I Don't See

 *The following is based on true events to the best of my capability. Trigger warnings: alcoholism, medical emergency, childhood trauma

My Sunday ritual is like many in my hometown. I get dressed in an outfit that pleases an older generation and am hustled to a church I don’t want to go to. Grandma is the only one in our family who consecutively goes to church. She had tried getting her children to stay, but once they were confirmed at Prince of Peace Lutheran Church they split. Lucky for me, she always seems to be in charge of getting coffee ready; thus, we have to be there even earlier than the first service. She waits for me in the parking lot behind our blocky U-shaped apartments. The night before I didn’t get much sleep due to Mom, (Bonnie?), Dolly (Bonnie’s adult daughter), and Dolly’s boyfriend partying. It was the first time in a long time that Mom was having fun, but it still involved liquor, weed, and cigarettes-the three things I’ve learned to have hostility towards. Yet, laughter was better than the fighting. Yells which I now heard from Dolly's bedroom instead of the living room where Mom has kept the mattress she and Bonnie once shared. It’s also way better than the cries of Dolly’s daughter, Wynter, who is a toddler also living with us. I walk from my bedroom at the end of the apartment to the bathroom across from me, then down the cold tiled hallway, and into our moderately sized kitchen. It’s here I see Dolly’s boyfriend, a short, big-eyed African-American man lying on the ground. He’s lying on top of our sink floor mat. He’s lying on his right side facing me. He isn’t sleeping. He is convulsing. He is having a seizure. A puddle of foamy saliva pours from the corner of his mouth as his eyes seem caged. I don’t know what to do! I’ve never seen anything like this! Do I try to talk to him?! Do I  try to touch him?! I remember this shaking uncertainty mixed with distress. I don’t scream. I don’t make a sound…for I’m afraid of the consequences. I’m a thirteen-year-old afraid of consequences. My Mother is snoring away behind the sheet separating the kitchen and living room where she traps the air conditioning. She’s always a pain to wake up. I could already imagine her big bugged, glossy, dead stare; looking but never comprehending. If I wake up Dolly I risk waking up Wynter, which risks waking up the whole apartment. But should everyone be awake? I feel the pull of needing to help, dragged down because I didn’t know how, and tied to this belief that somehow I would get in trouble with Mom. I couldn’t delay any longer because then Grandma would know…even if she is a retired nurse…if she came inside she would see the beer cans and smell the smells that Mom desperately tries to hide…Mom made me promise years ago to never tell Grandma what goes on at home…So what am I to do? I’m angry to again be put in a situation I feel like I shouldn’t be in. My solution is to just lay a towel down beside him hoping he’ll be ok. I wipe the developing tears in my eyes, walk head down the long sidewalk, and into Grandma’s white van. She says good morning. I greet her back. I mention nothing about what just happened (or is continuing to happen for all I know). I feel guilty thinking that maybe I had just let a man die. My fear of my Mother prevented me from once again helping. After service and Sunday School, I return home to find only Mom. She asks if I saw anything that morning. I tell her. She is solemn and without saying it, scared. Yet, she hints through her words and demeanor that what happened was his own fault.