Step Nine

(Sensitive content: substance abuse and sexual promiscuity is mentioned; verbal abuse occurs)

Cindy pulled the car over to the side of the road. Shelbyville, declared the sign, population 1,430. Cindy kept the car running and prayed for the peace that passes all understanding. Her heart beat like war drums. Her hair, visible in the rearview mirror, was her normal honey blonde, not the bleached blonde of her seedy days. She phoned her sponsor for encouragement and, to be completely honest, for accountability. She called in all resources to get her over that line, into the town, and up to the house she left years ago, vowing to never return. Mom was her final stop to complete step nine.

Somehow, Cindy reached the front porch of her mother’s home and stood before the front door. The house was decaying and in need of much more than a paint job. Her right hand, her knocking and doorbell ringing hand, hung at her side, jittering. Was she that certain she would not be injured? She breathed deeply and pressed her arm firmly against her side. She started counting to ten, but the door flew open at three.

“What do you want?!” the woman yelled.

Cindy’s gaze connected with the woman’s icy blue glare. “Mom? It’s me. Cindy.”

The woman’s face scrunched, and she brushed her wiry, gray hair back with her hand. “Cindy? Cindy who? Do I know you?” Her rigid stance dismayed Cindy.

“Your daughter, Cindy.” She tried to stay calm, but her heart rate increased. She was reminded of all the reasons she left. “I came to talk. I want to talk with you.”

The old woman peered at her for a moment and then spat out a gruff snigger. “You promised you’d never come back. The world spit you out and now you need help?”

“No, I’m doing fine.” Cindy tightened. She no longer wondered whether her mother missed her. Her body felt warm. “I just wanted to talk.”

“Don’t you have a phone?” The woman’s eyes were steel traps. “You forget my number? I haven’t changed it. You probably forgot it after all those years of drinking and whoring. You never were the bright one.”

Cindy felt the tug to regress to the little girl who struggled in elementary school. Her sponsor warned her about this. Cindy was not a stellar student, and she was a model fool at the church her family had attended. She had yearned to go to the church her classmate attended, which was friendlier. Eventually, in her teen years, she had opted out of church all together, to the chagrin of her mother. “I still have your number. I just felt we should talk in person.”

“In person? What got into your head? You think you can come back here after cursing me out and embarrassing me in front of the entire town? Why would I want to talk with you again about anything?”

Cindy deflated but held her ground. “I made some changes. I wanted to…I want to…try to mend things between us.” There, it was out.

The woman glared at her and stepped onto the porch, closing the door. “You died to me that day. I want you to know that. Do you know what it was like to go to church every week and hear about all the parties you were going to in the city and about all the men you were shacking up with? To have everyone gossiping about what I must have done to raise a daughter like you. A daughter with no regard for the Lord.”

Cindy hung her head. “I’m sorry. After Dad left, and Beth moved away, I felt stuck. I needed to get away.”

“You think you had it so bad here. I had to take on two jobs to keep us fed after your good-for-nothing father walked out on us. I kept you and your sister clothed and fed and in school. I gave you every opportunity, and you squandered it all on booze and men.” She huffed and crossed her arms under her breasts. “Your sister understood. She knows the importance of God and of family.”

Cindy’s head throbbed and her eyes lost focus. Both her sister and her sponsor warned her this would be difficult. “I gave all that up. The alcohol and the drugs and the sleeping around. I went to therapy. I’ve been sober for two years—-”

“Well, good for you,” she sneered. “You wasted, what, twelve, thirteen years of your life, and you want me to be happy about two?”

“I made other changes, too. I accepted Jesus into my heart. I started going to church and meeting new people, people who are better influences—-”

“Ha! You accepted Jesus.” The woman stood like a totem pole with a face contorted and reddened like a beet. “What makes you think God would accept you? You’re a drunk, an addict, and a whore. What do you have that God would want?”

Cindy heard the vitriol, and her body began to relax. Her sponsor foresaw this response, too. Cindy gazed at her mother, and her heart eased to a steady rhythm. A gentle breeze brushed her cheek with the soft warmth of spring. For the first time, she felt pity.

Her mother’s eyes twitched. She finally uncrossed her arms. “What are you just standing there staring at me for? Did all those drugs fry your brain?”

“I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t realize how much I hurt you.” Cindy thought back to the day she left and found she could not remember much of that day. She recalled a lot of yelling. This day was actually better. “You’re right. I was a mess then. I made a lot of mistakes.”

“That’s right, you did.” Her mother raised her chin as if in triumph. “I’m glad to see you’re finally accepting that you ruined everything. Left and kept ruining everything. Hell has a special place reserved for you.”

Cindy sighed and accepted that she could not change her mother. “I’m not going to Hell, Mom. I really did accept Jesus, and He is changing me.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“I hope I can show you.”

“Not interested.” Her mother actually smiled when she said it. “You take your sissy Jesus with you. My Jesus makes sure people get the punishment they deserve. He doesn’t put up with anyone disrespecting Him or His church.”

Cindy felt sad and peaceful at the same time, an odd sensation, like sipping a semi-sweet hot chocolate. “I’m sorry, Mom. I really am. If you ever do want to talk, let me know. I will meet you anywhere.”

“I already told you that you are dead to me.” She crossed her arms again. “You can tell people you have no mother.”

Cindy nodded, said goodbye, and returned to her car. Her mother remained motionless and silent. Cindy backed the car out of the dirt drive and left her mother again.

“I forgive you, Mom.”

Slow tears traced lines of pain--clean, restoring pain--down Cindy’s cheeks. Her vision stayed clear, and so she chose to wear her newfound love as a symbol. The face in the rearview mirror again appeared surprised that she could look unhappy yet feel joyful.

She called her sponsor to let her know that she was okay and still sober.