Life in the Balance

by Jen Petro-Roy

  Tears well up in my eyes, too, as I imagine Mom stumbling through work. As I think about her doing that for the rest of my life. My voice gets louder. “You have to stop, Mom. Why can’t you stop?” I feel like shaking my fist at her—like shaking my fist at the sky. But all I do is raise my voice some more. “Just get better. Stop messing everything up.”

  Mom stares at me, her breath catching in her throat. She looks the way my friend Tabitha did the time she was pitching and I hit a softball right into her stomach. Then Mom straightens up and takes a deep breath. She blinks a bunch of times and presses her hands against the edge of the table like she’s steadying herself. “Fine. I’ll go.”

  “You’ll go?” This time, a half-sob, half-hiccup from Dad.

  “I’ll go. Because…” Mom takes a deep breath. “Because I don’t want to hurt you guys anymore. Because I have a drinking problem.”

  “Duh.” The words flit out of my mouth before I can stop them. I think about what happened last week, when I needed help with my homework, but Mom had fallen asleep on the couch right after dinner. I can still smell the living room that night, the sharp scent of Mom’s empty glass beside her.

  Deep down, I know that even if Mom doesn’t go to rehab, she’ll be too drunk and distracted to help me with all that girlie stuff anyway.

  “Veronica Elizabeth Conway!” Dad barks. “Apologize to your mother right now.”

  “Why?” I know that I’m acting like a total brat, but if now isn’t the time to talk back to my parents, when is? “You were just yelling at her.”

  Dad grips his hands together so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He takes a deep breath. “You’re right. I was yelling. I am upset. But your mother still deserves your respect.” He sighs. “Although I’m not sure I believe that sometimes.”

  Mom winces, but Dad still gives me that stern “I’m your father so listen to me” glare. “Fine,” I mutter. Apparently fine is the word of the day.

  “No, Dan. It’s okay.” Mom gives him a sad smile. “Veronica deserves to be mad at me.”

  “I do?”

  “You do.” Mom uncrosses her legs, then crosses them again. “I’m mad at myself. For being like this. For being so resistant, too.” She rubs her eyes. “It’s going to be hard to stop and that’s why I got so angry right now. But I guess that’s why I have to go away for a bit. So I can stop needing to drink.”

  “You shouldn’t need to drink.” I say it the way Mom and Dad used to, when I was a kid and had a ten-minute tantrum about how much I neeeeeded that awesome new doll at the toy store, the one with the hair as long as Rapunzel’s. They gave me the inevitable lecture about “wanting” things versus “needing” them.

  I needed food and water.

  I needed to go to school and learn my letters.

  I didn’t need more toys and games. Or to get my ears pierced.

  Apparently Mom didn’t learn her own lesson.

  “You choose to drink. Just like you chose not to go to my softball game today.” My voice rises in volume. Because if Mom says I can be mad at her … well, then I’m going to keep being mad.

  “I know you guys told me this whole drinking thing isn’t a choice, but it doesn’t feel that way. See, watch.” I walk over to the fridge and take out a water bottle, then twist open the cap and bring it to my mouth. “You can choose to drink or you can choose to not drink.” I put the bottle on the counter before it reaches my lips, then twist the cap back on and put in back inside. Then I slam the door so hard that the fridge rocks back and forth. “Easy peasy. I made a decision. So did you. Except your decision means you have to leave me—I mean, us.”

  “That’s not how it is, Veronica…” Mom stumbles upon her words, then presses her lips together and takes a deep breath. “Okay, you’re right. I deserve that, even though it feels like a punch in the stomach.”

  I want to tell Mom that it feels like a punch in the chest when she forgets about me. When she messes up so much that she has to go away—from me—to get better. I can’t find the words, though. It hurts too much to tell her how much I hurt. Instead I just point up at the wine bottles accusingly. Mom cringes.

  “I messed up, Veronica.” Mom looks at Dad, who gives her an encouraging smile. I give Dad a dirty look. Why is he acting like he’s on her side now? She betrayed us. Dad should stay mad.

  “You messed up a lot,” I add, looking at the floor. My insides are tied up in a knot that even a Boy Scout couldn’t untie. I don’t know whether I want to punish Mom or hold her tight. To turn my back on her or beg her to stay.

  “That’s why your mom is going to rehab,” Dad cuts in, as Mom sniffles and wipes her eyes. “Because she is sorry and wants to be here for us. Because she recognizes she has a problem and wants to change.” He looks at her with a question in his eyes, like only her nod can make his statement true.

  Not just because Rachel at work told her to, but because of us, too … right? Neither Dad nor I can say that part, though. Because what if Mom denies it entirely? What if she’s only really going because she’s being forced to and this acceptance is just one big act?

  What if Mom changes her mind again and says she’s okay, like she’s done before?

  I don’t know what I would do if that “what if” turned into “absolutely.”

  Mom nods back at Dad. “It’s for at least eight weeks,” she tells me. “At a facility not that far away, in Atlanta. You can visit,” she says hopefully. “After awhile, at least.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t want to visit.”

  I don’t think I can visit.

  “Okay.” Mom wipes her eyes again. “That’s fine.”

  It’s not fine! None of this is fine! The words bounce around in my head. We all should be celebrating my team’s win right now, Mom there next to me as the coach of the team.

  Except this year Mom got too busy at work to fit coaching into her schedule and asked Missy Robertson’s dad if he could do it. She explained that she was under a lot of pressure trying to make partner at her law firm. She showed me her daily planner, filled with all her meetings. She said that she could still practice with me and Claudia, and that Mr. Robertson would be a great coach because he’d played baseball in college.

  But Mom played softball in college. She almost made the Olympic team one year, which means she was good. Way better than good. Her name is on a plaque in our high school, right under my grandma’s name. Grandma Kathy was also a softball player.

  This means that the game is in my genes. It’s in my blood. And in Mom’s.

  Too bad there’s another trait in there, too.

  Five

  “It’s a disease.”

  Dad tries to explain things to me more the next morning.

  “It’s called alcoholism,” Dad says. “It’s a condition that makes it hard for Mom to stop drinking once she starts.”

  I’ve heard about alcoholism, of course. That famous actor that Claudia thinks is sooooo cute was in a movie about it last year. He moped around looking all tortured, sang a few songs, and pushed his greasy hair out of his eyes. Then, all of a sudden, he got better. His girlfriend told him he had a problem and that she loved him and BAM! he got better.

  He got better because he chose to. That’s what the movie made it seem like, at least. But Dad is saying something different—he’s insisting that there’s something inside Mom that makes it hard for her to stop drinking. That just like she was born with blue eyes and blond hair and a hatred for broccoli, she was also born with a gene that made her more likely to become an alcoholic. With a switch that got flicked on sometime after she had her first drink.

  I hate that switch.

  I wish I could flick it off, like the guy in the movie seemed to do.

  That’s another thing Dad says, though. That for most people, it’s not that simple at all. That sometimes, the disease becomes more like a runaway train, with every drink adding to its speed. With every sip making the person want more.

&nb
sp; That’s where rehab comes in.

  “So what’s rehab all about anyway?” I cross my arms in front of my chest, staring down at my bowl of oatmeal. I put cinnamon and sugar on top, just the way I like it, but it looks like a bowl of mush this morning. “Why can’t you get better here?”

  My voice is raspy, probably because I spent half the night crying under my covers. I’m not going to hide it, though. I want Mom to see how she’s affecting me.

  I want her to feel as bad as I do.

  “I guess I need space,” Mom says slowly.

  “From me?”

  “Oh, honey, no. Not from you.” Mom casts her eyes around wildly, like I’m a teacher and she’s a student with no idea of the right answer. Tears shimmer in her eyes. I probably should feel bad for her—after all, parents are supposed to be strong. They’re not supposed to cry in front of their kids. I can’t let myself sympathize with Mom, though.

  Then I’ll start to cry, too.

  “I guess I need to be on my own for this,” Mom says. “To work on myself and figure out why it’s so hard for me to stop drinking. I need time to be in my own head and to talk to people who are trained to help.”

  “Your mother will talk to a therapist and go to special groups,” Dad pipes up. “She’ll have people there who will understand her struggles.”

  Unlike us.

  But I weirdly don’t feel bad about being left out of the “Understanding Mom Club” today. After all, I don’t want to understand struggles like this. I just want them gone.

  “Those are the rules, anyway,” Mom adds. “That we can’t have visitors for the first month.” Mom has a half-eaten bagel in her hand that I can’t stop staring at. Do they have bagels at rehab? Comfy beds? Windows?

  “There’s something called Family Weekend after a bit, too,” Mom says. “You can visit then. I’ll be feeling better then. I promise.” Mom scoots her chair closer to mine. I scoot mine away again. I don’t want to hear about how Mom is going to get better and things will be so wonderful that we’ll all dance upon rainbows on the backs of unicorns.

  She hasn’t gotten better here yet. For me. And that’s what matters.

  “I don’t want to visit.” A hurt look flits across Mom’s face, but she covers it up quickly. But I still see it. It satisfies me, in the very best “I’m a mean daughter” kind of way.

  “That’s fair,” Mom whispers.

  I take a bite of my oatmeal and avoid Mom’s eyes. It tastes as mushy as it looks.

  Mom takes a bite of her bagel and stares around the kitchen. Her gaze flicks to the wine racks above the refrigerator. Or what were once wine racks, before Dad emptied them all out awhile back.

  “Maybe I don’t have to go,” she says suddenly. “I already feel better this morning. I don’t want a drink at all.” Her voice sounds like mine did the time I tried to convince my parents that I didn’t eat the last slice of leftover birthday cake.

  I had chocolate all over my face at the time.

  And right now, I can hear the naked longing in Mom’s voice.

  Of course she wants a drink.

  She always wants a drink.

  Way more than she wants me.

  “You’re going.” Dad crosses his arms over his chest. I feel like doing the same. Why is she backing out of our deal? How could she want to?

  “But—”

  “You. Are. Going.” His words are steel. Nothing Mom can say will break them. She must realize that, too, because she slumps in her chair and pushes her bagel to the side.

  “I’m going,” she whispers. “For eight weeks.” She blinks. “But no more.”

  Dad sighs. “I’ll take what I can get.”

  Maybe Dad will, but I won’t. I’m still mad. I’ll be mad forever.

  And that’s when I realize another thing Mom’s alcoholism is ruining.

  “Wait.” I hold up a hand. “You’ll be in rehab for eight weeks. Softball tryouts are in three weeks.”

  Mom grimaces. “Yes.”

  “The tryouts you said you’d help me prepare for.” My face is frozen in shock.

  Another grimace.

  “The tryouts for the All-Star team that I’ve been waiting to be old enough for since I was basically born!”

  “Yes, but it can’t be helped…”

  “The rehab facility has an open bed for your mother now,” Dad interrupts. “The lady I spoke to on the phone this morning said that we’re incredibly lucky there’s a bed open. They’re usually very busy this time of year.”

  “Right. Lucky.” I glare at Dad. “I’m so lucky to have a mom who’s an alcoholic.”

  Mom’s face is pale, and she buries it in her hands. Her elbow jostles her plate, and her bagel drops to the floor, cream cheese–side down. I know I’ve hurt her, but she’s hurt me, too. I think about how happy I felt just yesterday as I raised my arms in triumph after completing that double play.

  Victory seems far away right now.

  Six

  “It won’t feel like that long.” Dad claps one of his massive hands onto my shoulder, and I shrink away. “The time will go by before you know it.” He waves his other hand through the air in a zooming motion, and I imagine it’s a jet plane going at supersonic speed.

  Whoosh! Time’s up! Mom’s home! Things are normal again!

  I’m not sure if I know what normal is anymore, though. I look around the huge lobby that we’re standing in and shuffle back and forth on the shiny floor. My beat-up sneakers look out of place on the black-and-silver tiles. My jeans and the TRAVEL THE WORLD: READ! t-shirt I won in last summer’s reading contest feel like they’re an insult to the huge potted plants and fancy picture frames surrounding me.

  Then I look over at Mom’s faded jeans held up by a belt, at her baggy college sweatshirt and slip-on clogs, and feel a bit better. Then I feel bad for feeling better. I don’t want Mom to look all tired and exhausted like this. It’s ten o’clock on a Saturday morning, which means that Mom should be at home right now. We should all be relaxing on the couch, watching some cheesy show on Netflix.

  Then I shake my head, realizing what a fantasy world I’m living in. Because in reality, Mom would usually be at the office right now, trying to log more billable hours.

  A glass of wine would be next to her, too.

  The only place Mom should be is right here, in the lobby of Pine Knolls Rehab Center, waiting for someone to meet us and show us to her “living quarters,” where she’s going to stay for the next two months.

  Alone.

  Without her husband and her daughter.

  Without her family.

  “Two months is a long time,” I mutter to Dad. Mom’s a few steps ahead of us, so I figure it’s okay to say something. As long as I don’t let Mom hear that I’m going to miss her.

  As long as I don’t give her another excuse to try to back out.

  Right before we left (before they made me leave to come with them), Dad pulled me aside and told me that we need to act happy today. That we need to reassure Mom that everything will be fine and that we’ll be okay without her.

  That we need to accept that this is our reality.

  Yesterday, my reality was having to buy the watery pasta at school lunch for three days in a row because Mom kept forgetting to make my lunch.

  Annoying, but not awful.

  Yesterday, my reality was how Camille Henderson, who sits behind me in science class, keeps trying to copy my answers during tests.

  Irritating, but not awful. (As long as I don’t get in trouble, too.)

  Yesterday, my reality was worrying about whether I’ll make the All-Star team and show everyone that I can be the third generation of Superstar Softball Conway Girls.

  Super anxiety-producing, but not awful. Most of the time.

  Today I have a different reality. The worst reality of all, especially since Dad keeps focusing on how hard this is for Mom.

  Which, yeah, I’m sure it is. But what about me?

  “We have to make things e
asy on her today,” Dad told me right before we left, as I hovered outside his door. He’d told me I should “look nice” when we dropped Mom off, by which I thought he meant my jeans without the hole in the knee. Except Dad was standing in front of the mirror, putting on a tie while wearing his shiniest black shoes on his feet, the ones he never even wears on sales calls because they hurt his heels after a half hour.

  Apparently today is important enough for blisters.

  “We have to support your mother, so she doesn’t feel more guilty than she already does.” He pulled and twisted at the strip of fabric on his neck and it magically turned into a tie.

  “She should feel guilty,” I shot back. “She’s the one who’s leaving us.” I flopped onto Mom and Dad’s bed. Maybe if I couldn’t see or hear anything then it’d be like this day wasn’t really happening. I’d disappear into some alternate reality where moms didn’t have problems like this, problems that were way more than the “problems” everyone referred to them as.

  “Your mom has a problem with drinking.”

  “The people at Pine Knolls will help her with her problem.”

  “Lots of grown-ups have this problem. But lots of them get better, too.”

  People say that kids have big imaginations, but sometimes I think that grown-ups are the ones living in their own fantasy worlds.

  A “problem” is when my favorite pink shirt is in the wash on school picture day and I have to wear my second favorite striped one instead.

  A “problem” is how I have to stop doing Chorus Club this spring because All-Star practice will conflict with rehearsals.

  A “problem” is something I have to solve on my math worksheets. It’s exponents and negative numbers and “solve for x.”

  A problem has a definite answer.

  Wash the shirt in time and you can wear it.

  Decide to play softball because it’s what you’ve always done. And because you love it, of course.

  Subtract each side of the equation by two and divide by four so that x equals three.