When Never Comes

by Barbara Davis

Charlene lifts her head, her pale face a ruin. “Baby . . . I’m sick.” Her voice is thick and slurred, her eyes unfocused. And then suddenly she’s scrambling onto all fours, back arched as she retches emptily into the bowl, heaving as if she’s trying to turn herself inside out. Panicked, Christy-Lynn drops down on one knee, doing her best to avoid the splatters of yellow-green goo that seem to be everywhere. The mingled reek of alcohol and bile is overpowering. By the time the retching finally subsides, her mother’s face has become a blur. Christy-Lynn swipes impatiently at her tears, but they keep coming, running unchecked down her cheeks. “You promised, Mama. You said no more.” Her mother’s eyes open slowly, heavy lidded as she drags a hand across her mouth. “Thirsty . . .” It’s little more than a cracked whisper, and for a moment, Christy-Lynn’s anger turns to pity. She is reaching for the glass on the sink when she notices that her mother is still wearing her bartending clothes—jeans and a skimpy black tank top—instead of her cashier’s uniform. Had she not even bothered to come home last night? “Mama, how long have you been here like this?” “Thiiiirrrsty!” Charlene wails like a petulant child. The word rings in the tiled space. And then, without warning, she begins to cry, great ragged sobs that rack her knobby shoulders. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.” She reaches for the front of Christy-Lynn’s shirt, using it as leverage as she curls her body in on itself. “Don’t be...