by Amy Hatvany
“Not a little boy’s favorite, it would seem,” she says, shrugging.
“Yeah, but they’d devour a box of sugar cubes if I left it on the table,” I say. “What do they know?”
Martin hugs his mother. “Cadence is right, Mom. It’s the best cake I’ve ever eaten.”
Alice smiles, leaning her head against his chest. “Not the best.”
“The best,” Martin insists. He mouths the words “thank you” to me over the top of his mother’s head.
I give him a quick smile in return and experience another brief flutter of hope. Maybe we can do this. Maybe after everything is said and done, we can find a way to be friends.
Thirty
What’s going on?” I ask Scott toward the end of August. My desperation to get Mr. Hines’s report is evident. “Why is it taking him so long? It’s a pretty simple decision, isn’t it? Me or Martin. One or the other. The end.”
“He has to review all the documentation,” Scott explains patiently. “Your medical files, the reports from Andi at Promises, the declarations from both your and Martin’s references, plus take into account what he has learned from his interviews. It’s a lot of material to go over. Then he has to put it into a succinct report for the judge.”
“And we can fight it, right, if he recommends Charlie stays with Martin?”
Scott sighs softly. “Yes, but Cadence, more often than not the court will go with the GAL’s initial recommendation. If things go Martin’s way, you can spend thousands of dollars going to court and end up with the same result, or you can accept the decision and find a way to cope with it.”
“It won’t go Martin’s way,” I insist. “It can’t.” I can’t allow myself to believe for a moment I won’t get Charlie back. Not even a millisecond. I won’t have to accept it, because it won’t happen. I say as much to Nadine, who I am calling each day as she asked.
“I’d like to think I’m that powerful, too,” she says. “I’d love it if just because I want something to turn out in my favor, it will.”
“I think you get what you put out,” I say, mildly irritated that she’s not being more supportive. “If I believe I’ll get him back, I will.”
“I know it’s hard to come to terms with,” she says, “but you’re not in control of this decision. You’ve done what you can and you have to leave the rest.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“No, honey, it’s not,” she says, her tone laden with grief. “I spent years trying to will my son into not drinking himself to death. I thought that if I got him into treatment program after treatment program, if I supported him and believed in him, if I took him to meetings with me and all that good motherly stuff, he would get well. He didn’t. It wasn’t up to me.”
“That sucks,” I say sourly.
“Yes, it does,” she agrees. “But that’s life.”
Our conversations are brief and all seem to go like this. I tell her what’s going on with me and she points out the holes in my thinking about a situation, or how she handled something similar. I know on some level she’s right. This isn’t my decision and it royally pisses me off. I can do all the right things, and still, I could lose custody of my son. How does that make sense? Do the right things, and the right things should happen. I want to live in a world where this simple concept bears true.
I go through the motions of my days during the week, sticking to the usual schedule as much as I can, despite the thoughts racing through my mind. I’m distracted and edgy, attempting to remain focused only on the task in front of me—brushing my teeth, taking a shower, drinking coffee. I work at the cafe four days a week. Serena moves me to dinner shifts, where the real money can be made. I have lunch with Jess and my mother, go to a meeting with Kristin or Serena, have mildly flirtatious conversations with Vince. I’m only half listening when people speak. Too many thoughts pound through my brain to hear their words. Please, I think. Please let me have him. I’m itchy inside—allergic to uncertainty—with no easy way of relief.
I keep myself busy. My mother and I work out the terms of our arrangement with the house. I pay my bills, do the laundry, and plant hopeful bunches of bright-eyed yellow and purple pansies in my flowerbeds. It helps some, but still, it is not enough.
I spend the weekends with my son. We have dinner with my mom, Jess, and her family. After I drop him back with Alice the Sunday of Labor Day weekend, I decide I need a project. My night is too empty, the house too quiet. All it takes is a quick trip to Home Depot and four hours later the pale, powder blue walls in my son’s room are replaced with an earthy, armed forces green. The next day I pick up new camouflage sheets and top them with a thick, dark brown comforter—grown-up colors for my grown-up boy. A welcome home gift, I think, as I smooth the bedding and fluff up his pillow. For when he moves back in.
Later that night, I am standing in Charlie’s newly painted room, looking out his window. The sky looms heavy with ponderous black clouds, the air is thick and cold with the threat of an incoming late-summer storm. I think of Charlie, how he races into my bed at the earliest rumble in the sky, at first sight of a threatening steel wool sky. He is terrified of the loud, wall-shaking booms and the brilliant flashes of lightning. During a rainstorm when he was three, a fir tree fell directly next to his bedroom window, freaking the living daylights out of him. For months to come, any loud noise—a door slamming, a toy clattering to the hardwood floor—would send him directly into my arms. Who is holding him now, I wonder. Alice? Or Martin? It should be me. There are some things mothers are specifically made for—holding their children during a storm is one of them.
I’m finishing hanging the curtains edged with embroidered green tanks when my cell phone trills on Charlie’s bed, where I tossed my purse. A quick glance at the clock tells me it’s most likely Kristin calling to see what time she can pick me up for the meeting tonight. As part of her plea agreement, her lawyer worked out a deal for her to get Liza and Riley back at the end of next week, so she’s trying to get in at least a meeting a day before having to rely on babysitters.
“I’m ready when you are,” I say into the mouthpiece of the phone. “Just finishing up with Charlie’s room. You should see it.”
“Cadence?” a man’s voice says. “It’s Scott.”
Everything inside me freezes solid. All my organs, my breath, every cell in my body become immovable. “What did he say?” I ask. Terror pulls down on the muscles of my face until it feels as though it has hit the floor.
“I’m sorry,” Scott says. His voice sounds broken apart, as though recently pushed through a wood chipper. “I just got the e-mail. He made the recommendation for Martin.”
“No” is the only word I can get out. My eyes close and there is a sudden rushing river in my ears. My body sways and I gasp for breath, my hand splays flat across my chest, trying to force the air to move in and out of my lungs. This can’t be happening. I’m not here. I am not this person, this is not happening to me. It’s not. The same words I said in Jess’s car the night she drove me to the hospital. The night I wanted to die.
“His report says that your thoughts about suicide are too recent,” Scott goes on, “and it’s too early in your recovery to say for sure that you won’t relapse. If it’s going to happen, it’s usually in the first two years, so that’s where that’s coming from.” He is quiet, waiting a moment, and when I don’t respond, he prompts me. “Cadence? Are you okay?”
What a stupid fucking question. While I think this, I manage to restrain myself from saying it. Instead, I take a deep breath and answer him. “I don’t know.”
“As you know, your mother and Jess both said you should get him back,” Scott says. “Andi’s reports all said that you’re making remarkable progress and your prognosis for continued recovery is good.”
“But it didn’t matter,” I say, my voice devoid of emotion. None of this has mattered. I did everything I needed to and I lost him anyway. There was no point in even trying. The decision was made the
minute Mr. Hines knew I was an alcoholic. I was instantly tried and convicted.
“It matters for you, Cadence,” he says. “And for Charlie.” He sighs, a deep, laborious noise. “I’m so sorry.”
I push my forehead into the palm of my right hand, trying to press the thoughts racing through my brain into submission. “It’s not your fault. You did everything you could. It’s me.” The words are rote, robotic.
“It’s not you,” he says, “it just is. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? So we can talk about our next move?”
“I thought there wasn’t one. I thought this ends it.” Every word is an effort. I force myself to speak.
“Only in terms of the decision, but we need to figure out the specifics of the parenting plan with his lawyer, so it’s likely we’ll all have to meet.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t be alone tonight, okay? Will you promise me that?”
“Sure,” I say. “I’m going to a meeting with a friend.” I say this at the same time I’m devising the excuse I’ll use to tell Kristin why I’m not going. I can’t. What’s the point now?
“Call your sponsor, too. She sounds like a great lady.”
“I will. She is.” I am reduced to smaller and smaller syllabic structures. Again, I don’t intend to call Nadine.
“You’ll get through this,” Scott says. “Just hang in there.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I hang up, sink to the floor. I put my face in my hands, curl my back against the wall, elbows against my thighs.
Oh, Charlie. My baby. He’s going to think I don’t want him. When he wakes in the night from a bad dream, I won’t be there to hold him tight. Every day, in a thousand ways, he’ll need me and I can’t be there for him.
The pain is like shards of glass in my blood.
A black, shuddering sound creeps up from my belly into my throat and at first I think it might melt into tears but instead, a raging, gravelly scream blasts out of my mouth like a bomb. After my breath is spent, another scream crawls up through me and goes off, and then another and another. The sharp edges of the noise tear at my flesh, slashing and burning the muscles in my neck until I wonder if it’s possible to choke to death on your own rage. I’ve never felt anything like it, this forcible, ravaging fury. Adrenaline pumps every cell in my body to twice its normal size—it feels as though I might very well be about to explode.
I scream. I scream until my throat is raw, until the ache there matches the one already throbbing in my chest. I don’t want this. I don’t want this pain. It’s an emotion laden with stones, pulling me down into a dark hole from which I’m not sure I know how to escape. I look for the logical action to take.
There is no logic here.
The phone rings. Kristin. I take a few deep breaths, answer. My voice is hoarse. Good. My lie will only be more convincing. “Hello?” I creak.
“Cadence? What’s wrong?”
“I’m sick,” I say, not having to fake the pitiful, weak edge to my words. “I’ve been throwing up all afternoon.” When in doubt, tell people you’ve been vomiting. They’ll steer clear.
“Oh, ugh.” She pauses. “You seemed fine this morning. Is it something you ate?”
“I don’t think so. It came on pretty suddenly. Chills, fever, all the fun stuff.” Hang up. Hang up now. I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to talk to anybody. “I’m going to stay home.”
“Obviously. Want me to bring you anything?”
My son.
“No, I don’t want you to catch this. Especially with the kids coming back next week.” I practically choke on this last sentence, but I know it’s the one that will convince her to stay away.
“Okay,” she says. “You’re probably right. I’ll call you tomorrow to see how you’re doing.”
I hang up. Pulling myself into a standing position, I drag my feet down the hall, careful not to look at any of Charlie’s pictures. I step into the laundry room and gather up the sheets I just took off my child’s bed, then take them with me back to his room. I drop facedown onto his bed, smothering my face in the earthy scent of him. I cry in earnest: the kind of body-racking, stomach-rending sobs that I know will leave me feeling as though I’ve been stoned by an angry crowd, beaten black and blue. Only the bruises I’ve earned are all on the inside, tucked away from anyone’s view but my own. Self-inflicted abuse that I’m sure only scratches the surface of what I deserve.
A flood of emotion rides through my body and I endure each wave, hopeful the next one will be the last. The storm that had hinted at its arrival earlier now begins to rage. Rain hits the gutters like raw grains of rice machine-gunned into a metal pan. A north wind leans its powerful shoulder against the window strongly enough to make me think it might just push its way through the glass. Night deepens in the room; black air surrounds me like a cold, wet blanket. Darkness answers me only with more tears and so I decide to welcome them, to give myself over to the one thing that might eventually grant my heart reprieve.
An hour passes, then three. Gradually, mercifully, the weeping tapers. I roll out of bed and step over to the dresser. I’m hesitant to register my reflection in the mirror, unsure if I want to see whether my current physical state matches the horror of the emotional. When I finally look, I see the veins in my forehead pounding in violent blue rivers beneath my skin; my hair is stringy, mashed and wild, my eyes flash the inky black of a thundercloud. Oh God. Who is that? How am I going to survive this?
I groan. I want to do anything to alleviate this pain. My stomach bends in on itself from the weight of it; my heart seizes up in my chest with every breath that holds the thought of my son. I wonder if this is what it feels like to be drowning.
I have grabbed my keys and I am out the door before I know it. My body’s mission for oblivion has overtaken my mind’s ability to give its opinion. The rain is a torrent against me, wet little nails hammering against my body. My car already knows the path: two blocks down, four more on the right, and I am there. It’s late—there aren’t many cars in the lot. A few soccer moms getting their shopping done after the kids have gone to bed and their husbands are home watching the news; the bachelor buying his week’s worth of frozen dinners and cold cereal. And then there’s me.
The wine aisle is right where I left it. Staggering rows of glossy green and black glass soldiers—the army of my past destruction. What difference does it make now?
I contemplate which poison I should choose. I’m not picky about it, really. I drank red wine because I thought it was the classy choice. Tonight, I don’t care. The only thing that matters is escape. I run the tip of my finger over a liter-size bottle of merlot. Shiny silver labels attract my eye. I load six bottles into my cart and head up to the cashier. Usually, I’d buy some fancy cover items: boxes of crackers, wedges of expensive cheese. Not now. Not tonight.
“Did you find everything you need?” An exorbitantly cheery young redhead greets me at the register as I’m setting the bottles up on the conveyor belt. She says this without looking up, and when she does, there is no mistaking her double-take at my appearance. Swollen eyes, straggling hair, six liters of wine. I doubt she has trouble doing the math. Nor does anyone else in the surrounding lines. They look at me as though I might be infectious.
“Yes.” I stare at her with heavy, dead eyes. The real answer is no. What I need is my son back. What I need is to not feel any pain like this ever again.
She looks away, carefully running each bottle over the reader. “Having a party?” she asks, trying to keep her voice light.
“No.” I reach in my purse, pull out my debit card, and pay for my purchases.
“Would you like help?” she says, her smile bright and false as she hands me my bags. She looks right over my shoulder; her expression is pleasant, but her eyes cloud.
I laugh at her choice of words. Help? What’s the point?
“I’ve got it,” I say, and head out the door. A chill of remorse tickles up my spine—a spider scaling a wall. I shouldn’t b
e doing this. I need to stop. But I can’t.
Another staredown with a bottle. No pills this time, but wine bottles lined up like a firing squad on the table in front of me. A single glass is poured. The rich, acidic scent wafts upward, my fingers toy with the rim of the water glass I’ve filled to the brim. I thought that banishing my wineglasses from the house would somehow keep me from drinking. At the moment, this doesn’t look likely.
The wine talks to me. “Go ahead,” it says. “Here I am. You might as well.”
“No,” I tell it. Or maybe it’s not the wine speaking. Maybe I’m hearing the voice in my head, the one Andi has always called my addict.
“It will trick you,” she said. “It lured me into thinking it was worth it. It wasn’t.”
I slump in my seat, pulling my fingers away from the glass. Charlie will stay with Martin. I don’t know how to reconcile this thought in my head. I never believed it would happen. Not really. I believed that children belong with their mothers. I didn’t beat him. I didn’t lock him in a dark closet and leave him to starve. Those are the kinds of women who should have their children taken away. Not me. Yes, I drank too much—I can admit I am an alcoholic. But if it’s a disease, why am I being punished like this for having it? Would they do this to a woman with any other disease? If she was getting treatment, if she was doing what she needed to do to get well, would they still take her child away?
The phone rings. It’s late, past 11:00. I see Jess’s name on the caller ID, wonder why she would be calling so late. I don’t answer. Let her think I’m already asleep.
Hours tick by. I stare at the bottles. They stare back at me.
I don’t sleep. The wine beckons.
Such easy, immediate relief. It calls to my pain, offers to cradle it gently, then obliterate its very existence. The tears rise again in my eyes, flooding my vision. Do I really want Charlie to grow up without his mother? Do I want to do to him what my grandmother did to my mother? If my child isn’t with me all the time, am I still technically his mother?