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Two Became One

BY: AVA STAPLETON

I left a tab open on my laptop screen for weeks. I avoided clicking on it, but I also avoided closing it out, so it lingered there until late August. The tab listed meetings in my area for a type of support group that I did not even know existed until earlier this year. The group is a world service organization called Adult Children of Alcoholics & Dysfunctional Families. It is like AA, but instead of being for alcoholics, it is for their families. They have these meetings everywhere at several contrasting times and days of the week, which came as a shock to me. To be fair, I was not sure about the rest of the world, but they certainly have numerous here in Jacksonville.

The meeting was held in the back of a mega-church. As my sandals clicked up past the empty playground in search of a propped-open door around back, I thought to myself, “Wow. Did not have this on my Bingo card for this year.” Not only was it weird to be following through with this whole support group thing, but it was even weirder to find myself at a church on a random Wednesday. The only recollection I had of church on Wednesdays was in middle school when my aunt would drag me to youth group along with her kids. She was the type of Christian who used religion to be self-righteous without ridicule, which introduced me to my disdain for organized religion.

As I was approaching the door, an older woman with a too-kind smile, greeted me to confirm I was in the right place. At this point, it was too late to turn back and run away without causing a scene, so I accepted my fate and sat in the nearest available cold collapsible chair. I was right on time, which is how you know I was nervous, considering my punctuality needed work. Luckily for me, others started to trickle in after me, interrupting the introduction being given by the group’s organizer, Don. He went on about how alcoholism affects the whole family, how there is no shame in asking for help, blah blah blah… Beginner stuff. I scanned the room for all the other participants since that was what I was most scared of. I figured everyone here would be at least forty-five , but to my surprise, almost half of the room was filled with people I would ID if I were a bartender. As my eyes wandered, they caught a guy who was stumbling into the room, late. He tried to be quiet with confidence; enough not to notice potential head turns. He looked about thirty . Immediately I noticed his eyes, which were odd considering there was nothing glaringly remarkable about them. Only regular old brown eyes. The organizers knew him, some giving him a silent nod of acknowledgment , one lady even beckoning him over to sit next to her. Don wrapped up his introduction and suggested we get straight into testimonies.
“Let us start with you, Cam!” Don gestured toward the guy with the regular brown eyes. He looked fake-reluctant as he hoisted himself up on the little stage. “We like to start with Cam since he has been here a time or two. He is good at making new people feel welcome,” Don added before letting Cam take it away. He knew what he was doing here, and he laid it all out for us in the form of stories: one of living under a bridge during the lowest point in his life, one of losing his dad to an overdose, and one of only knowing his mother through stories. She was such a low-functioning alcoholic that she gave him up for adoption to some family friends as soon as he was born. He said she had others before and after him, but that he had never met them. I remarked on how eloquent he was and how effortless his public speaking abilities seemed. I wondered if that was because of his work here or if it was something he had always been good at. I wondered whether his words resonated with me because of his talent or because I truly related. I mentioned that as I gave my testimony later. My mom was also a low-functioning alcoholic, except I had a few good years with her off and on. Somehow, I never took it personally. Not most of the time at least. Besides, I had recently been learning to forgive. I mean, she could not even take care of herself. Had four kids and only kept one. Today marked one month since I heard about the cocktail of deadly diseases she gave herself, so I shared how I was running out of time to say hi to her for the first time in ten years, and bye to her for the last time ever. People extended their sympathies, trying to be genuine. Since I just offered up this information, and these people had just met me, it felt prompted. I was open in returning next week, but at this point, I was ready for it to be over, and soon enough, it was.

As members began to trickle out, Cam walked up to me. I expected some sort of disingenuous formality from him about how brave it was of me to share like that on my first meeting; It is never easy to lose a parent, but he did not even start with a greeting. All he said at that moment was, “What’s your mom’s name?”

When I told him, his eyes widened enough to show me why I noticed them in the first place.

They were mine.
They were hers.