trainer as she turned briskly and breezed away from us, leaving an ice trail. Snob supreme, but at least she was helpful, I thought. As promised, a blue bin appeared at the side door before the door was quickly shut and locked behind her. Oh what fun, we get to go through rich people’s garbage. Ugh.
As it turns out, their recycling wasn’t that different from ours, except maybe a few higher end brands versus the store brands we favor. I used a tissue from my purse to pick up each item. Sure enough, there in the middle was a yellow piece of notebook paper listing about 12 names, items and dollar amounts. At the top of the list was “LOTR Goblet, lights up” $50. The name next to it was Frodo Baggins. Great. But it was checked as paid. I wondered if anyone’s camera doorbell might have captured the mysterious Frodo Baggins. I took a picture of the list with my phone. Maybe it was worth asking the person who signed in right after him. I ran this theory by Sam.
“Well it’s probably someone around here, we might as well ask,” Sam was getting into this investigation. I loved that he was.
“The name is Hazel Beesworth,” I told him, now looking at the list on my phone screen. She had brought a stack of CDs and had been paid $5. Apparently garage sales are “get rich slowly” schemes. Sam googled Hazel Beesworth and got an address.
“She’s down the block,” Sam informed me. I was still staring at the list on my phone screen. There was something about it that was tickling my brain. Something about Frodo Baggins’ handwriting that looked familiar.
We made our way down the block on foot, letting our old Honda stand in its spot, blighting the neighborhood. Hazel’s house was another McMansion, and from her name we expected a sweet little old lady. But Hazel was a testament to expensive haircuts, tanning booths and gym memberships. Like Estate Sale Diva, she sported her Lulu Lemon’s like she was in a Fitness Magazine. Unlike her neighbor, she opened her door with a big bleach-toothed smile.
“Hi, so sorry to bother you,” I started.
“No problem, are you here for the Serenity Meeting? Come on in.”
Well this is interesting, I thought. Sam and I exchanged a split-second glance and he gave me a small that said, “Why not.”
“Yes we are. Thank you very much,” I said and then we were following her through a picture perfect home. God, I’d love to live in a house like this, something right out of a magazine. We ended up in a sunroom overlooking the landscaped backyard. Eight other women and one man filled the chairs.
Before the formal meeting started, I tried to naturally work in the garage sale topic. It came across as smoothly as chunky peanut butter.
“Hazel, are you the one who had the shaker weight for sale at the garage sale down the street?
“How would you know that?” Hazel’s serenity dialed back a few notches.
“We were at the garage sale and I thought I recognized you,” I said, trying not to let my nervousness show. I felt like an imposter. Heck, I was an imposter.
Sam jumped in, sensing the awkwardness. “We bought something at the garage sale and was wondering who sold it. It was a Lord of the Rings glass and we thought the seller might also be a fan.”
Hazel wasn’t buying it. She narrowed her eyes at us. “A fan who is SELLING their prized collectible at a garage sale? Sounds unlikely to me. But I can tell you this …”
But real people’s lives for the most part contain a series of well-laid plans fraught with unpredictable events. Any of us are a few unfortunate turns from disaster, or one lucky break from glory. Oh the arrogance to think otherwise. The denial. Especially when we take into account the fragility of good fortune and the fickleness of fate. We stay the course and hope for the best. Is the capricious nature of our lives too challenging a concept to accept and still press forward with hope and ego in tact? Why can some people see that taking care of our own can exist while also taking care of others? The taking care of others can actually serve the greater good for us all. But there is the fundamental point of difference.
Despite all our imperfections, limitations and biases, we all claw our way through the forest in search of meaning, the light that peeks through the treetops.
***
SuzyQZ Writer 