The Secret Between Us

by Barbara Delinsky

  “Maybe Grace should be talking with a therapist,” Greg said, interrupting Deborah’s thoughts.

  “I’ve been talking with her myself.”

  “Maybe she needs someone other than you. You may be a doctor, but you’re Grace’s mother, too. That limits what you can do for her professionally. If you can’t get through to her, she needs a counselor.”

  “The school psychologist and I talked a little over an hour ago,” she said defensively. “I still think it’s premature, Greg. This just happened. I’m doing the best I can.”

  “Maybe your best isn’t good enough.”

  Deborah wondered if he was right. She used to believe in herself, but since the accident, her self-esteem had taken a blow. Losing two patients she had really liked didn’t help. Nor did it help when people she passed wouldn’t look her in the eye—or when there was a suggestion that her father’s drinking was a topic of public conversation.

  “I had a project manager once,” Greg said. “He swore he could handle everything, right up until the time his department fell apart. I don’t want that happening to our family.”

  It was one jab too many. “Our family?” she asked with a burst of anger. “It seems to me that you opted out.”

  “I’m trying to opt back in.”

  “What does that mean?” She was suddenly furious. He had upended their lives in one broad sweep two years before. “We’re divorced, Greg. You sold your business, and signed the house and responsibility for the kids over to me. You moved to another state and married another woman. What exactly are you opting back into?”

  He swore.

  “What?” she asked. “What did I say that was wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he replied, but more quietly. “You’re never wrong, Deborah. You’re competent to the extreme. Nothing ever sets you back. You don’t need anyone. You sure as hell don’t need me.”

  “Right now, I do. Being a single mother isn’t fun.”

  “You just said I have no place there.”

  Deborah closed her eyes. “You were the one who left.”

  “And glad I did, if this conversation is indicative of your feelings for me.”

  She sighed. “I loved you, Greg.”

  “You loved having a husband. You loved having kids. I sometimes think that living in Leyland was my mistake. Leyland is Barr turf. If we’d gone to a place where you had no history, you might’ve needed me more.”

  Chapter 11

  Once dinner was done and Dylan had planted himself in front of the TV, Deborah poked her head into Grace’s room, motioned her to remove an earplug, and said, “I’m running into town to discuss something with Poppy.”

  “Discuss what?” Grace asked warily.

  “It’s a patient thing,” Deborah replied, and indirectly it was.

  Grace remained distrustful. “Why tonight? Won’t you see him early tomorrow?”

  “Yes, but it’s something he needs to think about overnight.”

  “Like what?”

  “If I told you that,” Deborah chided softly, “I’d be betraying a confidence. I promised you I wouldn’t do that.”

  Grace stared at her for a minute before returning to her iPod, effectively tuning her out. Moments later, Deborah was backing out of the garage.

  Her father had met his friend Matt for dinner, which meant that he wouldn’t have been drinking on an empty stomach. Still, by the time she surprised him in the den, his eyes were glazed. The television was on. He had a glass in his hand and a bottle nearby.

  Tell him you just happened to be passing by—maybe on your way home from dinner with Karen. Tell him you’re just here to use the bathroom.

  More lies? She couldn’t. Thanks to Emily Huber, Michael’s drinking had to be confronted. Taking the remote from the arm of his chair, she lowered the volume.

  With an unsteady hand, he held up his watch and struggled to read the time. “Isn’t it awful late for you to be here?” he asked.

  Leave. He won’t even remember you came.

  But her father had a problem. They had a problem. Speaking quickly, she said, “I had a run-in at the gym earlier with Emily Huber. She was on a tear about my having called the police to report a noisy party. She says she’s removing her girls from our practice.”

  Michael’s mouth turned down. “Removing? What does that mean?”

  “Transfering their primary care to her own doctor.”

  “Well, that doesn’t make sense.” He pulled in his chin. “All because you called the police?”

  “I didn’t call the police. She just thinks I did.”

  “What’s she got against you?”

  “It isn’t just me,” Deborah said. “She says she doesn’t trust you.”

  “She doesn’t trust me?” he shouted, sitting straighter. “Why the hell not?”

  Deborah took a deep breath. “She claims you drink too much.”

  There was a moment’s brutal silence, then an indignant, “What’s she talking about?”

  Deborah looked at the bottle.

  “Christ, it’s almost ten at night. What I do on my own time is none of Emily Huber’s goddamned business.”

  “She says you drink at lunch, which is her business.”

  “I don’t drink at work,” he thundered. “Emily Huber is making things up. So I ask again, what the hell’s she got against you?”

  “This isn’t about me, Dad. It’s about you. I see that bottle here every morning, a new one every few days. That’s a lot of whiskey. And you said you thought Mom would be telling you to pull yourself together.”

  He ignored the last comment. “How in the hell would Emily Huber know I drink? Did you tell her?”

  “Dad, that’s the last thing I’d say.” Deborah squatted down by his chair. “It’s no great mystery how talk starts. You had dinner tonight with Matt. Where’d you go?”

  Michael was a minute answering. Finally, he said, “The Depot.”

  “That’s right here in town. Did you drink with dinner?”

  “I had one drink. Maybe two, but what business is that of anyone’s?”

  “When people see you drink, especially if you have more than two, it starts rumors.”

  “Have you ever seen me drunk?”

  “No, but I see you the morning after, and you have a splitting headache.”

  “That headache is from falling asleep in this goddamned chair.”

  “Which you do after drinking too much.”

  “How do you know?” he bellowed. “You’re not here. You don’t know what I drink. You don’t know anything about me.”

  “You miss Mom,” Deborah said quietly.

  “Miss? Miss doesn’t begin to express it,” he roared. “I feel like half of me is gone.”

  “Drinking won’t help,” Deborah pleaded.

  “Oh?” Defiant, he raised his glass and drained it in a single gulp, but when he went to set it down, he missed his mark. The glass tumbled to the carpet. Deborah retrieved it, but he seemed oblivious. “How could you know what helps? You’ve never been where I am. Your husband up and left you, and you were just fine and dandy, no mourning at all, no missing the guy.”

  “Dad—”

  “Dad what?” he shot back, rising to face her and none too steadily. “You want to talk about my reaction to loss, let’s talk about yours. You distance yourself from everyone.”

  It’s the booze, Deborah thought, though the accusation stung. “I came here to talk about drinking.”

  “Didn’t you feel anything when Greg left?”

  “I felt plenty,” she said angrily.

  “You didn’t show a damned thing.”

  “How could I?” she cried. Booze or not, he was being unfair. “I had two kids who felt abandoned. I had to play mother and father. Would it have been better to just sit looking at the broken pieces of our lives? Someone had to pick them up.”

  “Which you did without a hitch,” Michael said and looked around for his glass. When he didn’t find it, he took
another from the bar. “You cut off your hair,” he mumbled. “That’s all. Cut off your hair.” He poured himself another drink.

  “Please don’t drink,” she said.

  Staring at her, he took a healthy swallow. “Greg liked your hair long, so you cut it short. That’s the only reason. You liked your hair long.”

  “I needed a change.”

  “You wanted to look feminine,” he charged, rapping his wedding band against the glass, “because your husband left you for another woman.”

  “He wanted another lifestyle,” Deborah corrected, close to tears. “—and you wanted the world to know it wasn’t your fault, but it was your fault, Deborah. Men want women who care. Your mother cared. She was always there when I needed her.” He drank some more.

  “Please don’t,” Deborah begged.

  “She had long hair when I met her,” he mused, studying what was left in the glass, “then it got too much to take care of, so she cut it. I liked it short, too, but she wasn’t a doctor. A doctor has to be neat.”

  “I’m a good doctor,” Deborah whispered.

  “If I’d had a son, he’d have been a doctor.”

  She swallowed. “You didn’t have a son.”

  “I always wanted a father-son practice.”

  Her heart was breaking. “You have a father-daughter practice.”

  He tossed back the rest of his drink. “Same difference.”

  “It isn’t,” she said. A sore that had festered for years suddenly burst. “I’m not your son.”

  He looked up. “What’s that?”

  “I’m not your son,” she repeated more loudly.

  He scowled. “What are you talking about?”

  “The truth,” she said. “I’m not your son. I’m your daughter, and I can only do the best I can. Maybe I’m not perfect, but God knows I’ve tried, and if I can’t meet your expectations, maybe that’s a truth I need to accept.” She caught her breath. “Here’s another truth. You drink too much.”

  “That’s a truth?” He poured more, then turned to her and asked in a dangerously low voice, “Are you saying I lie?”

  She was hurt enough to stand firm. “I’m saying you’re in denial.”

  “Hah!” he said with a gesture that sent whiskey splashing from his glass. “Look who’s in denial! You blame Greg for wrecking your marriage. Think your kids don’t feel that?”

  “Dad.”

  “And you’re not setting a lousy example?”

  “Please, Dad.”

  “Please, what?”

  “You drink too much.

  “See?” he said with a half smile. “That’s what I mean. Here I am talking about emotional things, and all you can say is, ‘Dad, you drink too much.’ I don’t drink too much,” he scoffed. “And if I have a drink or two to take the edge off of sitting here alone? All it says is I’m human.” He raised his glass in a toast. “You could take a lesson from that.”

  “Please, Dad.”

  His glass came down with a bang. “I don’t tell you what to do off-hours. Don’t tell me.” He took another swallow and grabbed the remote. “Discussion done.” Raising the volume, he sank back into his chair.

  Heavyhearted, Deborah returned to her car and backed out of the drive. She didn’t pass anyone during the short drive home and, once in the garage, was too exhausted to get out of the car.

  In time the overhead light went off.

  She sat in the dark until the door to the house opened. Grace stood there, silhouetted by the hall light, her hair a mass of curls framing her head, her slender body visibly tense.

  “Mom?” she called loudly.

  Deborah opened the car door and stepped out. “Hey, sweetie,” she said when she reached the landing.

  “Why were you sitting there?”

  “I was comfortable.”

  “In the garage?” Grace asked. “If there was carbon monoxide, you could die.” She gave extra emphasis to the y sound at the end.

  “The car’s off. There’s no carbon monoxide.” Wiped out, Deborah walked past the girl. She didn’t touch her. Touching hadn’t seemed to help.

  “Where were you?”

  “Poppy’s. I told you that.” She took out a mug and filled it with hot water. “I had to talk with him.” She opened the cabinet that held tea.

  “About what?”

  Chamomile? Ginger lemon? Papaya? Deborah couldn’t begin to make a decision. Closing her eyes, she randomly touched a box. Papaya. Good choice.

  “Mom?”

  She removed a tea bag and dropped it into the mug. “Yes, sweetie.”

  “What did you talk with Poppy about?”

  Deborah didn’t have the strength left to invent a lie. Besides, her daughter was a smart girl. She would have noticed her grandfather drinking at brunch.

  Looking directly at Grace, she said, “I think Poppy has a drinking problem.”

  The girl’s eyes widened. “You think he’s an alcoholic?”

  “He may not be yet. Right now, he’s just drinking too much.”

  “Like what does he drink? Wine?”

  “Whiskey.”

  “Whiskey,” Grace echoed. “Like, he drinks at a bar? He drinks at home?”

  Deborah raised the mug to smell the soothing sweet papaya. “I’ve seen him drink at home, and here, and at restaurants.”

  “You drink at restaurants. You drink at the Trutters’.”

  “Not to the point of feeling it. I know what I can handle.”

  “And Poppy doesn’t? What about at work? Does he drink there? I mean, like, that would be the worst, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes. That’d be the worst.” Deborah sipped her tea. “I don’t know for sure.”

  “But you think he does?”

  Deborah considered her options and again chose the truth. “I saw Emily Huber at the gym. Did you hear anything about the police being called about noise Saturday night?”

  “They think it was us.”

  “You knew that? Why didn’t you tell me?” She waved a hand. “No matter. Emily is taking Kelly and Kim away from our practice.”

  Grace was silent. Finally, she said sullenly, “Did you call the police?” She had a finger at her mouth, not quite biting, but close.

  Deborah didn’t bother to scold her. “How would I know if there was noise or if there wasn’t? I wasn’t there.”

  “I told you there was a keg.”

  “You told me the next day,” Deborah said by way of answering the accusation.

  “Did you ask Danielle to come over?” Grace asked in that same sulky way.

  Deborah was a minute following. “No. Did she come?”

  “She drove over and asked me to go out. I told her I couldn’t because I had an English paper to write, which I should have been doing, but wasn’t.” She said the last words with defiance and tucked her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. “Did you ask her to come?” she repeated.

  “Absolutely not. Danielle adores you. Oh, Grace, I’m sorry you didn’t at least ask her in. Karen says she really wants to talk.”

  “Well, I don’t. The only reason I’m telling you this is so you can tell Karen. Dani wants to talk about the accident, and I don’t.” She pushed her hair back. “What does Mrs. Huber have to do with Poppy drinking?”

  Deborah let the other go. “She says that he drinks at lunch.”

  Grace crinkled up her face. “Mrs. Huber says that? Mrs. Huber, who’s always sitting out back at their pool with a Cosmopolitan? Mrs. Huber is not one to be accusing someone else of drinking at lunch. But is he?”

  Deborah put the warm mug to her cheek. “He says no.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “I don’t know. He drinks at night because he misses Nana Ruth.”

  “He loved her,” Grace scolded, as though Deborah was clueless.

  “I know he loved her, Grace. I saw that love far longer than you. I totally understand why he’s lonely at home, but…drinking at work? That’s really dangerous.”r />
  Grace backed down. “Maybe it’s just a drink or two.”

  “A drink or two could cloud his judgment.”

  “Do you really think he’d ever make a decision that could hurt someone?”

  “Not knowingly. But an error in even something small, like the dosage of a prescription, could be devastating.”

  “You mean, he could be sued.”

  “I mean, someone could die. And he treats dozens of kids your age. How can he tell them not to drink if he does it himself?”

  “Maybe abstinence is unrealistic. Maybe the Hubers are right about taking keys. I mean, if kids are going to do it anyway, maybe it’s better to be safe. How can we know how much we can drink unless we try it?”

  “It’s not me saying this, sweetie. It’s the law. And Poppy’s in a position of moral authority. He’s a role model. A role model doesn’t drink at work.”

  “A role model doesn’t lie,” Grace said.

  Deborah stared at her for a minute. “No.”

  The admission seemed to deflate the girl. “How’d you leave it with Poppy?”

  Deborah gratefully returned to safer ground. “Not well.”

  “Is he mad at you?”

  “I’d…say so. I’m hoping he’ll get over it by morning.”

  “Get over it, like, realize you were right?”

  Deborah smiled. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  Chapter 12

  That was wishful thinking. Michael wasn’t over it by morning. Deborah didn’t know how much he remembered, but he called first thing to say that he was going out for breakfast and that she shouldn’t stop by. Coincidence? Perhaps. His tone would have been a tip-off, but Deborah didn’t talk with him herself. Dylan had taken the message without putting her on.

  After dropping the kids at school, she went to the bakery. The outside tables were crowded with people enjoying the morning sunshine. Inside, she grabbed a SoMa Sticky and coffee, and went in search of Jill. She was in the office, affixing mailing labels to summer fliers. Not sure where to begin, Deborah put her things down and sank into a chair.

  Jill glanced at Deborah and said, “You look lousy.”

  “I feel lousy,” Deborah murmured. She could think of several other words for the way she felt, not the least of which was disillusioned, but lousy would do. “I had it out with Dad last night.”