by T. K. Leigh
“And if he knew, that’s precisely what he’d think.”
“I don’t think that was the reason at all. Sure, that may be what you told Lincoln, but—”
“It was a preemptive strike,” Nora breathes, turning her wide eyes to me, as if a puzzle piece just snapped into place.
“A preemptive strike?” I counter dismissively, averting my gaze. “You two are crazy. You’ve been reading too many romance novels. Or watching too much daytime TV. I did not tell Lincoln to keep this a secret as a preemptive strike against…” I wave my hand around. “Whatever you’ve concocted in those twisted brains of yours.”
“Maybe not at the time,” Izzy interjects thoughtfully. I shoot my eyes to hers, glaring at my traitorous friend. She’s not supposed to take their side. She’s supposed to support me, have my back. “Maybe at first, you genuinely were concerned about your father. But I also think, deep down, you were hoping Lincoln would fight for you.”
“What? I didn’t—”
She stands from her chair, walking toward me, squeezing my biceps. “I know you, Chloe. Probably better than anyone else. For you to take a chance on Lincoln, you must have seen something in him that made you believe he was different.”
“Well, thank you, Dr. Nolan. Should I book my next session with you or your receptionist out front?” I joke, trying to lighten the mood, but Izzy doesn’t let up. She never does.
“Your father was a crappy male role model. He still is. Which is why, when Lincoln didn’t even try to fight for you, it broke something inside you.”
I push out of her hold and cross my arms in front of my chest. “He didn’t break me,” I insist, but I can’t look her in the eye.
“I think he did. I think he showed you what was possible. I think you felt hope that not all men are like your father or any of the other assholes you used to sleep with. So when he didn’t fight for you, it reminded you too much of how your father chose his job over you and your mom. But I think if Lincoln knew how much you still want to be with him, things might be different. I think he would fight for you.”
“I’m pretty sure lying on his desk with my legs spread sends that message loud and clear.”
“That just shows you were willing to sleep with him. Maybe he needs to know you’re willing to take a risk, like he’ll have to. I doubt you’ve ever given him any indication you were serious about him.”
“Since it appears you haven’t been following along, I’ll say it again. I never had the opportunity. I found out he was my professor before we could take things to that level.”
“Or are you using that as an excuse?”
I open my mouth, trying to come up with some argument in my defense. I want to deny her words hold even the faintest hint of merit, that Lincoln wrote me off the instant he learned who I was, but I can’t. His pained expression as he handed back my panties is still ingrained in my mind. A person who feels nothing but indifference doesn’t look at you that way.
A loud ringing rips through and I blow out a breath, saved from having to respond. I rummage through my bag, pulling out my phone, a number I don’t recognize appearing on the screen. Inwardly grateful for the reprieve, I offer the girls an apologetic smile, then bring my cell up to my ear.
“Chloe Davenport,” I answer with all the professionalism I can muster, assuming it’s a lead on a story.
“Chloe, it’s Louise.”
“Louise?” I wrinkle my nose, trying to place the name. I usually pride myself on my memory, but I’m drawing a blank here.
“Yes.” She lowers her voice to almost a whisper. “Your mother’s sponsor at AA.”
I inhale sharply. In all the years I’ve played lifeguard to my mother’s alcoholism, her sponsor has never called me, even when things got a little hairy. We took it in stride, simply trying to keep any temptations or triggers as far away as possible.
“I’m sorry. Of course.” I give Izzy a knowing look, then stand and slip out of the sitting room, making sure I’m out of earshot before continuing our conversation. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes. It’s just… Your mother hasn’t attended her normal meetings the past two weeks. And she never misses a meeting without letting me know. I’ve tried calling, but she hasn’t answered. I thought of phoning her work to see if anyone there knows anything, but I’m not sure what her co-workers know of her recovery. I didn’t want to overstep, so that’s why I called you. Have you spoken with her recently?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, releasing a long sigh. “No, I haven’t.”
Guilt forms a knot in my throat at how I’ve dropped the ball these past few months. Apart from a few texts and phone calls, I’ve barely spoken to her since I got back from Vegas. It sounded like things were going great with Aaron, her boyfriend. I didn’t think I needed to keep a close eye on her.
“I’ve had some personal stuff going on myself and I guess I kind of fell down on the job, so to speak.”
“It’s not your job to take care of her,” she reminds me. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I can be a bit of a worrier.”
While I may not know Louise well, I can tell her concern goes above being a worrier. She’s a recovering alcoholic herself. She knows how quickly someone can regress.
“You’re right. She’s probably fine, but I’ll make some calls anyway.”
“And you’ll let me know?”
“Of course.”
I hang up and draw in a long breath, fighting against the headache I feel coming on. Like Louise said, it’s probably nothing. But I’ve been in this place before. It’s never nothing, not where my mother is concerned. So I return my attention to my cell and call my mother’s work number. On the first ring, a bright voice answers.
“Carsdale Associates. How may I direct your call?”
“Hi. It’s Chloe Davenport.”
“Hello, Chloe. How can I help you?”
“Is my mother around?”
“I’m sorry,” the receptionist says with fake sympathy. “She’s not. Actually, your mother hasn’t been to work in about ten days or so. Said she needed some time away from the office to recenter herself after the last big PR nightmare she had to deal with.”
“Of course she did,” I mumble under my breath. “Do you know how long she’ll be out of the office?”
“She didn’t say,” the receptionist answers, and my suspicions only grow.
It’s not like my mother to take extended periods of time off, not now that she’s working in crisis management and doing something she enjoys again. A part of me hoped that would be enough to keep her happy, to keep her from regressing. But I’ve also learned that, regardless of how put together someone may appear on the outside, they might be battling demons no one else can see.
“I’ll call her cell instead.”
“Okay,” the receptionist chirps, unaware of any troubles. “Have a great day, Chloe!”
“You, too.”
I hang up just as light footsteps sound from behind me. Whirling around, I meet Izzy’s concerned eyes. I don’t even have to say anything for her to know what’s going on.
“Oh, Chloe…”
I shrug, doing my best to hold it together. Like I always have. “What can I say? When it rains, it fucking pours.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
I climb out of the cab and glance up at the shotgun-style house in the East Flatbush neighborhood of Brooklyn where my mother lives. It’s a quaint house in a quiet neighborhood. Well, as quiet as you can find within a short commute to Manhattan.
Ten years ago, I didn’t think my mother would ever be able to hold down a job for long, let alone afford a house in this neighborhood. But once she started taking her twelve-step program seriously, things turned around for her. I just pray she hasn’t fallen that far again.
Hesitantly, I climb up the stairs and pull back the screen door, the hinges groaning. I consider knocking. There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation my mother missed her meetings and didn’t answer her cell
when I called. Experience tells me otherwise.
Pulling my keys out of my bag, I find the one I’m searching for and insert it into the lock. The instant I step inside, my suspicions are confirmed. The scene is the perfect example of what it’s like to have a high-functioning alcoholic in your life. The house is decorated with expensive furnishings, artwork hanging on the walls, high-end appliances in the kitchen. A demonstration of success.
But the wine bottles littering the island, kitchen counter, and living room coffee table tell a different story.
I curse under my breath. I should have known something like this was bound to happen. I’ve been so consumed with work, school, and all the drama going on with Lincoln, not to mention helping Nora with the final stages of planning her wedding. Most nights, I’m barely able to sleep more than a few hours. I thought my mom was doing good. She had been doing good. Better than good. So good that I made the mistake of moving her down my list of priorities. Now I’ll have to suffer the consequences of that.
“Mom?” I call out timidly, stepping farther into the house. I walk to one of the windows and crack it open, allowing some fresh air to fill the place.
A crash sounds from the basement, the sound ominous against the quiet. I whirl around, darting down the stairs. When I round the corner, I expect to see her lying on the floor, having fallen in a drunken stupor.
Instead, I come face-to-face with a do-it-yourself nightmare. The walls have been repainted from the previous drab eggshell color to a deep gray, droplets splashed on the laminate wood flooring, since my mother didn’t think to lay down any plastic first. Bubbles and streaks abound on the walls from the shoddy paint job. Various fabrics and cuts of wood are strewn all over the place, along with power tools I wouldn’t trust this woman with sober, let alone in her current state.
My mother’s personality when she drinks can range from happy to angry and everything in between. Over the years, I’ve learned to prepare myself for a wide variety of personalities, thanks to the alcohol. If she was drinking because she had a good day at work, she’d shower me with love and praise. But if something happened in her personal life, she’d curse and demean me in a way that made my father seem like an amateur.
But I’d take an irate drunk over a home-renovating drunk any day. I can handle her mood swings. I can’t handle her with power tools.
“Mom?”
She spins around, her mouth falling open, eyes widening. She blinks, remaining still, trying to figure out her next move. Her gaze briefly floats to a corner of the room where several cans of paint sit. Beside them is a glass of red wine, the bottle next to it nearly empty. At three o’clock on a Wednesday. I’m not saying I’m perfect and never occasionally have a few drinks during lunch. But I’m also not a recovering alcoholic who shouldn’t be drinking at all.
At. Fucking. All.
My glare narrows, lips forming a tight line, nostrils flaring. I don’t even know what to say. As always, I want to blame myself. How much longer can I do that?
I’m about to ask her what she thinks she’s doing, but when she sees the outrage in my expression, she attempts to distract me.
“Chloe!” Her movements are overly dramatic as she takes the cigarette out of her mouth, opening her arms to me, a lazy smile on her face. Her silver hair is pulled back, paint dotting her tanned complexion as well as the jeans and t-shirt she wears. “There’s my baby girl!” She steps toward me, wrapping her arms around me. I can smell the liquor coming off her.
“What are you doing?” I push out of her hug before she burns me.
Taking the cigarette from her, I extinguish it in a nearby ashtray. I’ve never been a fan of her smoking. She picked it up when she finally got serious about getting sober, trading one vice for another, but I’d rather have her smoke than be drunk.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” She waves her hand around.
“Making a mess out of the basement?” I shoot back.
She jabs me playfully. “Oh, stop. No. I’m surprising Aaron with a man cave.”
“A man cave?” I lower my voice. “Has he moved in with you?”
“Not yet, but he does spend a lot of time here, so I thought I’d do something to surprise him when he gets back from his business trip later today.”
She looks around the space, scrunching her nose at the utter chaos surrounding us. The basement looked infinitely better when it still had its dreary wall color that lacked personality.
“I’m not sure it’ll be done in time, though.” She blows out a breath, then straightens, her voice brightening. “I’ll tell you something. All those home improvement shows that make this kind of thing seem easy are full of it. This shit is hard. But look…”
She grabs my wrist, pulling me toward the far wall where it appears she attempted to install a custom entertainment center. I shudder at the idea of my mother using a circular saw and nail gun. She’s lucky she didn’t lose a finger. I steal a glimpse at her hands to make sure, counting ten.
“Isn’t it incredible? I did that myself! Who would have thought?”
“It certainly is incredible.” Feeling like I’ve stepped into an alternate universe, I wonder if my mother thought to use a level in her infinite wisdom. By the looks of the lopsided shelves lining the place where a TV would eventually sit, I assume the answer is no.
“Well, I’m glad you’re here. I can use an extra set of hands if I’m to finish this before Aaron’s flight lands in…” When she brings her watch to her face, her eyes bulge. “Shit. Is that the time already? His flight’s supposed to land in a few hours and I haven’t had a chance to start the coffee table. Come on.” She clutches my arm again, dragging me toward several pallets, all in various stages of disrepair.
“Do I even want to know what this is supposed to be?”
“This is what we’re going to make the coffee table out of,” she answers proudly.
“Pallets?”
“Apparently, it’s a trend. I printed out some instructions.” She glances around, wavering slightly from the sudden movement. “They’re around here somewhere.” She begins moving piles of wooden slats, paint cans, and brushes.
“Mom…”
“Not now, Chloe,” she barks, probably sensing what I’m about to say. “I don’t have time.”
“And like I had time to come here today?”
“Then leave,” she snips, growing defensive.
“Mom, please,” I implore, my voice strained as I try to take the wheel when the world spins out of control around me. “Just tell me what the hell is going on!”
“I told you. I’m renovating.” The vein in her forehead pulses as she shuffles things around with increased annoyance. “Doing something nice for Aaron. Something you wouldn’t know about since you can’t exactly keep a man for longer than a few weeks, can you?”
My jaw tightens and I take a deep breath, counting to ten in an effort to stop myself from going off on her. I’d like to say this is the first time she’s spoken to me like that, but it’s not.
I wish I could say it’ll be the last, but I know it won’t, although I wish it were.
“This isn’t about me.” I keep my tone calm and even, despite the frustration bubbling inside me. She wants me to engage. Wants to shift the focus off the fact her house is littered with empty alcohol bottles. “It’s about you.”
“I’m doing just fine. So if you’re not going to help me build this coffee table, you can help by finding your way out the door.”
“Mom,” I warn.
“What? It’s not hard. You found your way in, didn’t you?”
“Mom,” I say again, this time louder.
“Chloe,” she taunts, mimicking my tone.
“You are not doing fine.”
“Why?” She whirls around. “Because I’m happy? You just can’t stand the fact I’m doing well, can you? You’re just like your father. You’re not happy unless I’m miserable.”
Hearing her compare me to my father sends me pa
st my breaking point. As it always does. I can handle a lot of verbal abuse, but I refuse to be compared to a man I’ve spent the past twenty-odd years of my life ensuring I’m nothing like.
Heat flashes across my face and I ball my hands into fists, my body tensing. “Mom! Look at you!” I shriek before I have a chance to keep my temper in check. “When I walked into this house, it was worse than a fucking distillery. There are empty wine bottles everywhere.” I spin in a circle, quickly counting four bottles tossed aside. “What happened? You were doing so good! I honestly thought this wouldn’t happen again. That you cared enough about yourself and the people in your life who love you that you weren’t going to drink anymore!”
“Don’t speak to me like I’m a child!” she shouts back, indignant. “You seem to have forgotten that I gave birth to you. I raised you. I nurtured you.”
“Yeah, you did. Until getting drunk became more important. I was the one who covered for you so Dad didn’t know how bad it was. If it weren’t for my constant lies to him, do you honestly think he would have allowed you to keep custody of me? Then what would you have done without his child support payments financing your addiction?
“Maybe that’s where I fucked up. Maybe I shouldn’t have kept this a secret. Maybe you would have gotten the help you needed earlier and we wouldn’t be going through this cycle that doesn’t seem to ever fucking end! But no matter the price everyone who loves you has to pay, you don’t seem to care!” I bellow, tears streaming down my face.
“I care!” she snips. “I care so much that I’m renovating this entire basement for Aaron! So if you don’t mind, I need to finish!” She storms toward the pile of pallets.
I briefly close my eyes to calm myself and inhale a deep breath. On a long exhale, I approach her.