By Catharine Cooper
@catharinecooper

“Got everything?” I ask Austin, my 16-year-old son.

He throws his backpack over his shoulder, jams his curly thick brown hair under his maroon Laguna Beach High School baseball cap, and picks up his toast. His new gangsta-look butt-hugging jeans hang low, revealing his cotton boxers.

“And pull up your pants.”

He gives me the look, the one that basically said, “f-you,” and slams the front door. The force is enough to make the aging glass windows shudder and the house’s single wall construction shake. Not hard to do with his tall muscled frame.

I’m pretty sure he doesn’t hear my, “Have a good day,” as he heavy-foots it down the front stairs. He had chugged the orange juice, slurped the last of the milk in his cereal bowl, wrapped his peanut-butter toast in a napkin, and hacked up another phlegmy cough.

We’ve entered a new phase in which everything I say affronts him. I want my sweet, polite and easy kid back. The one who rolled on the floor in tickle fights, giggled out loud at silly jokes, cupped a baby hummingbird to keep it warm. The replacement, the obstreperous teen, is not much fun.

Some of the changes I attribute to age, it’s his junior year, and some, to the pot I know he smokes. When asked, he denies it, as if I can’t smell weed on his clothes or notice his blood shot eyes. It’s a flash point between us.

Austin, who once said, “I’m never going to drink, and I’m never going to do drugs,” has changed.

His organized room has turned to chaos. He’s stopped doing his homework. I find silverware in the trash can instead of the dishwasher. Curfew is repeatedly broken. School ditched.

His promises, “I’ll do better,” are empty and hollow.

He breaks a house rule. I ground him. He climbs out a window. I ground him for a longer period. He comes home late. I remove another privilege, until there isn’t anything left to take away.

I knew peer pressure would overrule Austin’s pledge to sobriety. Laguna parties are legendary, often attracting hundreds of kids from outlying cities. An MTV show portrayed student life as one long surf session, raging party, fast cars, sex, and wealth, and the kids strive to support that image.

After he’s gone, I collect Austin’s dirty laundry from his closet floor, and my hand bumps a cold smooth object. I reach behind the stack of athletic shoes and pull out a slender glass bong.

Hand blown, it is beautiful with spirals of blue and shimmering gold worked in its surface. So much for not doing drugs.

I set the bong on the kitchen table, alongside a stack of photographs I found on the same floor of him and his friends, faces smashed against the wide-mouthed pipe. These are the kids I watched grow, cheered their teams, took to Angels games.

“What were you doing in my closet?” Austin demands, fresh from school and trying not to look at the photos. He quickly adds, nodding toward the bong, “It’s not mine.”

“Of course, it’s not.” I wonder how far he’ll take the lie. “Whose is it?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Good.” I pick up the glass pipe, open the backdoor, and smash it against the concrete.

“What the fuck!” he screams. “Are you crazy? That cost a hundred dollars.”

“I thought it wasn’t yours.”

“You don’t know anything!” he screams again, and runs up to his room.

Austin has been coughing for over a week. I call Dr. Anderson, our family doctor, and make an appointment for that afternoon. Because of his restrictions, Austin can’t drive, so I transport him to the office.

Tall and lanky, Dr. Anderson’s downtown clinic handles the high school athletic physicals, and he knows most of the kids. The nurse ushers Austin into an exam room, and I ask the doctor to administer a drug test.

“Why?” he asks. “Austin’s one of the good ones.”

“Because I asked you to.”

I open a magazine, sit to wait, but my eyes can’t focus on the words. I am thinking about the bong, the slammed door, Austin’s combative attitude. Dr. Anderson sits down next to me.

“Looks like simple bronchitis,” he says. “I’ll give you a script for antibiotics, and Austin said not to waste your money on a drug test.”

“Please, just give him the test.”

“He says he’s clean, and I believe him.”

“So, you’re saying, no?”

“He’s a good kid, Catharine. You need to trust him.”

I am flummoxed the doctor has dissed my request. No, I am fuming. I want to prove the lie.

Once we get into the car, Austin explodes.

“What the fuck did you tell him? I’m not doing any fucking drugs, Mother.”

“The photos. The bong?”

“You are such a bitch.”

I bite my lip so hard I am sure it must be bleeding. By the time I pull the car into the driveway, I feel faint from holding my breath.

“Go straight to your room and stay there.”

Austin slams the car door and runs up the stairs. My underarms are damp, and my face flushed. I set my purse down, fill a glass with cold water, take a sip and try and settle.

I turn around and Austin is standing right behind me. He has stripped down to his boxers.

He flexes his biceps, admiring their bulk. He outweighs me by at least 80 pounds.

“I told you to stay in your room.” He juts his chin toward me.

“How are you going to make me?”

“What is wrong with you?” I ask.

“You are so ridiculous. Spreading lies all over town about me.”

He throws back his shoulders. Puffs up his chest.

“Go back upstairs.” I say, slowly enunciating each word.

He glares at me. Doesn’t budge. He is so close I can feel his breath on my face.

“Did you hear me? Move it. Now!”

I put my hands on his shoulders and press him away from me.

“I should never have stayed with you. Dad was right. You’re just a useless cunt.”

I can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth.

“You apologize right now,” I yell.

He rolls back his head and laughs maniacally.

“Can’t make me.”

He shoots the words toward me, and he skips out of the room.

I snap. Everything goes red. The walls, the floor, the very air. I drive my fingernails into my palms. I know I’m losing it, but I can’t stop. I chase after him, grab for his shoulder but miss.

My nails graze his back.

“You cut me!” he screams.

“I didn’t cut you,” I scream back.

Everything in slow motion. Time stalls on a jagged precipice.

“Get in your room,” I roar. “Close the door and stay there.”

He slams the door. My body trembles. The floor slides in and out of focus like a fun zone mirror. I inch my way back to the kitchen, one small step at a time. The walls spin; the yellow tiles swirl into the beige vinyl floor.

I cling to the counter to keep from falling. I do not know the way forward. My mind flashes to my brother, his needles, the heroin. I am afraid for Austin. I am afraid for me.

Austin is suddenly behind me. Startled, I jump and spin around.

“I hate you!” He spits the words. “I never want to spend another night in this stupid house.”

He grabs me under my arms, picks me up and hurls me against the refrigerator. My head hits the door and everything goes fuzzy grey. I crumple to the floor. A deep guttural moan oozes from my lips.

Austin doesn’t move to help me. Doesn’t say, “Oh my God, Mom I am so sorry.” He just stands over me, staring at what he has done.

My thoughts tumble.

This is my son. This makes no sense.

The person in front of me has no compassion, no love in his eyes.

“Get out,” I say weakly. Then, as if a roaring monster rises, I pull myself up to sitting and scream, “Get out of this house.”

“Don’t worry,” he laughs. “I already called Dad.”

He dances out of the room.

A large lump forms on the back side of my scalp. My roar turns on itself. I whimper. My thinking fogs. His footsteps thud back down the hall. I clutch my arms around my chest, unsure what he might do next.

Fully dressed in jeans, t-shirt and jacket, his backpack slung over his shoulder, he adjusts the ball cap over his curls.

“You think you’re so fucking smart,” he spews. “I’m going to live with Dad like I always should have. He bought me a plane ticket.”

He gives me one more ugly look, eyes radiating hate.

“I’m outta here.”

He swivels and scampers out of the house, away from me. He doesn’t bother to close the front door.

Catharine Cooper has walked the hard path of parenting a child with drug addiction, and later, mental health concerns. In the process of searching for care options, she has come to understand that there are no easy answers, no right treatment path, and that was once upon a time, each homeless person was likely a cherished child.

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