“Fuck,” said Adam. “That’s my brother.”
His brother stopped in the beams of the headlights and leaned his head forward, peering through the windshield. The scowl tightened as he walked over to the passenger side door and tapped on Adam’s window. Adam lowered it. “Hi, Jack!” he said.
“Have you been drinking or not?” Jack asked.
Adam replied with a sarcastic whistle. “Wow, right, great to see you, too.”
“You want to quit fucking around?”
“Jesus, relax, I’m sober.” Jack’s expression in the window didn’t budge. “You want me to take a Breathalyzer, too? I wouldn’t be back here if I’d been drinking, okay?” he said, with a little more contrition.
“Yeah, you and your famous tact . . .” Jack leaned his head into the car, looked at Marissa. “And who’s she?”
“A friend,” Adam said.
“A friend,” Jack repeated, skeptical.
“He hasn’t been drinking,” Marissa told him. “I’ve been with him all day, he’s—”
Jack shook his head in two solid jerks, cutting her off. “Sorry, I don’t know you, but ma’am, I don’t need to hear the story.” He looked at Adam, his arms folded over his chest, his chin pressed against his collar, petulantly. “All right. You’re alive, so maybe Mom will stop crying for fifteen minutes. You’re sober. That makes me happy, believe it or not. I guess what I want to know is what you’re doing sitting parked in the driveway.” Adam didn’t answer. “It never stops with you, does it?” After a moment, Jack asked, “You still smoke Marb Reds?”
“That’s a problem now, too?” Adam asked.
“I want a cigarette, genius,” Jack shot back.
“I thought you quit because your cholesterol . . . Yeah, fine, sure.” Adam took out the pack. “Only one left, so . . .” He put the cigarette in his mouth, and seemed to feel the look Marissa was giving him; he opened the door and got out.
He leaned back against the car, as if to ensure she couldn’t drive away. She heard the lighter click, she could see through the open window as Adam offered the cigarette to Jack. For a while, they just stood there, passing the cigarette back and forth. “What the fuck,” Jack finally said. “What the fuck . . .”
“I know, I know,” Adam answered—looser, more apologetic than Marissa would have expected.
“You want to tell me what happened with the coffeepot?”
“It just—slipped off the counter.”
“Did it? You know for two hours, Mom convinced herself you were coming back with coffee.”
“I thought about it!”
“Oh, good for you!” Then, quickly, he added, “Sorry. But it’s hard to watch. They never stop giving you the benefit of the doubt. No matter what, you’ll always be the chosen one.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Yeah, Adam,” Jack said, “that’s right.” When Adam offered him back the cigarette, he said, “No, this was a dumb idea, anyway. I’m hanging on by a thread with Lizzy as it is.”
“What d’you mean? You guys are great!”
Marissa heard Jack snort. “When was the last time you saw Lizzy, Adam? Two years ago? The world didn’t stop while you were getting sober.” He paused, then said, “I cheated on her. How about that? Fucking idiot, right? Don’t even know what I was thinking. Three kids, forty-five years old, bad knee . . . One afternoon I decide to fuck a . . . twenty-six-year-old dental hygienist.” Another pause. “So I’ll be in couples therapy for the rest of my life. But anyway, we’re—I don’t know. Trying. So how about it, Adam? Are you coming inside or not? You feel like doing some trying?” Adam didn’t answer. “Okay, then, I won’t get anybody’s hopes up. I’ll tell them somebody got lost. You can do what you want, as usual. Just don’t leave the butt out here, Mom’ll notice.” He walked back up the driveway and went inside.
Adam stood by the car for another minute. Marissa was about to say something when he finally turned and leaned down to the window. “That is mind-blowing!” he cried, eyes wide. “He cheated! Jack never . . .” He stopped, noting Marissa’s face. “Right. You gotta go.” He grinned, in a knowing way, and, reaching in the window, locked the passenger side door. “Because what if I get back inside and do something stupid?”
She grinned back at him, also knowing, and a little sad. “Imagine that.”
He looked at the house, looked back at her. “I feel like I’m nine again and I have to play Chopin in front of a thousand people. What am I supposed to say to them?”
“You don’t have to say anything. Just walk in the door. That’s all you have to do.”
“You don’t want to—” He stopped himself. He gave her a look she’d think about for a long time: It passed through many possibilities, like a bird that didn’t know where to land. But in the end he lifted his hands into the car, palms pressed together, and bent them toward her, in the manner of a salute—appreciative, admiring—and all he said was, “Bravissima.” He added, “Get home safe, Marissa.”
And he turned, and he walked up the driveway. At the bottom of the stoop he stopped and put his hands over his eyes, his body taut and poised, and she thought she was going to see him run off across the yard. But instead he walked up the steps the same way she’d seen him walk to the keyboard—with a readiness—and he opened the door, went inside, and closed the door behind him.
She watched for as long as she had time to watch. He didn’t appear again—not kicked out, not searching for her. She’d left the engine on, and now she put the car in reverse, and when she reached the bottom of the driveway, she stopped, and put the car in park. She put her hands on her stomach, for the first time without regret. What promise could she make? What assurance could she give? What could she say to her child that would be true? That she would do her best for her—that she would always have a home with her—
Marissa turned on the radio, beautiful soul music she’d never know the name of, drove down the street, a song ending, a song beginning.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Susan Golomb. You couldn’t ask for a better ally in the foxhole of the writing life. I also want to thank Kate Nintzel, my exemplary editor at William Morrow, whose insight and diligence helped make this book better, all any author can hope for from an editor. Kelly Rudolph, Molly Waxman, and Margaux Weisman also helped see this book out into the world, for which I am very grateful. Alexandra Shelley gave valuable guidance in the early draft days.
I’ve been blessed with a large and loving family, which, for the record, in no way resembles any of the families portrayed in this work of fiction. My mom and dad, my grandmother, Leah, Jon, Aleigh, Sarah, and Jeff were always there when I needed them. Naomi, when she is old enough to read this, will learn that she was a source of boundless inspiration to her father. My wife, Julie, every day offered faith, patience, and love without which this book could not have been written; that’s just one small reason Start Without Me is dedicated to her.
In researching this book, I had the privilege of hearing stories of people who have struggled with substance use issues. Too often, these people face stigma, misunderstanding, and severely limited treatment options. Adam is luckier than he’d admit: Most people don’t get to go to a Stone Manor. I want to acknowledge the heroic work of the counselors, social workers, psychologists (including my sister, Dr. Sarah Feldman), group leaders, and others who are on the front lines of treatment. They and the people they treat deserve more of our support.
About the Author
Joshua Max Feldman is the author of The Book of Jonah. He has lived in England, Russia, and Switzerland, and currently resides in Brooklyn.
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The Book of Jonah
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
start without me. Copyright © 2017 by Joshua Max Feldman. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
first edition
Cover design by Ploy Siripant
Cover illustration by Joel Holland
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
Digital Edition OCTOBER 2017 ISBN: 978-0-06-266874-5
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-266872-1
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