I’m staring at the bottom of a glass; ice cubes slide down and hit my teeth, bringing with them the watery taste of whiskey. I set the glass down, chomp on an ice cube, and look around. Whiskey Pete’s. My head swims the tiniest bit but enough to tell me that I shouldn’t have another whiskey.
Harriet hands me a water; her eyes are narrowed with what I’m thinking is concern for me, which makes sense because drinking too much probably isn’t the best idea. “Thanks,” I say and take the water, draining half of it before setting it on the table.
She frowns. “Two drinks should probably be your limit.”
“Or none at all,” mumbles Ruth.
The guy onstage stands, slings his guitar to his back, and leans into the microphone. “That’s my set. I’m Jarrod, and I want to dedicate tonight to Claire.”
I’m startled to find the young guy holding up his beer bottle toward me.
An old man in the corner booth gives a half-hearted clap. Harriet leans into me. “You’re teaching young Jarrod there how to play the guitar, Claire. His playing is no reflection on your teaching, by the way.”
Ruth snorts and I start to smile, amused and trying to piece it all together, when a woman at the bar starts to cry, bent over, shoulders shaking. The sound is pathetic and so lost it hits me right in the gut, and all I can think about is my mom and how alone in her own tortured thoughts she must have been to have gotten so lost like that.
Pete heads her way, pats her lightly on the shoulder. “Okay, now, Jory.” His voice is low and comforting.
Ruth shakes her head. “Poor woman.” Harriet makes a sympathetic sound in agreement.
“Here you go, Jory, drink this.” Pete sets a soda on the bar before heading back to help another customer.
I still can’t take my eyes off the woman, can’t stop imagining my mother like that.
“Is Alice up next, Pete?” Ruth says.
“Rick’s up doing Elvis covers, then Alice.”
Harriet hoots. “Rick? The guy who plays death-metal tunes on the jukebox every damn chance he gets?” She slaps her knee. “Come on, ladies, this we’ve got to hear.”
“But where is Alice?” Ruth says, and I can hear a note of concern in her voice that sets the hairs on the back of my neck on end.
“Alice lives here now, Claire,” Harriet says, patting my hand.
I’m nodding because yes, I know this. Don’t I?
A phone rings and the woman at the bar answers loud. “Yeah, okay, outside.” She lurches to her feet and stumbles out the door.
I’ve already thrown on my coat, hat and scarf, gloves. “I’m not feeling so well.”
“Whiskey,” Harriet says.
“Stay, Claire. You’re here to see your mom play,” Ruth says. “Alice was really excited that you were coming.”
“Yeah.” I sound a bit gruff and short, but I want to get out of there. I want to go home. It’s been a long day—I can feel it in the softness of my bones, the weariness that hangs from my arms. I try to soften my voice. “Sorry, Ruth. I’m just tired, okay?”
There’s no wind when I step outside the bar, and I’m grateful for the reprieve. My mouth is dry, sticky with the taste of whiskey, and my temples pound. Why did I drink whiskey? I feel a sudden light-headedness I didn’t notice inside. I’m going home. I’m going home, I sing to myself. A woman is crying and the sound draws me around the corner to the back entrance of the restaurant.
“I’m sosorry to keep draggin’ you into this, Alice. I’mamess.” The woman’s words slur together.
“It’s okay, Jory. We’re not perfect; nobody is, and setbacks don’t mean anything other than a new challenge, right?” My mother’s voice.
I press a hand to my mouth to keep from crying out. She’s bundled up but her face is exposed, and she looks so much like the woman who once laughed and danced with Dad, who rocked me to sleep and baked the best chocolate chip cookies in Whittier. Seeing her now, combined with the cloying taste of whiskey in my mouth, makes tears slide down my cheeks. “Mom?”
She turns, and when she sees me, her head tilts. “Hi, Claire bear. Are you okay?”
I stumble to the side, the whiskey running a winning loop inside my body, and I shake my head. “I don’t think so, Mom.”
The door to Whiskey Pete’s slams open, and out come Harriet and Ruth, bundled and walking with a purpose.
“You go on ahead with our Claire, Alice,” Harriet says. “I’ll help Jory home.”
Mom slides her arm around my waist, and with Ruth flanking my other side, we hurry to BTI. In the elevator, I look down at Mom and feel the years we’ve lost in a sour queasiness that waters my mouth. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here now, and I’m taking you home, sweetheart.”
“I’ve missed you, Mom.”
Her arm squeezes my waist. “I know, honey. But I’m not going anywhere ever again. Okay?”
“Okay.” And then I’m in my apartment and running to the bathroom, head in the toilet while Mom rubs a cool washcloth across the back of my neck.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Whiskey,” comes Ruth’s voice from outside the bathroom.
Mom wets the washcloth again, wrings it out. “What got into you?”
“Maybe it was Bob Dylan,” Ruth says. “His music could make anybody drink.”
I push to standing, wincing at an ache that spreads across my forehead. “Bob Dylan?” I say and sink into the couch.
Ruth takes a seat on one of the barstools.
Mom hands me a glass of water and two pills. “Drink this and take these.”
I do as I’m told, and while my head is fuzzy, an odd thought springs to mind. “I feel like a teenager again.”
Ruth frowns. “You acted like a teenager again.”
I look at Mom and I’m surprised at the warm feeling spreading through my limbs. Her hair is down, washed and dried in shiny waves, and she wears a soft lavender sweatshirt that brings out a healthy pink tone in her skin. I have to swallow past a lump. “But you weren’t here when I was a teenager,” I say.
Mom’s dark-blue eyes crinkle when she smiles. “Well, I’m here now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Wednesday, February 20
When I get to Kiko’s classroom, I easily locate my spot, MS. CLAIRE’S READING CORNER, and settle into the beanbag chair, moving my tall form around until I squish it into a comfortable-enough seat. While Kiko instructs the class, I scan my notes, blink against a pressure in my eyes when I read that Tate is a father. He’s a good one, I have no doubt, and his daughter, Maree, sits across the classroom now, squirming in her seat, with a name tag made of silver duct tape affixed to her shirt.
There’s a tenderness I feel toward the girl that is mirrored in my notes from previous times we’ve spent together. I wonder if on some level I sensed the connection. Tate and I were as close as two people can be. It wouldn’t surprise me if that connection extends to his daughter.
Kiko announces quiet activity time, and the little girl with cat-eye glasses picks up her backpack and zooms over to my corner, jumping into the smaller beanbag chair beside me. Maree. I smile.
She points to her name tag. “I’m Maree, like Mary with a y ’cept with two e’s ’cause I love—”
“Anne of Green Gables,” I say, and I don’t know where it comes from but it feels right and it apparently delights the girl, who has covered her mouth with one hand.
“Oh my God. That is so amazing. Maybe I should be a doctor when I grow up!”
I laugh, having no idea what she’s talking about but thoroughly enjoying her enthusiasm.
“Oh, guess what,” she says. “My birthday’s on Saturday.”
She talks as though we are old friends, and something about her comfort with me is at once familiar and devastatingly out of my reach. “And how old are you going to be, Maree?”
“Two digits, Ms. Claire! Finally!” From her backpack, she slides out a ziplock bag, places it carefully on
her lap with a furtive glance toward Kiko. “I made lemon bars for the class. It’s just stuff that’s in a box, but I think they’re pretty yummy. Want to try one?”
I nod and she hands me a napkin with a doughy lump that’s more round than square and drenched in powdered sugar. I take a bite and she stares at me, eyebrows arched high in anticipation.
“Delicious!” I say.
She blows air through her nose and leans all the way back in her beanbag, looking relieved. “I knew it! Leonora said they were gross, but I knew she was lying.” She makes a face at a girl who sits in front of a desktop computer wearing headphones.
I try to change the subject. “So what are you going to do for your birthday?”
She shrugs. “Maybe something with my best friend, Leonora.” She leans close, lowers her voice. “’Cept sometimes she makes me so mad, and I don’t want to be around her, and other times she’s hilarious, you know?”
I nod. “Friendships can be tricky.”
She peers up at me over her glasses. “Hey, you’re best friends with my dad. Is he tricky?”
I do know that her dad is Tate because it’s on the note card in front of me, but I rub my neck because hearing it out loud makes it feel new.
She looks sheepish. “Oh, right; sorry. You know, sometimes I forget all about your sucky memory problem ’cause you’re so easy to talk to and stuff.”
I have to blink several times. It’s such a kind thing to hear. “Thank you,” I say.
She keeps talking. “And Tate is my dad, and he’s been your best friend since you guys were little, kinda like”—she scrunches one side of her mouth—“me and Leonora.”
It seems like she wants to talk about her friend problems. “I always thought that good friends make each other better people. Do you and Leonora do that for each other?”
Maree pushes her lips out, thinking. “Maybe. She said I was going to get fat if I kept eating cookies.”
“She said that?”
“Yeah, so I guess she is a good friend, ’cause instead I gave her all my cookies and that was very nice of me.” She holds up a small booklet held together by pink and green staples. “Can I read my Uki story to you now?”
I settle into the beanbag. “Of course.”
She opens the book. “Once upon a time, there was a brave strong warrior girl named Uki, and she was smart and fast, and she didn’t take crap from anyone.”
I bite my tongue, decide to let the choice of words pass in favor of hearing her story.
“There was a boy in Uki’s village who was the shortest and smallest of every kid, and he was scared of everyone. There was a troll who lived under a bridge, and he threw rocks and staples and pencils at the boy and called him lots of mean names. The boy trembled with fear.”
She shows me an illustration of a big orange blob with horns—the troll, I assume—beside a small stick-figure boy with pencils sticking out of him and a tear falling to the ground.
“So Uki collected a bunch of sap and tricked the troll into drinking it. It stuck to his mouth like glue and so he couldn’t talk and never said mean things to the boy ever again.”
This picture is of the orange blob with horns and a tear falling off its face. She turns the page to a big pink heart.
“And the boy loved her from that day on.”
She closes the book.
“I loved it. You’re very creative, Maree.”
“That’s the last one. I’m all out of Uki stories.”
“That’s a shame,” I say.
She shrugs. “That’s life.”
“Next station, please,” Kiko announces, and Maree pops up from the beanbag chair like only a kid can.
“My birthday’s on Saturday. Don’t forget!”
I smile, hold my hands out in front of me, and say, because I think we are comfortable with each other, “Oops, I already have!”
Her face lights up, and she laughs so hard she bends in half. “Oh, Ms. Claire, you’re so funny.” She takes the note card from my lap, flips it over, and writes, Dont forget again! Maree turns 10 on Saturday!, and hands it back to me. “Now you won’t forget. Bye, Ms. Claire!” She skips to the computer center and takes a seat.
I smile at the uneven scrawl across my note card, then check my schedule for today, pleased to see that I’m going to Anchorage this afternoon with Ruth. I’ll pick up a present for Maree there.
I meet Ruth in the lobby, and when I get there, a waterfall of young voices floats from the area by the front door. A dim light, the brightest it gets in winter, stretches lazily inside, highlighting fingerprint smudges and one that looks like lips pressed into the window. Beside me, Ruth mumbles something under her breath as we make our way past the kids and toward the front doors. I don’t have to understand her to know what she says, because Ruth is of the opinion that the kids shouldn’t be allowed to hang out in the lobby after school. Isn’t that what the playground is for? Or their apartments?
“Hi, Ms. H.!” says a girl with blonde hair that’s shaved on both sides so that she looks like she has a long Mohawk on top. A smaller girl beside her giggles. “Maree’s not here.”
“Okay,” I respond with a smile that I hope doesn’t look as vacant as it feels.
Beside me Ruth grunts, leans toward me, and whispers, “You’ve been giving guitar lessons to Maree, and she’s also Tate’s daughter.”
My hand goes to my chest.
She touches my arm, her eyes soft. “They moved here a few months ago. You know all about it, but you’re still adjusting to it.”
I let the news settle, give Ruth a grateful smile. “Okay, thank you.”
The glass in the doors is frosted white on the edges, tiny sparkling snowflakes frozen into the corners. When I push against the door, it resists, the wind outside slipping between cracks, howling to come inside, and already my nose starts to drip. Ruth and I pull our hats low, wrap our scarves extra tight, and step outside into the bitter cold.
The ice on Ruth’s windshield is thin but stubborn. I’ve built up a sweat trying to scrape it off, but when I finish, Ruth’s old Jeep is warmed up enough to drive, and I slide into the passenger seat, my cheeks tingling from the hot air that blasts through the vents. Ruth pats the dashboard. “Old girl still gets hot.”
I laugh and shake my head, pull my notebook out of my bag, locate the pages for today, February 20. Errands in Anchorage, Ruth will drive—and then a note that lifts my eyebrows. Tate’s daughter, Maree, is turning 10 on February 23. You will bake a cake. Get her a present in Anchorage, something to do with Audrey Hepburn. Ask Ruth for help.
“So,” I begin, “I’d like to get Maree a birthday gift.”
“That’s nice.”
“She loves old movies and Audrey Hepburn,” I say. “Maybe we can find like an old movie-poster print somewhere.”
“That’s a great idea.”
We approach the tunnel; Ruth idles the Jeep, waiting for the light to turn. We’ve made it in time, before the tunnel shifts direction to allow cars from the Bear Valley side to travel through to Whittier. Ruth gives a happy thump on the steering wheel. She loves it when things are well timed. Her hat is pulled to just above her gray eyebrows, mouth set in a firm line as she eyes the camera mounted on the light post. “Unnecessary,” she mumbles. “Intrusive.”
I try to hide my smile. Ruth’s a private person who believes that it’s best to leave folks to their own business. For the most part, that’s how she’s lived her life. Except when it comes to me. Ruth’s always made sure I was taken care of, made sure I never felt alone, and thinking about all she’s done for me warms me more than the Jeep’s unfailing heat. “Do you remember that time you told Mom off?”
“Sure do.”
It was a few weeks before Mom abandoned us and a particularly low moment, when Dad had been on the road for a while and Mom hadn’t left the apartment in nearly a month. When I came home from school that day, I gagged at the stagnant air in the apartment infused by the sour smell of liquor o
ozing through her pores. I found her on the couch, passed out and splayed across the faded flower-patterned cushions. She had been beautiful once. But there wasn’t much of that left anymore except for her hair, which flowed down her shoulders, shiny and brown and perfect. I stood there staring at her, listening to her ragged breathing, an empty hole gnawing at my chest and my fingernails digging into the soft skin of my palms until I felt pricks of pain run up my arms. I turned and sprinted from the apartment, found myself banging on Ruth’s door.
Why can’t I be enough for her? I didn’t know I was crying, but Ruth’s face softened and she reached out a hand, touched my wet cheek. Can I stay here tonight?
Of course. She stepped to the side to allow me to pass first, then slipped out into the hallway. Be right back. She walked to my apartment, arms stiff by her sides, her chin lifted in a determined way.
No, Ruth, please.
She turned, pinned me with her gray stare. Some people are worth fighting for, Claire. You’ll always be worth it.
I didn’t follow but I heard her well enough. Ruth wasn’t a loud person, but when she spoke to my mom, her voice carried a fierce admonition. Alice? Wake up. Wake up!
What the hell, Ruth? My mom’s voice sounded groggy and slurred.
Even with all this, I still think of you as my friend. And good friends look out for each other, take care of each other. But I can’t make you sober, and the only way I know to do right by you is to take care of that beautiful girl of yours. And if she can’t make you turn your life around, then nothing here will.
Ruth. Mom’s voice was plaintive, sad. I love her; you know that.
Then do one good thing for her.
What?
Get sober. And if you can’t do that here, then leave.
I’d scuttled inside Ruth’s apartment, flopped on the couch, and tried to pretend that I hadn’t heard a word.
I look down at my lap, and I’m thankful for the dark tunnel that surrounds the Jeep and hides my face. I think of the words I shouted at Mom outside BTI. Why can’t you stop? I hate you so much! “You stood up for me, Ruth,” I say. “You’ve always stood up for me.” The lights flick past, golden spots that dance across our skin. “Do you think she would have left if you hadn’t said anything?” I don’t mean to ask, don’t want Ruth to think it’s her fault. Except for a tightness around her mouth, she doesn’t answer right away, and I wonder whether I’ve asked this before. My cheeks warm. Maybe I’ve asked this a hundred times.
Memories in the Drift: A Novel Page 22