by Amy Hatvany
My cheeks explode with heat as the other women watch me drop my arm back to my side with quizzical expressions on their faces. I scramble for the right explanation. “He’s spending some time with Martin today,” I say, finally settling for an abbreviated version of the truth. We’re only as sick as our secrets. “Father-son bonding time.”
I catch Susanne throwing a quick sidelong glance at Brittany, whose eyebrows lift almost imperceptibly. A sense of trepidation begins to coil in my belly.
“That’s important for them to do,” Renee says. “Rick spends every Tuesday night with Juan. They go to the park and then out to dinner so I can get some alone time.”
“Huh,” Julia says. “Alone time? What’s that? I couldn’t get Steve to spend an evening with his son if his life depended on it.”
“You don’t have to pick up Charlie any time soon, do you?” Brittany says. “You should join us. Get your coffee and come have a seat.”
“Oh. Okay. Great. Thanks.” What else could I say? I shuffle back from foot to foot, looking at Susanne for some kind of support, but she still doesn’t meet my gaze. I guess what Andi said was true—our friendship has shifted for good. Or maybe it wasn’t a friendship at all. At least not the kind that is good for me.
“Great.” Brittany smiles again. Susanne stares at her coffee cup, Renee looks over to the play area, checking on her son. My eyes follow hers, automatically searching the group of children for my son’s face. Though it shouldn’t, not seeing him there startles me. My heart jumps a beat in my chest before I remember he’s not here.
As I step away from them, the whispers start. It’s Renee, just barely loud enough for me to hear. “Does she think we don’t know?”
And then Brittany: “Martin told me she’s an absolute mess. He had to step in.”
“Of course he did,” Renee agrees, keeping her voice low. “I mean, really. Wouldn’t you?”
“What?” Julia asks. “Does she think we don’t know what?”
Susanne doesn’t say a word.
My throat seizes up. My stomach clamps down on itself and I freeze where I stand. They all know. It had to be Susanne. She told them. How could she do that? I can’t drink with her anymore, so she starts gossiping about me? What the hell? And I’m sure once Brittany got the scoop about my going to treatment, she must have talked to Martin at Charlie’s preschool and pumped him for all the details.
I want to run away. I want to pick up my feet and force them right out the door. But I don’t. Instead, I spin around to face them, my eyes bright. I swallow, trying to keep the tears at bay. I don’t want to give them the satisfaction. They stop talking and look up at me. They’re caught.
“You know what?” I say, staring straight at Susanne. “I actually need to work today. I don’t have time for coffee.”
Susanne drops her eyes to the floor again and Renee simply stares back at me. Julia looks confused.
“Oh,” Brittany says, the only one who doesn’t look away. “That’s too bad.”
Yeah, too bad. I want to defend myself. I want to ask each one of them if they’ve ever done anything shameful in their own lives. If they’ve ever hurt anyone they love; if they’ve behaved in a way they’d do anything in the world to erase. My blood feels like fire beneath my skin as I consider what they must think of me. I might as well be standing naked in front of these women.
I might as well still be drunk.
Nineteen
Since Charlie is with me over Memorial Day weekend, I invite Jess and Derek and the boys over to my house for a barbecue. Jess and I have talked a bit about what amount I could list the house for, but Derek wants to do a once-over on maintenance issues and ways I might fix the place up for a quicker, more profitable sale. Jess and I get the chicken and vegetable skewers ready for the grill while Derek completes his inspection.
“Well,” he says as we sit down to eat at the picnic table in the backyard, “it might need some electrical work to come up to code. And a few of the rooms need fresh paint. But otherwise, it’s pretty solid. I think if we spruce up the yard and price it just under what others have listed for in your neighborhood, it’ll go quick.”
“That’s great,” I say. “Will I lose anything?”
Derek shakes his head. “You shouldn’t. You bought the place before prices really started to go up around here. You’ll come out ahead, for sure.”
“I don’t want you to sell our house, Mommy,” Charlie says. “I like it.”
I smile at my son. “I know, baby. I wish I didn’t have to, but we’ll find another place just as nice.”
“Like Daddy’s house? We could live there, since Shelley doesn’t stay there anymore.” He looks hopeful.
Jess gives me a bemused smile and I chuckle. “I don’t think that would work for us very well, either, Charlie bear. Don’t worry, though. Uncle Derek will help us find something.” I swing my gaze to my brother-in-law and he nods.
“Absolutely. There are some great deals to be found. I’ll keep my eye out for a repo or short sale on a condo. In Edmonds, maybe. Near the water.”
“We could live near the beach, Charlie,” I say. “What do you think about that?”
“Yeah!” Charlie says, and I am relieved he is so easily appeased.
When the kids are out of earshot and Derek is in the house grabbing another soda from the fridge, Jess turns to me. “Have you talked to Mom since you went to her office?”
I shake my head. “Has she said anything to you?”
“Not really. She’s acting weird. Maybe you should try again.”
“Maybe,” I say. “We don’t have the best track record when it comes to communicating.”
“Emotional crap makes her uncomfortable. Where do you think you got it?”
I laugh. “Yeah, how did you luck out?”
She shrugs. “I dunno. I’m just wired differently.” I wonder if this is true. She and I basically had the same childhood, yet I’m the one with all the issues.
She sighs and looks over to the kids. “So, you’re really going to sell this place?”
“I have to. I can’t afford it anymore.”
“What about work? Have you sold anything lately?”
“Don’t ask. I’m totally procrastinating.”
“Well, you know what procrastination and masturbation have in common, don’t you?” She waits a beat, then answers her own question. “When it comes right down to it, you only end up screwing yourself. “
* * *
The following Wednesday, for my weekly dinner with Charlie, I decide to invite my mother to come along. I’ve been regretting my petulant behavior from the last time we talked, and after my own meeting with Mr. Hines, I am even more anxious to know what she plans to say to him. I call her first thing in the morning on Wednesday and Keiko offers to convey the message to her since she is already busy with a patient.
“She told me she’d love to,” Keiko says when she comes back on the line. “I’ll make reservations for you at the Spaghetti Factory, if you like. Sharon said it’s Charlie’s favorite place.”
I smile, touched my mother managed to remember this detail about her grandchild. “That would be great. Thanks.”
I pick Charlie up from Alice and we meet her at the restaurant near her office around seven o’clock. Even after a long day with patients, my mother’s brown hair is sleek and her casual khakis and white cotton sweater are still smooth and spotless.
Charlie runs to greet her. “Nana! I’m having ’sketti for dinner. Do you want it, too?”
My mother hugs him and laughs. “I think Nana might have to settle for a salad, but I might have to steal a bite or two of yours, if that’s okay.”
“Sure!” Charlie speeds back to his seat and clambers up into the chair next to me. “You sit there, okay, Nana?” He points to the chair across from him with his chubby index finger.
“Okay,” my mother says, and she slides into her seat. “Hello, darling.” She gives me a big smile. “How are you?”
“I’m doing okay,” I say, which is about as honest an answer as I can muster up. “How are you?”
“I’m well. Busy as always.”
We place our orders and before our food comes, my mother helps Charlie color on his placemat. “Look, Mommy,” he says. “Look at me color with the blue crayon.”
“Yes, sweetie. You’re doing a wonderful job.”
“Try to stay inside the lines, sweetie,” my mother says.
“He doesn’t need to, Mom,” I say. “It’s creative, like thinking outside the box.”
She sits back in her chair and sets the crayon she’d been holding back on the table. “Okay.” Her expression is blank; we’ve clashed on issues like this before. I want Charlie to know it’s okay for him not to do everything perfectly; she spent much of my childhood expecting me to do nothing less.
The server delivers our food and outside of both of us talking to Charlie, my mother and I don’t say much to each other for the rest of our meal. I’m anxious to ask her if she’s come to any kind of decision about her meeting with Mr. Hines, but it’s not appropriate to talk about it with Charlie here. She gets up to leave before I’ve paid the bill.
“I’m exhausted,” she says. “Thank you so much for inviting me, though.” She waggles her fingers at Charlie. “Nana loves you, honey.”
“I love you, too!” Charlie says. He slurps a single noodle up into his mouth and specks of marinara sauce spatter all over his cheeks.
“ ’Bye, Mom,” I say, grabbing a napkin to wipe my son’s face. “You’re a monkey, you know that?”
“Ooo-ooo-ooo!” Charlie says, mimicking a chimpanzee’s call.
I laugh. “You silly kid. I love you so much.”
“Love you, Mommy! All the way to the stars and back.”
Alice is waiting by the front door when I drop Charlie back off half an hour later.
I hug my son and try not to cry as I drive away. I grab my cell and punch in my mother’s number. She has to be home by now.
“Hi, honey.” Her voice is tense. My pulse speeds up.
Why is this so hard for her? Why can’t she just say, yes, of course you should have Charlie? Isn’t that what any good mother would say? I decide to dispense with any niceties and ask her the hard question. “Are you worried I’ll start drinking again, Mom? Is that why you haven’t decided what you’re going to say to Mr. Hines?”
She is silent for a moment. “Yes,” she finally says.
I have to swallow a couple of times to keep from crying. “I guess I understand that,” I say. “There are no guarantees I won’t.”
“No, there aren’t,” she says. Her voice is barely a whisper.
“I’m doing everything I can.”
“I know. It’s just—”
“Just what?” Tell me. Please, just tell me why you think I’ll fail. “Do you think I’m like your mother? That I’m crazy?”
Her sigh is ragged. “I don’t think you’re crazy, Cadence.”
“You’ve told me my whole life I’m like her.”
“I said you looked like her.”
“You said I was her carbon copy! You said she was crazy, then you told me I was just like her. I was a kid. Did it even cross your mind what conclusions I’d come to about that?” I will not cry, I chant internally. I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry.
“My mother wasn’t crazy.”
“What?” I ask.
“She wasn’t crazy!” There is the hitch of tears behind her words. “That’s just what they called alcoholics when I was growing up. That’s what my dad called her. It’s what I was used to calling it. I didn’t know how to talk to you girls about it, so I just called her what I’d always called her. It wasn’t until my father left that I really saw what was wrong with her. That it was the drinking that brought on her crazy behavior. She climbed into bed and drank for days and days. She wouldn’t shower. She screamed at me. I’d try to cook for her. I’d try to make her the kinds of things she liked to eat so she would stop drinking, and she would throw the plate of food at me as I walked out the door. Later, she said she was sorry. She made me climb under her covers with her and then she cried. She cried and she told me how much she hated me. She said she wished I was never born.” Her breath heaves.
Trying to process what this all means, my thoughts spin to the point of feeling dizzy. “God, Mom. Why didn’t you tell us any of this?”
“You were too young. It’s not exactly the kind of knowledge little girls need. When you got old enough, there wasn’t a reason to tell you.”
“Until now, maybe? You didn’t think when all of this happened with me that that might have been a perfect opportunity to say something? Maybe at the family session at Promises? That would have been a perfect place to bring it up.”
“Of course I did. I just . . .” She trails off and I have to prompt her.
“Just what?”
She sighs. “I’ve never talked about it to anyone. I certainly wasn’t going to say anything in front of all those strangers in that group. I didn’t even know how to say it to you.”
“Are you afraid I’ll end up like her?”
“If you keep drinking, you will end up like her. And when I meet with him in July, if I tell Mr. Hines you should have Charlie, and you start drinking again . . . well, then it would be my fault.” Her voice is tired, wrung dry.
“What would be your fault?” I whispered.
“It would be my fault if Charlie grew up the same way I did. Scared of his own mother. Terrified to do or say just one tiny wrong thing for fear of it setting you off. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you hurt him the way she hurt me.”
“But I’m not her,” I say quietly. “Mom. I don’t ask you for much. I never have. You taught me that. I’m so capable. Why would I ever need help? But I need your help here.” The words feel heavy and foreign, falling at strange angles throughout my mouth as I deliver them.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t know what else to say.”
“Sorry for what? Are you going to tell Mr. Hines I shouldn’t have Charlie?” My lungs feel like they’re about to collapse from the pressure surrounding them.
“I don’t know what I’m going to tell him,” she says. “Not yet. I just wanted you to know why.”
* * *
I call Jess the next morning, wanting to tell her about our grandmother but knowing it’s something I probably shouldn’t do over the phone. I half expect her to already know anyway, since Jess is usually our mother’s first confidante. Though I am the oldest I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve known something that significantly affects our lives before she does.
“Marley, get away from your brother with that crayon!” she says instead of hello. I hear the boys screeching in the background. “God, I’m sorry,” she breathes into the phone. “The little shits.”
“Uh-oh, bad day?” I smile as I say this, even though I know full well it’s not nice to feel happy that my sister has bad mommy moments, too. I can’t help it, though, I do. It makes me feel less defective.
“Not bad, really. Just busy. I’m trying to get three offers put together and faxed to the appropriate agents and Marley decided to get artistic on the septic addendum. Now he’s trying to color his brother’s brain periwinkle blue. Through his nasal passage.”
I laugh. “Tell him Aunt Cadee said to go with burnt sienna.”
“Uh . . . no,” she says. “So what’s up?”
“Can you come over for dinner tonight?” I ask her.
“That depends,” she says. “What are you going to make me?”
I smile, knowing exactly how to lure her. “Green chili enchiladas with gobs of jack cheese and sour cream?”
“Sold! I’ll get Derek to hang out with the boys and be there at seven.”
I fill my day by going to the grocery store for all the ingredients I need to make my sister’s favorite meal, deciding at the last minute to grill some corn on the cob for a
roasted corn salad with red bell peppers and cilantro-lime dressing. I love how easy it is to get lost in my thoughts while I work in the kitchen. Following the steps in a recipe and ending up with exactly what I expect is a huge comfort. Right now, I’ll take predictability wherever I can find it.
Jess shows up at about 7:15 wearing black leggings and a long, red T-shirt. She inhales deeply. “Oh my God, I could smell this all the way down the street.” She walks in the front door, pulls her shirt up, and uses a hooked thumb to extend the elastic waist of her pants. “I dressed appropriately.”
I laugh, taking the fancy bottle of citrus sparkling water she brought to go with our dinner. We sit down and after serving her a spoonful of each dish, she moans appreciatively as she eats. “Oh, man,” she groans. “You are the best cook.”
I smile, and my whole body fills with pleasure at her compliment. “Thank you.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes, until I set down my fork and rest my hands in my lap. “So,” I begin, “I have something I want to talk to you about.”
Jess sets her fork down, too, and gives me an apprehensive look. “Uh-oh. This isn’t just a sisterly bonding meal? There’s an agenda?”
I release a short laugh. “Not exactly. But I do need to tell you about a talk I had with Mom.” I repeat what our mother told me about our grandmother being an alcoholic.
“Wow.” Jess breathes the word out heavily, dropping back against her chair as she keeps her eyes on me. “Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? She hated talking about her mom with us. All those stories about taking her to the psych ward and how horrible it was checking her in—” She stops suddenly and drops her gaze to her plate. “I’m sorry. That was rude. I didn’t mean—”
I wave off her apology. “Don’t worry about it. I was in the psych ward. And I belonged there.” I give her a wry smile. “For a little while, at least.” I roll over a few phrases in my mind, unsure of the proper etiquette for thanking my sister for delivering me to the loony bin. I’m pretty sure Hallmark doesn’t have a card for this occasion.