Martin Dolan

Booze Cruise

It was Mom’s second birthday since the divorce—her first since Dad remarried—so I decided to come upstate for the weekend and see if I could cheer her up. Over the phone, she’d insisted that she was more or less back on her feet and that I shouldn’t throw away whatever plans I had just to visit her little apartment in Albany, but I could hear the hope in her words. I told her it was no problem, that sixty-five was too big a birthday to be celebrating alone, and that I’d be there Friday for dinner.

“Are you having fun, Mom?” I asked.

Leaning over the railing, she laughed. “Yes, I’m having fun, honey. Can you please stop asking?” Her cheeks were flush with wine from the empty glass she held. 

“No,” I said, then I laughed too. Leaning over the back railing of the boat’s upper deck, Mom let her short-cut hair dangle above the open water beneath us. It was exactly the sort of thing she’d have yanked me away from as a child. I started to say something, to stop her, but held myself back. I wasn’t her mother, regardless of how I felt. 

The tickets I’d booked were for a replica steamboat that operated out of Lake George, an hour north of Mom’s place—the kind of kitschy upstate thing that I would’ve hated until recently, and Mom didn’t like it much either. Saying she wanted to see us for her birthday, Mom complained, meant dinner and a movie, not a booze cruise designed for the elderly to watch the fall scenery without the fear of falling. I argued with her about it for a few days, but when Kate also agreed it sounded fun; Mom couldn’t do anything but embrace the idea. I was excited. It was a chance to watch my mother—who I’d never seen drink outside of funerals or weddings—out of her comfort zone, wine drunk and rubbing shoulders with some geriatrics. A chance to spend time with her as a real person, not just my mom. To see just how well she’d really bounced back.

I had to remind myself that, regardless of how she seemed in my head, Mom was getting older. I thought of her in that tiny apartment, alone and about to retire—and then what? Travel the world? She still could, health-wise, but how would she pay for it? She got by fine, but without Dad, Mom had no real money of her own.

I squeezed her from the side, like an old friend rather than a son. “If Dad was here,” I said, “do you know what he’d be doing?”

“What?”

“Pointing at all these mountains, trees, birds, and telling us all about some book he’d just read, all that local history bullshit he loves.” I puffed out my chest and pointed obnoxiously at the orange-tipped mountains in the distance. “That peak was a Revolutionary War hideaway, and this bird is a Great Northern Heron, very different from the ones in the Midwest. And this…”

Mom burst out laughing—too much for the joke, but the alcohol helped. I was always careful mentioning Dad around her, but I knew she responded best to me making fun of him. Nothing too malicious—they didn’t hate each other—but enough to force a smile. On good days, it cheered her up like nothing else. On bad days, her eyes fell, and I could only watch as her mind slid back into a memory. 

Mom, though, seemed fine. If anything, the wine had made her giggly, like a little girl. 

“Did you know we went on one of these cruises before? A family one, when you and Kate were little. Dad packed us in the car early in the morning and, like you said, he wouldn’t shut up the whole time. He talked about work the whole day with some man he half-knew and left me to deal with you two.” She checked her reflection in the glass. “You both cried.” 

“So, Kate was always a brat, then,” I said.

I looked for a laugh, but Mom only nodded. In her eyes, I could see her mind was years away. I decided not to bother her. She looked wistful, maybe, but fine. Not sad.

I’d take fine, if only because I wasn’t so sure I could say the same about myself. Money was tight for me too—Mom had to buy my train ticket for the first time since I’d left for college. I hadn’t even offered to pay for the boat tickets. Months ago, right after the layoff, she’d come down to visit me in New York and make sure I was okay. I was doing my best to return the favor—even if it meant dragging her out to get drunk on her birthday. Not that Mom would ever complain, not now. She was just excited to have her kids back home, free from all the baggage of the past few years. I studied her face but couldn’t read much of anything. She looked drunk, peaceful, as if she was blissfully reliving the past. I decided to leave her like that.

“I’m going to find Kate,” I said, and Mom nodded as I walked away.

Kate, my older sister, had also come up for the weekend, despite grumbling about having to take Friday off of work for the long drive. Her firm was too busy for her to just step out this close to the end of the quarter, she told me over and over, but I knew she always caved when it came to Mom. Kate and Mom had a complicated relationship, and the divorce had only made things muddier in Kate’s mind. Kate ended up giving in and agreed to meet us in Albany that morning—not missing a workday, but leaving DC bright and early as Greg, her pushover of a husband, drove the Range Rover.

I found Kate at the bar on the opposite end of the upper deck, away from where the rest of the passengers had congregated along the railing, in search of good views. She had a half-full glass in one hand, scrolling through something on her cellphone. Greg sat beside her—quiet, awkward, and purposeful like a Secret Service agent. Kate turned as I approached.

“How is she?” Kate asked. “She was being kind of cagey at lunch.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You know,” she said, “cagey. Something is obviously on her mind. But she works herself up so much by trying to play momma bear with us—with you—that she’ll never admit it.”

I hated when Kate did this type of thing—little digs and passive-aggressive comments, making things tense when they didn’t have to be. Even when we were kids, she’d always tried to pull me away from Mom’s side and onto hers. As if there even had to be sides in the first place.

Kate raised her glass in mock toast. “To Mom,” she said, and we clinked glasses. I sipped my beer, and Kate swallowed the rest of her drink in one gulp. 

“Tough drive?” I asked.

She sniffed her glass then held it out for me to do the same. “It’s seltzer,” she said. “I didn’t really feel like drinking.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Fair enough,” I said. “But if someone’s got to drink for two, it’s going to be Greg, not me. And Mom might, you know, draw a certain conclusion from that.”

Kate rolled her eyes. “Are you trying to ask me something?” she asked.

“Not if you don’t want me to,” I said, then paused. “Kate, it’s Mom’s day, okay? Sit with her, tell her about work, anything, just humor her. If It’s not too much of an inconvenience.”

She ignored my jab. “I try, but she can be… exhausting.”

“I know, but come on up, okay? It’s not that bad.” I smiled. “And alcohol helps.”

Kate frowned, but as I stood up to leave, I squeezed her shoulders, what passed between us as a hug. Turning towards the stairs, I offered Greg a polite nod, which he returned. I couldn’t imagine him as a father. He hadn’t said a word to my mother since arriving in the morning. 

**

In June, the last time Mom had visited me in New York, she traveled with a man. His name was John, he was retired—older than my mom—and also divorced. I hadn’t known he was coming, but Mom walked him into my apartment as if it was the plan all along. He offered nothing but his name and a smile—no title, no hint at a relationship—but I didn’t pry. We spent the whole day together, going to parks and restaurants and acting as if this new family member was a completely natural thing. Strangely, it almost was. John was soft-spoken and easy-going. He had stories and jokes to tell, but only when Mom urged him to—the complete opposite of Dad. 

After dinner, with sunset approaching, John mentioned there was one more museum he wanted to check out before it closed, but Mom insisted that she had to take me out for groceries. We agreed to split up and meet back at my apartment in an hour. John took off and Mom dragged me, grumbling, to a grocery store on my block. For forty-five minutes, I followed as she stuffed a cart full of staples I didn’t really need and talked about everything but my financial situation. I carried the groceries as we walked back to the building, and we waited outside for John to get back. In a moment of silence, she slipped a wad of carefully-folded twenties into my hand and said nothing. I tried to give them back, but Mom swatted my hands away.

“You came all the way home on a weeknight just to drag me to see a doctor,” she said. “This is the least I can do for you.” She kissed my hand, the one with the bills, and started to say something else, but then John turned the corner, and we were back to playing happy family.

Later, on the phone, I asked about him. Nothing serious, just how he was doing and things like that. Mom was reluctant to say anything. The first few times, she’d tell me a quick story—how they’d met at work or how they’d gone out to some fair or baseball game or city event. It was all very casual, she insisted, and I took her word for it. One day, not even thinking, I asked about John, and Mom told me that she hadn’t seen him in a while. I asked why, if they had any plans coming up, and she said she didn’t know. Probably not. Her voice wobbled, even through the phone’s cold distance, but again, I didn’t pry. All I said was that it was too bad, and then I let her change the subject.

**

I was buzzed by dinner—served promptly at five o’clock, given the passengers—and the four of us sat down in a pleasant mood. Even Greg spoke up once or twice and tried his best to laugh at the lewd jokes that I and Kate made to irritate Mom. Looking around the dining deck, the other families looked a lot like ours—multigenerational, awkward, and drunk. Probably working through their own versions of the same shit, letting the dirty Shirly Temples and crisp October air get long-overdue conversations flowing. 

The food was better than I’d expected, and Mom finished two cocktails before dessert was served. She was red in the face, speaking loudly, and kept leaning over to kiss our cheeks.

“Come on Mom,” said Kate, annoyed. “Dial it back a little.”

“Chill out, Kate,” I said, enjoying how uncomfortable she looked. “It’s her birthday. She’s allowed to have fun.”

“You never have fun, Kate,” said Mom. “Loosen up! Do something for yourself for once, fuck what everyone else is thinking.” I laughed. Mom almost never swore, and never in public. She raised her arms and giggled. “Look at me! You don’t want to end up like this, do you?”

Kate couldn’t help but grin. It had been a common argument, when I was a teenager and Kate a little older, for Kate to say things like that. To call Mom depressed, say she was holding herself and her kids back, acting like the miserable and stoic mother all the time. She made Mom cry back then, saying those things, and I had hated Kate for it. But now it was Mom saying those things—and laughing! What had gotten into her? 

“No, Mom. You’re right,” Kate said. “And I really am glad to see you having fun.”

Mom hugged Kate, the most genuine one yet. “I love you, Kate,” she said. “Thank you for coming, both of you. And I do hope I’m being fun.” She patted her purse, where Kate and I knew she kept her pills. She wasn’t supposed to drink on them, but seeing her this happy, for the first time in who knew how long, I held back from playing doctor.

After dinner finished, as Kate and Greg stepped out to the bathroom, Mom pulled me aside. “Kate isn’t drinking,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“So what?” I said, not trying to get her hopes up, to tell her what she wanted to hear. 

Mom didn’t bother to hide the excitement in her voice. “Don’t play dumb with me,” she said. “Has she said anything to you?” She smelled like wine, her words slurring, but she grinned.

“Not really,” I said, choosing my words as carefully as I could through the alcohol. “Though she hasn’t said no, either.”

She was drunk—I could hear it in her words just as I could see the possibilities unfold in her eyes. I didn’t want to get her hopes up, not with everything she seemed to just now be getting over, but her excitement was contagious. What was I so happy for? Being an uncle? Why should I care? But watching my mom, with a stupid grin on her face, I couldn’t help it. 

“Just ask her about it,” Mom said. “I can’t ask her. She’ll get the wrong idea, that I’m some annoying old lady obsessed with grandkids, and close herself off. You guys are closer—she’ll open up to you. Or maybe even ask Greg.”

“You think Greg will talk to me about that?”

“Maybe not, but try! It’s been so long, and if she really is expecting, even if it’s early…” Mom’s voice trailed off, her mind spinning.

“Okay,” I said, “but don’t get ahead of yourself. Today’s your day, Mom. You’ve earned it.” She didn’t listen to a word I was saying. Her mind was on baby showers, hand-me-down strollers, and the type of fresh beginning that only a baby could bring.

**

The sun was setting earlier and earlier now, and the temperature dropped too. Once again along the boat’s railing, Mom was sitting next to me. She was rubbing my hands, trying to keep them warm like I was still a little kid at those cold, wet soccer games. I let her—she didn’t realize how much bigger my hands were than hers. A few feet away, on another bench, Kate and Greg watched the cool orange sunset too, talking softly to each other. Families were doing the same all across the boat’s deck, split off in twos and threes, words disappearing into the wind.

“Did you talk to Kate?” Mom asked. I turned my eyes away from the water and back to her. I had zoned out just like Mom always did, the way that made me worry. 

“Kate? No, I didn’t.” In the after-dinner commotion, Kate and Greg had slipped away, probably to one of the lower decks to escape the other loud passengers. I didn’t look for them—I sat with Mom in the dining room, watching the live music with matching dumb, drunk smiles. 

“Well, you should,” she said, “I can’t be the one to bug her, but if you just…”

“Mom, please,” I said. “Don’t get yourself so worked up over it. Just be in the moment, just this once.”

“I am in the moment. It’s just that knowing would make the moment even better.”

“You’re trying to be cute, but I’m serious. Bother them about it tomorrow—not today.”

Mom didn’t say anything for a minute, pretending to think seriously about it. She looked tiny, bundled up in the heavy sweatshirt that I’d told her not to bother to bring, with a tuft of her hair—shorter than it had been when I was a kid—sticking out of the hood. Her face was red, from the wine or the wind I couldn’t tell, and she looked like a sleepy child. She’d shrunk and stretched and wrinkled, so different from the woman I’d grown up with. I kissed her forehead. 

“Fine,” she said, “But when it’s your turn, with your baby, I’m the first to know. Got it?”

“Deal,” I said. “But hopefully not anytime soon.” Mom smiled, satisfied with the answer.

It was quiet for a moment as I chose my next words, bold from the beers at dinner and Mom’s newfound openness. “So,” I said, “have you been seeing anyone?”

The question caught her off guard. “Seeing someone? Oh… no, not like that…”

“Not even John?” I hadn’t said his name in weeks, not since the call.

“John? Oh… He’s okay, I think…” Mom fumbled her words, coming down from her bubbly high at dinner. “I haven’t really spoken to him. I see him at work sometimes, but…”

I flipped her hands over into my own, squeezing them. “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked, and when she didn’t answer, added, “I liked him. He seemed…”

She cut me off. “No. I don’t” Her eyes were wide, startled and defensive like a deer. I squeezed her palms again. “Sorry,” she said. “Thank you for asking. Just… not now, not today, okay? Right now, things are nice. We don’t have to bring him up.”

“I don’t want to gossip or anything, honest. I just worry about you sometimes.”

“And that’s not your job,” she said. “Don’t waste your time worrying about me. You have all your own stuff going on. I know with everything I—we—went through…” She paused, collecting her words, trying to distract the crack I’d heard in her voice. “I know you want to check up on me, and thank you, I appreciate it. But you don’t have to anymore. I’m okay. I’m fine. I can be your mom again.”

“You’re always going to be my mom,” I said, “and I love you for it. But we can’t ever go back to how things were. I’m not sure I even want to.”

For the first time that day, Mom had nothing to say. She leaned her head against my shoulder—I had to slouch for her to reach it—and stayed there, quietly watching the distant landscapes fade to darkness.

That day in June, bringing John down, buying me groceries, trying her best to be a mother again, I had been angry at Mom. She brought a stranger to my place at the least convenient time. I had confided in her that things were hard, thinking nothing of it, and now here was some man in my apartment, standing in as my father. Never mind that John was kind, and that even a child could have told you, watching her, that he was special to Mom. What John’s presence should have told me, what I was too proud to see, was that Mom was healing. Healing and wanted to show it. Everything I’d done over the past two years—finding the psychiatrist, setting up appointments, forcing her to go, and everything in between—had mortified her. And now, with John the symbol of what I’d done, she’d come to do the same for me. With a new companion, a motherly purpose, and a pharmaceutically-boosted outlook on life, Mom seemed strong again. For the first time, really, since I’d known her.

I tried to be the one squeezing her hand, and she tried to be the one squeezing mine. Neither of us pushed back against the other, instead, we just let our combined warmth spread as the cool autumn breeze blew across our faces. We sat silently, watching the sunset apart from Kate and Greg and whatever non-conversation they were having. In the distance, I could see the faint shapes and lights of the town and the marina. Mom seemed happy. There was open water ahead, we still had time.

Martin Dolan is an undergraduate at Binghamton University. He’s from Albany, New York. His fiction has appeared in In Parentheses magazine, and his academic work is forthcoming in Alpenglow and Haywire Magazine.