The Morning After

The Morning After

Waking up with a joy like nothing else, I beamed in anticipation of my trip north. It had been two months since I had seen my daughter and my grandson, and this time, when a child is an infant, passes so quickly and so many moments are lost in an instant. The trip itself would take upwards of ten hours but the ride would be worth it to see that little, cherub face beaming up at me. It would be six days of being a grandmother that could never be taken away from me and I was ready to take in every waking moment. 

I didn’t even have my phone, they took it when they arrested me. How did I get into this mess and why was he called to pick up the baby and bring him home when he was the reason I was such a wreck. My mother would be so upset, I could see the tears streaming down her face the minute she heard the news. Disappointment would be etched in her face and my shame would have to stay well hidden. I had become a master at this type of deception, hiding my feelings of self-loathing to myself, not wanting to appear as fragile and desperate as I felt.

It wasn’t a phone call, just a text, telling me that my trip up north would be far from what I had been expecting. She was in jail and I had no idea when she would be let out or if she would at all. I didn’t have any of the details, just the simple fact that she had been arrested, driving under the influence, with the baby in the car. Guilt was pouring through me, knowing this probably wouldn’t have happened if I lived close by. Regret was evident too, knowing I couldn’t fix any of the past, I could only help to shape the future. My ability to shape even a little bit of my grandson’s future was in her hands and she rarely gave me the opportunity to feel what being a grandmother was supposed to feel like. I had to keep reminding myself that many people lived far from their grandchildren but their grandchildren loved them just as much because that's how you felt about your grandma. I just had to hold on to the hope that this would really be true.

It took ten and a half hours to get there. One text message halfway through my journey let me know that she was at work, that my grandson was in the safe hands of a babysitter, and that I would be taking him, as planned, for the night. I drove through the projects, the apartments known for their poverty stricken violence, to pick up the two things in my life that still had meaning for me. She stood there, a weak smile on her face, carrying the heavy car seat with a little boy, eyes wide with wonder, seeing me for the first time in months. My fears set aside, I welcomed them both with a hug and a smile and tried to pretend that the walls were not falling down around us. 

I could see my mom looking for us as she slowly drove through the dilapidated buildings, looking for me and my baby in a world that she knows nothing about. The smile on her face is fake and forced, I can tell, but she is trying to be happy to see us. I know she is happy to see the baby, but me, maybe not so much. I really don’t want to talk about last night with her. I don’t want her questioning me or asking me “what were you thinking?”. I don’t want to have to tell her more lies. I know she means well and she says she wants the best for us but she doesn’t know what any of this is like. Her real life is very different from mine and always will be. She doesn’t know what it is like to struggle. So I paste a smile on my face and climb into the car. 

We sit in silence as I drive. She doesn’t want to talk about what happened even though she knows I am desperate to find out the details. The baby coos then whines in the backseat, letting us know he is not happy to be confined in his carseat, unable to know of anything else but hating it all the same. I pull up to the house, wondering what condition the inside will be in, hoping it is clean and tidy, knowing it will be damp and moldy because it is and always will be a basement. I just need to pick up the baby supplies and I can head out, leaving the misery behind for at least a few hours. I would take advantage of my time with this little baby boy that I could, cherishing each touch, praying he remembers me long after I leave, knowing I still had many months, maybe years, before that would come to fruition. 

Again I drive, this one with a little bundle in my car, reminding me of all I have to be thankful for. This time the dread has increased, not knowing what the fate of either of my babies will be once the meeting starts. I still do not know the details of the incident and I honestly don’t know if I want to hear the truth. All I do know is that I want my life to be normal again. I want life without drama and chaos, happy times with family, laughing and smiling just because life has so much happiness in it. 

She is on her way and I can’t stand this. I don’t want her here. She is going to make things so much worse. I just want her to drop off the baby and go. There is nothing she can do, there is only the things she can say, the things that she knows nothing about, the things that are going to make my life so much harder than it has to be. She knows nothing about what I am going through. Sure, if I told her more of it she would have a better idea, but then I would have her constantly asking me how things were going and how I was feeling. I really didn’t want to open up to her, she knew nothing about my life and how I led it.

There are investigators, workers of all kinds, in and out of the door, each whispering their concern, showing all the judgement on their faces. I have heard a small piece of the situation, that she was found sleeping in her car, luckily it was running with some heat so the baby was safe and warm, and thank God, sleeping soundly. It was about two o'clock in the morning when the police knocked on her window. She said she only had one or two drinks but she had started a new medication and she thought this was why it hit her so hard. I wanted to believe what she was saying was true. I wanted to know that my feelings of dread were those of my over-reacting brain, not the truth of the matter at hand. When I got called to the group I knew I would finally be hearing the truth. 

Luckily I am a teacher so my background has already been cleared, one that they can find out easily enough. I often wonder if they think that I lie just like she does or if they know that she is not only lying to them but to me as well. All I know and can be thankful for is the reassurance that the baby would be in my care until further actions were taken. I didn’t know how long this would be but I would soak in every moment with this little boy that I could, praying he would always be in my life. 

I don’t know why they have to tell her all this shit. Half of it is barely true. And now, here she is, walking around acting like she knows how to take care of my baby when it’s been more than twenty five years since she had an infant of her own. And she gets to take him? I suppose it is better than a random foster home or something, but still, I dread the looks of disappointment and sorrow that I will see etched into every line on her face. She can’t understand this, she never will.