Best Kept Secret

by Amy Hatvany

  “Don’t cry, baby. I’ll clean it up. It’s just an accident. Mommy’s not mad.” I didn’t have the energy to be mad.

  His bottom lip trembled. “Really?”

  I wobbled where I stood, and braced myself with a flat palm against the wall. “Really.” My head bobbed and I felt like I might pass out. “You go on back to bed. I’ll come tuck you in in a minute.”

  “ ’Kay,” he said, and padded off down the hall. Bleary-eyed, I snatched a huge stack of towels from the linen closet and threw them onto the mess on the floor. Tiptoeing across them, I managed to adjust the toilet so it stopped running and went back to its normal level. I dropped to my hands and knees, swabbed the floor until the towels were soaked, and then took the entire smelly armful to the washing machine by the back door.

  “I don’t want to do this anymore,” I whispered. The tears swelled in the back of my throat. “Please. I can’t do this anymore. Somebody help me.”

  There was no one to hear my cries. I took several deep breaths, grabbed the bottle of bleach, and stumbled back to the bathroom to splash some over the floor. I would have to clean up this mess on my own.

  Eight

  As I turn into my driveway after dropping Charlie off with Martin, I eye my cozy, red-brick 1920s bungalow as someone might upon seeing it for the first time. The structure itself was beautiful—rare, detailed, latticed brick found only in older Seattle neighborhoods, leaded glass windows, a convex wall making up the front of the house. A substantial weeping willow was the garden’s focal point near the sidewalk. Looking out from my living room window seat, I’ve always thought that the willow looks like the bottom half of a genteel lady, carefully lifting her hoopskirt.

  I’m conflicted over Jess’s suggestion that I sell my home. My son spent his first five years here, but it’s also where I descended into the bottle and endured my darkest days. If we moved into something more affordable, I’d be leaving good memories behind with the bad. Then again, leaving the bad ones might be exactly what I need.

  Once inside, I set my purse down on the entryway table and let my eyes travel to the living room shelves. The sight of Charlie’s Spider-Man action figures and Lego creations jars something loose inside me. My pulse races. Even though I’ve just left him, I feel disjointed and panicky without him here. It’s like my body is missing its skeleton.

  Dropping to the couch, I blow a heavy breath out through my lips. I think about how I used to long for quiet—a leisurely meandering through my days. The first few years of being a mother, especially, when sleep seemed like the fabulous sex you’d once had with a stranger and would never get to experience again now that you were married. I yearned for mornings without a screeching infant, mornings without a husband accusing me of misplacing his keys.

  At one point, I remember wondering if I would be better off if Charlie never existed. This shadow of a thought, this brief turning over of my heart to the darkness that lay inside it, this is what haunts me now. Is all that resulted from my drinking some kind of cosmic retribution for spending one selfish moment wishing I had not become a mother? I didn’t mean it. Charlie is my gift, the best thing, hands down, that ever happened to me. I’d never heard other mothers discuss whether or not they were actually cut out to be a mother, nor did I have the courage to ask any women I knew if the question ever crossed their minds. The words were obscene enough inside of my head—saying them out loud felt unfathomable.

  My cell phone rings and I see Susanne’s name pop up on the tiny screen. We’ve only talked once since I got out of treatment, and while she understands the basic outline of what has happened with me over the last couple of months, I am too embarrassed to tell her too many of the dirty details. She knows I’ve stopped drinking and Martin has filed for custody. For now, that’s enough.

  “Hey there,” she says. “Long time no talk. What’re you up to?”

  “Not much,” I respond. I gnaw on a hangnail on the outside edge of my pinky finger. “How are you?”

  “Stressed. You want to go out for a drink?”

  I pause, feeling awkward. “Um, I’m not drinking anymore. Remember?”

  “Not even wine?” She laughs and I picture the bloodred curve of her lips. “C’mon, it’s medicinal.”

  My mind flickers briefly on the feeling of a perfectly cool, spherical crystal goblet in my hand and what a swallow of wine might taste like. I have to cough a little to clear the gag from my throat. “I can’t. Sorry.”

  We’re both quiet for a moment, unused to conversation with each other unaided by the lubricant of wine.

  “What’re you guys up to tonight?” I finally ask.

  She sighs. “The usual. Bath with a screaming toddler, followed by an enormous martini with my husband. Slightly drunken sex, if he’s lucky.”

  I don’t know how to respond. I’m suddenly hyperaware of everyone else’s drinking patterns. Andi assures me that “normies”—otherwise known as people who don’t have a problem with alcohol—don’t register how much wine another person leaves in a glass, or how many shots of scotch their friends knock back over dinner. She says it’s a reflection of an alcoholic’s obsession with alcohol, how he or she keeps track of other people’s consumption rates. I don’t think I have an obsession with alcohol—I think I notice it more because my problem with it is so recent.

  “Well,” I manage to say, “I hope you have a good night.”

  “You, too.”

  After we hang up, I think about how much it disturbs me to hear about Susanne’s drinking. I can’t imagine what it would be like to sit down with her and watch her do it, to smell the wine and have it right there, within my reach.

  I’m not sure I have it in me to say no to her when I’ve barely learned to say it to myself.

  One chilly but clear January afternoon, I picked up Charlie from school and took him to Golden Gardens Park in Ballard, not too far from Alice’s house. I’m going to be a good mother, I’d decided the morning after the toilet overflowed. I’m going to write and clean my house and play with my son. How I was living was ridiculous. I wasn’t a victim. I was a strong, intelligent, and capable woman. I’d succeeded at everything I’d ever set my mind to. I gave up the pretense of being able to stop altogether; instead, I once again limited myself to two glasses of wine a day. I was certain I could practice some measure of self-control. It was like going on a diet—all I needed was some discipline.

  “Why aren’t we going home, Mommy?” Charlie asked.

  “I thought it would be fun to have an early picnic dinner.” I glanced in the rearview mirror at my son. “It’s so nice outside. I packed submarine sandwiches and Cheetos.” I’d called Jess to see if she wanted to bring the twins along and meet us, but both of them had bad colds she didn’t want to share.

  “What else?” he asked, reaching over to pat the top of the ice chest sitting next to him in the backseat.

  I smiled, knowing he was fishing for dessert. “Oreos and milk. But only after you eat at least half of your sandwich, okay?”

  “Okay,” he agreed. We found a spot near the play area to lay our blanket, then I chased him around the equipment in a game of monster tag until he was ready to eat.

  “You’re a good monster, Mommy,” he said as he shoved a handful of Cheetos into his mouth.

  “Well, thank you,” I said. I was always the one to play the monster, chasing my son around with fake, menacing growls. He finished his meal in record time, then raced off to play in the sandbox with a group of other children. I sat on a nearby bench to catch my breath and tried not to think about the wine I would have once I got home.

  “Your son is adorable,” a woman said after she sat down next to me. Her delicate Asian features were accented by a copious blessing of splotchy tan freckles on her cheeks.

  “Thank you,” I said. “He looks a lot like his father.”

  “He looks like you, too,” she said. “His smile is yours.” She leaned over and offered her hand. “I’m Leila.”

&nbs
p; “Cadence.” I gestured toward my son. “And that’s Charlie.”

  “Is he an only child?”

  I nodded. “Yep. How about you?”

  “Tyson is on the slide. He’s four. And Becca’s on the merry-go-round. She just turned three.”

  “Wow, that’s a handful.”

  “Don’t I know it. My husband works like a fiend, too.” Leila said. “Does yours help you much?”

  “I’m divorced,” I said. “What school do your kids go to?”

  “I’m homeschooling, actually,” she said. “We belong to a pretty big group of families who have decided to go that route, so they still get a lot of social time.” She had been put in the position of defending her decision to others. I could hear it in her voice.

  “Ah. You are a better mother than me,” I said, not wanting her to feel she was being judged. “I don’t think I could do it.”

  “I know, it’s a lot being home with them all the time. It could drive a woman to drink.” She laughed.

  I forced myself to laugh, too, because I knew this was what she expected. I’d seen websites devoted to moms who joke about drinking wine out of sippy cups; pages on Facebook dubbed “Moms Who Need Wine.” There, drinking was talked about as a way to channel your former, nonmotherly self, laughingly referred to as “Mommy’s Little Helper.” I understood all of this was meant to be tongue-in-cheek—purely innocent fun. But as I sat there with my hands shaking, thinking of the bottle of wine waiting for me, I did have to wonder if any of those women thought about the other side, too. If they considered, even for a moment, the possibility they could end up just like me.

  That night, I stared wide-eyed at the ceiling in my bedroom, unable to sleep. I debated with myself whether or not I could make it through to morning without a drink. I’d finished my two glasses when Charlie and I got home from the park, and I was out of both my prescriptions from the doctor. My heart pumped in my chest at a frightening, demanding pace. My skin was cold and clammy. Tiny seismic warnings rolled out through my muscles. If I didn’t get up soon, the shakiness would only get worse. I didn’t want to drink—don’t do it, please don’t do it—but my body’s insistence on relief was about to take over.

  Cold, creepy-crawly twinges moved along in my muscles. My body was desperate for rest but my mind had a different idea altogether. I tried deep breathing, tensing my muscles and then relaxing each one; first my toes, then my feet, my calves, my thighs, moving up my entire body until I got to my head, where I realized I had no idea how to tense my brain, let alone any clue how to make it relax.

  Just a glass, I told myself as I rolled out of bed and stumbled down the hallway. Only enough to take the edge off so I can sleep a few more hours. Charlie would be up at 6:00. I needed to get him to preschool by 9:00. My fatigue was profound. My body felt as though someone had poured sand into my head, my eyes, my limbs. I can’t keep doing this. What the hell is wrong with me? I need to get my shit together.

  I stepped into the kitchen and regarded the bottle teetering on the edge of the countertop next to the sink. I hadn’t bothered to cork it and a fly danced around its lip. Brushing it away, I picked up the bottle and stared at it as though it might have had something to say. Drink me, maybe? Or perhaps, more likely, STOP drinking me, you stupid bitch.

  My belly warped in a strange dance of revulsion and impending relief. I chose relief. Holding the neck of the bottle with my right hand, I lifted it to my mouth, halfway gagging as I chugged down the first few swallows. My throat clenched in disgust and I pressed the back of my hand over my mouth, fighting the urge to vomit. The wave passed and I took another pull on the bottle. The heat of the wine burned through my body and slowed my pulse. I knew the nausea would cease. It only came back if I stopped drinking.

  “Mommy?”

  “Shit!” I exclaimed, jumping at the sound of Charlie’s tiny voice. He stood in the entryway to the kitchen, watching me. He wore plaid flannel pajamas and clutched his blanket with both hands. I jerked the bottle behind my back and heard its contents splash around.

  His lower lip pouched out, quivering, and his eyes filled with tears. “Sorry.”

  “Oh, honey, I’m sorry.” Guilt immediately flooded my senses. “Mommy shouldn’t swear. You just surprised me.” I placed the bottle on the table and kneeled down next to him. I felt softer after the wine. More pliant. The way I wished I could always feel. “What are you doing up? Did you have a bad dream?”

  He nodded and leaned into my shoulder, nuzzling the base of my neck with his damp face. I kissed the top of his head and rubbed his warm back in a small circle. He pulled away, crinkling up his perfectly snub, five-year-old nose. “Your breath smells yucky.”

  “Everyone has bad breath in the middle of the night, sweetie,” I said. His words stung. My mouth felt like it had been used as a litter box and probably smelled about as good. “Come on. Let’s go back to bed.”

  “Can I watch TV?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. My voice sounded like I’d been gargling gravel. “It’s late.”

  “Please?” he whined.

  I sighed, closing my eyes. So much for collapsing back to bed. “Fine. You go curl up on the couch and Mommy will be there in a minute.”

  “ ’Kay.” He plodded off to the living room and I stepped over to the table. There was only a swallow or two of wine left, and I knew this wouldn’t be enough. Tears welled in my eyes as I finished it, already thinking about where I’d stop to pick more up on my way home from dropping Charlie off at preschool.

  If I could wait that long.

  I wasn’t sure that I could. Lifting the bottle to my lips, I sucked the few remaining droplets of wine and a sudden panic filled me. It was gone, and I was nowhere near feeling like I could close my eyes and go back to sleep. The backup bottle of vodka I kept in the freezer was already empty. I hadn’t bought more, thinking if I didn’t have it in the house, I wouldn’t want it. My heart began to jitter in my chest again, demanding that I drink more to appease it. It terrified me how much more I had to drink to find a place of relief. It was the briefest sensation, barely lasting longer than a breath. Most days, I couldn’t reach it at all.

  Maybe I could zip to the store, I thought. It’s only a few blocks away. I staggered into the living room, where Charlie had curled up on the couch with his blanket and quickly fallen back to sleep. I’d only be gone a few minutes, ten at the most. He’d never even know I wasn’t there.

  I stared at him, every motherly cell in me screaming to not do what my body was demanding, but I simply couldn’t stand the thought of lying in my bed the rest of the night with a jackhammer in my chest. I could have a heart attack, and what would Charlie do then? I grabbed my keys and slipped out the front door into the frigid night air, being sure to lock the door behind me. Shivering, I climbed into my car and drove as quickly as I could with one hand over my right eye. The last thing I wanted was to get in an accident.

  The store was deserted except for the cashier standing at the register with a bored look on her face and the teenage boy stocking the shelves on the cereal aisle. Elevator music played an easy-listening rendition of “Time of Your Life” by Green Day. I grabbed a handcart and kept my body tense and my head down, trying to appear as sober as possible.

  I returned to the front of the store with a liter of merlot, a couple of bottles of cold medicine, and a box of tissues.

  “My son has a horrible cold,” I said. “Poor thing. My husband is waiting with him in the car.”

  The cashier eyed the liter of merlot I placed on the turn belt.

  Then she looked at me. “I can’t sell you the wine. It’s the law. No alcohol between two and six a.m.”

  “Oh,” I said, suddenly flustered. I had no idea. “Well, I guess I’ll have to pick it up later for my dinner party then. Maybe after work.”

  The checker nodded, though the look of disgust on her face was obvious enough that even I, in my foggy stupor, didn’t miss it. She knew I was a liar. So did I.
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  I sped home, opened the front door, and saw Charlie hadn’t moved from his spot on the couch. Relief washed over me. See? He didn’t even know you were gone.

  I took a couple of hefty swigs of the cold medicine, draining half the bottle. Curling up behind my son, I closed my eyes and felt my remedy gush through my veins. Within minutes, I fell into a deeply medicated, troubled void, barely noticing how easily I’d surrendered my chance to dream.

  The blare of my cell phone woke me with a start. I struggled to piece together how I’d ended up on the couch with Charlie, who was lodged against me, out cold. Wine, store, cold medicine. I leaned forward and fumbled with the phone, which I had left on the coffee table the night before, having failed to plug it into its charger.

  “Hello?” I said. The word came out rough and slow.

  “Hi, Cadence. It’s Lisa, from the Sunshine House?”

  Charlie’s preschool. Oh, crap. What time was it? I squinted at the DVD player on the shelf: 9:30. Shit. “Hey, Lisa. God, I’m sorry, I meant to call you. Charlie was up with an upset stomach last night. We must have overslept.” The lie slipped out too quickly for me to stop it.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Lisa said. “Does he have a fever?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, reaching my arm out to press my open palm against Charlie’s forehead, as though the act would somehow support his feigned illness. He stirred a bit, but didn’t wake. “No, he feels okay. Probably just something he ate. I’ll have him there in about half an hour, if that’s okay.”

  “Sure. We were just worried about you guys.” She paused. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, of course, I’m fine!” I say, maybe a little too brightly. “Why?”

  “You sound a little hoarse.”