Best Kept Secret

by Amy Hatvany

  She drops her chin to her chest, looks up at me from under dark, lifted brows. “You want the honest answer or the I’m-hooked-on-recovery, can’t-wait-to-get-well-again answer?”

  “Honest.” I watch as she fiddles with a packet of Sweet’N Low, tearing it open and pouring it into a tiny white mountain on the table between us, then destroys it with a single swoop of her hand. She glances up at me.

  “I’m all sorts of fuckered-up.” Her dark, almond-shaped eyes are ripe with a pain too big for her tiny frame to carry. Her words are slightly slurred. I tell myself she’s tired, that it can’t be anything else.

  “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

  “Why not?” She shrugs, then proceeds to take a couple of swallows of the giant Coke the waitress has set in front of her. She looks at me, takes a deep breath in, releasing it in a fast, hard push. “Well, William—that’s my ex, right?”

  I nod.

  “Okay. Well, he took me out, you know? I know, I know . . . Andi told me to stay away from him, but I really wanted to give him a chance.” She smiles wistfully, the innocence of her youth shining through an otherwise haggard appearance.

  “He took me to this real nice place downtown, too,” she goes on, “all filled with candlelight and tablecloths and all that fancy shit, and I’m thinking, wow, look at this classy place, he’s trying to support me, I might really be able to kick it this time.” She gives another dry laugh. “Then he goes and orders a bottle of champagne. He was all, ‘C’mon, baby, you can have some, you’re addicted to the needle, right? One drink won’t hurt you.’” She swallows, shaking her head as though not believing the words that were coming out of her own mouth. “I said no at first, you know? I was strong. But then he poured the glass, set it in front of me, and the smell, it got to me. I took a sip, and it was like liquid relief pushing through my veins.” She looks at me, tilting her head in question. “You know that feeling?”

  I nod. “Yes. Of course.” I would take a swallow of wine, feel it hit my bloodstream like a gush of warm water. If I close my eyes and imagine it, I can almost feel it again.

  She nods, too. “So, the moment I got that feeling from the booze, I wanted to shoot up.” She gives me a heartbreaking smile. “William took me to that hotel we used to like to go to and we scored. We shot up for a few days. When we ran out, he called some friends of his over and let them have sex with me. He took their money, left to go score, and that’s when I got beat up, I guess. I vaguely remember saying no to the fifth one. That didn’t go over so well with him.” She gestures to the evidence of this under her eye, her tone flat, completely matter-of-fact. “After he was done, I called nine-one-one.”

  “Oh, Laura,” I say, my throat constricting with tears. Horrible images are filling my mind: her sprawled out helpless on a hotel bed, scabby, disgusting men circling her like vultures. “Did you file a police report?”

  “Nah,” she says, giving me a quizzical look. “Why would I?”

  “Because they raped you?” I say, trying to keep the incredulity out of my tone.

  “Oh. Yeah, well, it’d get thrown out, I’m pretty sure, even if they could ID the guys. There’s no physical evidence, since they didn’t rape kit me. They probably figured I’m just a junkie, turning tricks to score. Which, technically, I was. Not like I haven’t been arrested for that before.”

  Aghast from this astonishingly unemotional dissection of her attack, I can’t think of a lucid response. Our server approaches, sets the dip in front of us, admirably avoiding too prolonged a look at Laura’s battered arms and stitched-up face. Laura digs into the dip, slathering a crostini half an inch thick before putting it in her mouth. My appetite is momentarily quelled by her story, so I only sip at my soda, trying to dislodge the heavy lump lodged in my throat. It only takes her a few minutes to demolish most of the appetizer on her own, washing it all down with the remainder of her drink.

  “Yum,” she says, smiling. “That was tasty.” She looks at me askance. “What’s wrong?”

  I don’t know how she can talk about being gang raped, beaten, and then eat, as though we were having a conversation about shopping for shoes. I shake my head, pressing my lips together, unable to verbalize the thoughts that are racing through my mind.

  She sighs, reaches over to squeeze my hands with both of hers. Her fingers are bony, but her grip is strong, reassuring. “It’s okay, Cadee. I barely remember any of it.”

  “Not remembering it doesn’t make it okay that it happened,” I say, gritting my teeth.

  Our server places our dinner salads in front of us. “Can I get you two anything else right now?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” Laura says. “I’d like a martini, please. A double, with three olives.”

  “Of course,” the server says, then departs.

  “Laura,” I say. “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

  She laughs, pulling her hands off mine, then leans back against the leather booth. “Why not? I already fucked up. What’s the point?”

  I don’t know what to say. A strange panic swells in my belly.

  Laura spears at her salad, lifting her fork, hesitating right before putting the bite into her mouth. “So anyway, I spent the night at Harborview, and then they kicked me out.” She laughs, takes her bite, chewing as she speaks. “And since I can’t afford Promises, I’m screwed. My mom won’t take me back in ’cause I used again, so I’m staying with a few chicks I knew from my last stint in detox. It’s supposed to be a sober house, but you know, whatever.” She rolls her eyes. The server brings the martini and Laura slithers her hand around it. She puts the rim to her mouth and takes two long swallows, draining half the cocktail glass.

  “You can call me anytime, you know that, right?” I say, grasping at the only thing I can think to offer. “We can take a walk around Green Lake, or go to a meeting. I’ll come get you.”

  She forces a smile, blinking back the tears, pats my hand. “Sure. That’d be great.” Fear is peppered across her face, though she fights hard to disguise it, lifting her jawline almost imperceptibly. She lifts the drink to her mouth again and finishes it.

  Our server returns with our dinners and Laura waggles her empty glass. “Can I have another, please?”

  There is an agonizing, sinking feeling in my stomach. I ache to offer her something, anything, but there is nothing more I can think of to stop her. I feel grossly ill-equipped.

  “My mom’s such a bitch for not letting me move back home,” she says suddenly. Her words are coated with venom. “How am I supposed to kick this shit without her support? You know, because she didn’t have anything to do with my turning into an addict. Same thing like your husband.” She repeatedly pierces the same piece of lettuce over and over again, attempting more to maim it than eat it.

  I pause, considering how best to respond. I don’t blame Martin for my drinking. I never did. Laura drew that conclusion on her own. No one made either of us do anything. No one stuck the needle in her arm. No one poured the wine down my throat.

  The server delivers Laura’s drink along with our dinners. She gulps it down, like a parched man after crossing the desert, emptying it without setting down the glass. That’s it. I can’t stand it anymore.

  “You need to stop,” I say. I want to pull the words back as soon as they leave my mouth. They’re only going to piss her off.

  Her skinny shoulders twitch, as though she was trying to shake off something uncomfortable against her skin. “What?”

  I lean in, try to grasp her hand in mine, but she yanks away. “I can’t be around you when you’re drinking, Laura. I didn’t know you were already drunk or I wouldn’t have picked you up.”

  “I’m not drunk!” Her eyes are wild, indignant.

  “Yes, you are.” My eyes fill. “I’m sorry, but I can’t be a part of this. It’s too hard.”

  “Whatever. I need to go to the bathroom.”

  She tries to stand up, pulling the tablecloth with her. I have to grab he
r untouched dinner plate to keep it from landing on the floor. As she stumbles toward the ladies’ room, I take a few deep breaths. I feel sick. Was that how I looked when I drank? How I spoke, smelled, acted? Is that what Charlie saw every night, his mother loose and out of control?

  I pull my cell phone out and call Nadine. “I don’t know what to do,” I say when she answers and tell her what’s going on with Laura. “I don’t want to be around her when she’s drunk. It’s completely freaking me out.”

  “Then don’t be around it,” Nadine says. “Put her in a cab.”

  “I can’t leave her alone like that.”

  “Why not?” Nadine is matter-of-fact. “She didn’t think about how her being drunk would affect you. She’ll be fine. You need to keep yourself safe right now, Cadence. Trust how you feel.”

  A few minutes later our server approaches the table. “Your friend is getting sick in the bathroom,” she says quietly.

  “Oh God,” I say. “I’m so sorry. Can you please call her a cab?” I hate myself for it, but I cannot take Laura home. It’s too much. I can’t have her in my car. I can’t handle it. This is horrible. This is not the night I had planned.

  “There’s already one outside. They sort of count on this kind of thing happening on Friday nights.”

  “Thank you,” I say, handing her a stack of bills from my wallet. “I’ll go take care of her.” I head toward the bathroom, only to find Laura spread out on the small couch in the waiting area. The hostess is looking at her like she is a disease. I squat down next to my friend, push her hair out of her face. She smells strongly of vomit and booze. I have to swallow back the gorge that rises in my throat.

  “Laura?” I say. “Come on. They have a cab waiting for you.”

  She grunts but doesn’t move. I stand up and sigh, reaching to pull her into a sitting position.

  “Hey,” she slurs, lifting an arm in sloppy dismissal. “Leaf me ’lone.”

  “I can’t. You have to get up.”

  “Sleep,” she groans.

  I look up just in time to see our server stepping over to help me. “Thank you,” I say, relieved.

  “No problem,” she says. Together, we manage to get Laura to her feet and shuffle her out the door into the waiting cab. I give the driver her address, a stack of cash, and ask him to take good care of her.

  After she is gone, sadness presses through my body as a physical ache. I bend at the waist, bowed by the kind of grief that will not allow me to stand. The server places her hand flat against my back. “She’ll be okay,” she says, I’m sure assuming my posture is due to worry over my friend. “Someone will get her well.”

  I don’t have the heart to answer, to tell this woman how wrong she is. No one can do this for Laura. Or for me, for that matter. If she wants it, she’ll have to do it herself.

  Twenty-five

  The next day, I call Martin’s cell phone and it rings four times before he picks up. One more and it would have gone straight to voicemail; he must have been deliberating whether or not he was going to talk to me.

  “Hello?” he says. The word is short and hard in my ear.

  “Hi,” I say. “I was wondering . . . I know it’s not my weekend, but I’d really like to see Charlie. Just for a little bit. An hour or so.” I am missing my son; there is something in me too hollow to be filled by anything other than having my child in my arms.

  Martin pauses before he answers. “Why?”

  I have to take my own deep breath to keep from snapping at him. “I just miss him.” Please, I think. Can you please just do this for me? He’s my son, for God’s sake. He came out of my body. Heated humiliation floods my cheeks. I shouldn’t have to beg to spend time with my child. Only another few weeks, I remind myself, and the decision will be made and he’ll be back with me. I won’t have to go through this anymore.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” There is a sturdy wall built around his words. His pause is expectant—awaiting further explanation. I can picture that handsome face, elevated eyebrows raising impatient waves across his forehead.

  “Martin,” I say after taking a few calming breaths. “Please.” I can hear the contemplation ticking through his mind.

  “He’s at my mom’s,” he finally says. “I’ll call her and let her know you’re coming.”

  I let go a sigh of relief, despite having to endure another encounter with Alice. “Thank you. I appreciate it.” I know, despite the custody dispute, at his core, Martin is a good man. The part of him that loved me once understands how much I need this.

  He pauses. “Are you okay?”

  “No,” I say. For some reason, his question brings on an onslaught of tears. “But I will be.” I hope he realizes I’m not just talking about today.

  “Okay.” He hangs up without saying good-bye. I redirect my car toward Alice’s house. All I can think of is pulling Charlie into my lap, feeling his solid little body pressed against mine. I need to be reminded that there is good left in the world. Charlie is the best evidence of this I’ve ever known.

  I park and take a couple more deep breaths to calm me before going inside. Dusk has already fallen, the pale afternoon haze melted into fuzzy gray shadow. She is waiting at the front door, opening it just as I am raising my fist to knock.

  “It’s nice to see you, Alice,” I say, stepping inside. I look around, noting how little her house has changed in the years I’ve known her. Flat white walls, salmon velour couches, and teal plush carpeting grace the living room. Every windowsill and flat surface holds hundreds of porcelain trinkets collected over the years at garage sales. This is probably the only thing about Alice that clearly frustrated Martin, a minimalist. Dusting was a daily ritual with her, a habit she tried—and failed—to get me to adopt.

  “Mama!” Charlie rushes in from the kitchen, throws his arms around me. Tears flood the muscles in my throat in response to his touch. I squat down, pull him close, breathe him in.

  “I love you so much, Charlie bear.” There is more ache in my heart than it can hold. I feel it spilling throughout my body, weighing me down. “I missed you.” I can’t help it; the tears start to fall.

  Charlie pulls back, looks at me, worried. “What’s wrong?”

  I shake my head, try to wipe back the evidence from my cheek. “I’m okay, honey. I just had a hard couple of days.”

  “Oh,” Charlie says.

  I look up at Alice, who stands back, regarding the scene. There is an odd look on her face. I might venture to call it compassion.

  “It’s cool out,” Alice says.

  “It is,” I say, nodding, wondering if we’ll ever be able to talk about more than the weather.

  “We were just about to have some cocoa and cookies. Why don’t you come join us?”

  I know the invitation is born out of manners but I accept anyway, wanting Charlie to witness us getting along. I settle myself down in one of the breakfast nook chairs with Charlie on my lap. He chatters away about his day while Alice sets a plate of shortbread before us and begins to warm milk on the ancient avocado-colored stove.

  “And then Omi took me to the park and I climbed to the top of the monkey bars and she told me to get down from there so I didn’t break my neck.”

  “Ah,” I say with a smile. “That was probably a good thing. I’ve seen you on monkey bars. You fell once, remember?”

  “I fell?” he asks. “Did I bleed?”

  I nod, reaching up to touch the small scar over his right eyebrow. “You needed two stitches. Right there. I was very, very scared.”

  “See, Charles?” Alice says. “Even your mother agrees with me.”

  “Wow,” I say, hoping the intended levity in my voice comes through, “we might want to mark this as an historic day, huh, Alice?”

  To my surprise, she laughs, though her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She stirs powdered cocoa mix into three mugs, setting Charlie’s in front of him, then turns to open the cabinet above the stove where I know she keeps her liquor. She p
ulls out a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream, unscrews the lid. “I hope this doesn’t bother you,” she says. “I just like to have a drop in my cocoa.”

  I watch her pour substantially more than a drop in one of the mugs. I lean over and wrap my fingers around the handle of the mug she left alone, pulling it toward me. “Doesn’t bother me a bit,” I say with a smile. I’ll be damned if she’s going to get the response she’s looking for: me eyeing her drink longingly, or rushing home because I can’t stand to be around the booze.

  I snuggle Charlie in closer. “Want to go read a book after we’re done with our snack, honey?”

  “Okay!” he says, kicking his legs out and letting them fall back again. His heels smack against my shins.

  “Sh—Ouch!” I’m thrilled that is the only word that pops out of my mouth. It could have been—and almost was—much worse. “Watch it, there, Mr. Man. Your mom bruises easily.”

  He twists his head around and lands a wet, cocoa-scented smack on my lips, then looks up at me with adoring eyes. He knows I’m a sucker for his kisses. “Sorry, Mama. I didn’t mean to.”

  I set my forehead against his. “I know you didn’t. It’s okay.”

  “Martin was that way, too,” Alice says, sipping from her mug.

  I lift my gaze to her. “Really? What way was that exactly?” I’m not sure how successful I am at masking the automatic defiance I feel. Don’t you dare criticize my child, I think. Don’t you dare.

  She lowers her drink, curls up the corners of her mouth. “A little careless with his movements.” She shrugs. “Not intentionally, of course. Just a little wild.”

  “Huh.” “Wild” is not a word I’d associate with my ex-husband. Ordered? Definitely. Charismatic? When he wanted to be. Moody? Too often. But wild? Not that I’d ever seen.

  “Charles reminds me so much of his dad.” Alice winks at Charlie, which makes me think she must have something in her eye. Charlie happily munches away on his second cookie. “Don’t you?”

  “Yep!” Charlie exclaims, spraying crumbs onto the table in front of him and into my cocoa. I set my drink down.