How could Ty let his mom live this way?
I make sure my Mini Cooper is locked and push open the rusty gate, cursing as I stumble my way past stacks of moldy newspapers and crates of empty cans and climb the porch stairs to her front door. The door has a dirty, yellowing window with a torn curtain. I bang twice and sneeze when dust wisps into the air.
No one answers, but I think I hear a muffled cough inside the house. I rap on door again, this time harder.
“Go away,” a miserable voice moans.
“Open the door, Mrs. Wilder,” I yell. I hope I convey some kind of authority, because she may be my only chance to get Ty out of the head-deep shit he sank into.
The porch shakes as her footfalls approach. I hear her grunting, rustling the chain lock.
She thinks the better of it at the last minute and opts to peek through the curtain.
“Who the hell are you?” she demands.
I steal a glimpse of mother Wilder. She looks nothing like her son. He is tall, lean, athletic and has the facial features of a deity. She looks like a tired, overweight, unemployed mother of eight.
“It’s about your son.” I push my Wayfarers up my nose.
The curtain drops back in place.
“I ain’t got the bail money to help him out. Go away.”
Jesus Christ. I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut. So much for maternal instincts. I kick an ugly frog ornament next to her door. Big, throbbing mistake. It’s made of cast iron.
“He doesn’t need money, Mary. He needs help. He’s all busted up inside, and I don’t know who to turn to.” I bang her door with my fist. I wait impatiently and rub my wounded toes as she opens the door and stands in front of me, her eyes hollow with disinterest.
“He hasn’t spoken to me in three years, how the hell can I help him?” She leans on the doorframe and folds her arms on her chest.
I allow myself a second to take in the sight of her. She looks a mess. Father Wilder must have been an Abercrombie model, otherwise I can’t see how Ty and this woman are genetically linked.
She takes out a soft pack of Camel Lights from the back of her stained sweatpants and lights a cigarette, motioning with her hand to ask me if I want one. I shake my head, and she shrugs, covering the Zippo lighter with her hand.
“You his girl?” She sounds amused and billows a trail of smoke directly at my face.
“Why is this funny?” I dodge the question.
“There’s always a girl trying to save Tyler. And all of you think you can. You girls are dumber than I was when I married his father.”
“No point in asking how that one worked out, huh?” I push her away from the door, inviting myself in.
If her house looks like a mess from the outside, the inside could accurately be described as hell. She is a hoarder of some kind, and the place is crammed with shit I didn’t even know still exists. And there is this rancid, awful smell of a stale fart and bad canned food.
“Nice place.” I don’t bat an eye, taking a tour around the house. I can't believe Ty used to live in this place. I know he moved around. Martinez to Redwood, Redwood to Concord. I can see why he ran away. Living in this place looks like a nightmare.
Mary plops down into a recliner and puffs on her cigarette. It was a bitch to find her place and it’s going to be a bitch to get her to drag her sorry ass to Concord to be there for her son, and I know it.
When I started dating Ty, I imagined my first encounter with his mother would involve me asking her what the hell she was thinking when she decided to give him a name that rhythms. Tyler Wilder. Now I'm beginning to see that there's a lot of more pressing issues than Ty's name.
“How do you want me to help Tyler?” she repeats. “And what makes you think that I can?”
“I want you to come with me to Concord and take care of him until he comes around. He's been drinking and not eating and..." I trail off, fighting the urge to nibble on a fingernail. "He is not well."
“Tyler made it very clear that he doesn’t consider me his mother.”
“Ty says shit so you won’t pick up on his pain. You’re his freaking mom. Get your ass to Concord and live up to your role, because your son has a drinking problem that would put an Irish sailor to shame.”
Mary offers me a shrewd smile. And that’s when I see them. Those dimples. Ty’s dimples. I take a good look at her, photoshopping off years of poverty and misery. She was definitely a hottie before life hit her with a giant shovel and junk food did the rest of the damage.