Life in the Balance

by Jen Petro-Roy

  A problem isn’t anything where “lots” of grown-ups get better. Because what if Mom isn’t one of those “lots”? What happens if she’s in the other group, the one that people don’t mention?

  Do they become the negative numbers in their own equations, disappearing without a trace?

  Now I look around at the lady walking through the lobby and wonder if she’s one of the people who’s going to fix Mom. Or is she a patient, one of the ones who will get better? I feel like I’m working out a tricky word problem in my head. If this lady recovers, will my mother stay sick? Do I need to balance this equation, too?

  I glare at her, then look away, my face warm, when she looks back at me.

  “Veronica. Smile.” Dad nudges me in the side as Mom’s lips twitch up into a small smile of her own, then quiver and collapse. Is she going to cry? If she cries, does that mean I can cry?

  Or does that just mean that I have to be stronger?

  I wish Dad had told me what to do beyond “supporting” Mom. Because I’m here. I got dressed, brushed my hair, and rode in the car. I walked through the doors of this place even.

  I’m here.

  But Mom’s the only one who’s staying.

  “Ah, the Conway family!” Another woman, this one with gray-streaked hair twisted up in a fancy bun, strolls into the room so smoothly it’s like she’s on one of those moving sidewalks they have in the airport. Maybe she has those sneakers with the tiny rollerblades on the bottom. I sneak a peek down at her feet, but nope. Just shiny red high heels, the exact same color as her blazer and her necklace.

  This lady is way too matchy.

  “That’s us!” Dad raises his hand in the air like he’s a kid on the first day of school. “Present and accounted for!”

  Dad is way too cheerful.

  Next to me, Mom takes in a shuddering breath. I hesitate, then reach out and squeeze her hand. It feels normal, all soft and smooth. She has a small callus at the base of her ring finger in the spot her wedding ring rubs against.

  Mom squeezes back, and I imagine that her squeeze is a language all its own. One squeeze means “I love you.” Two squeezes mean “Now that we’re here I realize that this whole thing is silly. I’m going to stop drinking and we can go back home and life can get back to normal.”

  I squeeze Mom’s hand once, then hold my breath as I wait for her response.

  All she does is squeeze back once more, then she lets go of my hand.

  “I’m Annabelle Conway.” Mom reaches back to tighten her ponytail, a gesture so familiar that my heart twinges in my chest. I’m not going to get to see Mom adjust her ponytail for another two months. At least.

  Before this moment, I didn’t stop to think that something so small would be so important to my life. I was worried about Mom not getting to help me with softball tryouts and how I’m going to explain this whole situation to my friends.

  But she’s also going to miss our Thursday movie nights. I’m going to miss the way she sings silly songs while cooking dinner and how she’s the only one who buys the fun brands of cereal. She still did those things sometimes, even after she started drinking a lot.

  Will Mom miss our movie nights, too? Or will she miss alcohol more?

  I drop her hand.

  “It’s so lovely to meet you.” The lady is wearing a name tag that says OLIVIA ITO, DIRECTOR OF ADMISSIONS. She shakes Mom’s hand, then Dad’s. When she reaches out to me, I notice her fingers, hovering in midair. She’s wearing sparkly pink nail polish. It’s not super sparkly, but it definitely has a shimmer to it.

  Her nail polish makes me want to bite my nails again. It makes me want to stomp out of here, too. Why should this lady get to wear fancy nail polish and fancy shoes and even fancy dangly earrings when Mom’s wearing her old Tufts University sweatshirt? When she’s about to be locked up for who knows how long?

  I glare at her fingers, stopping just before I stick my tongue out at them. I still don’t shake her hand, though, and after a few seconds, she pulls it back and gives me a polite nod.

  I don’t nod back.

  “Well, if you have all your stuff, then you should say your goodbyes. We need to be making our way upstairs,” Ms. Ito says. “The first few days are busy in so many ways and we want to make sure you get settled before…”

  Her voice trails off, and my mind naturally jumps to finish the sentence.

  … before you descend into the belly of this horrible beast of a building?

  … before we strap you to some medieval torture machine?

  … before we make you realize that you started drinking because you’re unhappy with your family? That you really want to disappear forever, not just for two months?

  I shove the last thought back into my brain, in the darkest, shadowiest corner, where I have a padlocked trunk especially prepared for it. I lock the trunk and cover it with a blanket. Then I throw away the key. I throw it as hard as I can and pretend it sinks to the bottom of the ocean, down where sharks and piranhas lurk. One of them will eat the key. Then they’ll swim farther away.

  That trunk will stay locked forever. It has to.

  Dad is hugging Mom. It’s the kind of hug I always gave my parents when I was a kid, when they used to put me to bed at night. I did it after baths and stories and tucking-in, before Mom or Dad went downstairs to do whatever adults do at night. (Back then, I thought they sat around looking at pictures of me and saying how adorable I was. Now I know they just watch television and eat ice cream.)

  Before they’d shut the door, I’d give Mom and Dad what I called the “biggest hug in the universe.” I’d wrap my arms around their torsos and squeeze as tightly as I could, so tightly that I imagined I was squeezing all the love out of them so it’d float down around us in a warm haze.

  Then they’d hug me again and reassure me that no matter how hard I tried, I could never, ever squeeze them dry of their love for me.

  I want to give one of those hugs to Mom right now. But as I approach her to say goodbye, my eyes are watering too hard to even see her clearly.

  I don’t want you to go.

  Leave.

  Please get better.

  Stay.

  The words aren’t coming, though, even as Mom reaches out to me and squeezes my hand. “I love you, honey.”

  Mom’s not arguing or making excuses anymore. But she doesn’t make a move to come closer to me. She’s acting like I’m a dog that may not be safe to approach.

  I made her feel that way.

  But she made me feel, too. And I’m not over that yet.

  Mom hugs Dad instead. They embrace for probably a full minute, which usually would be totally embarrassing. My friend Lauren’s parents kiss a lot in public, which always makes us blush and avert our eyes.

  This isn’t so much embarrassing as sad. It’s a hug filled with apologies and promises and missed memories. A hug that both is only for them and fills up the whole room with its energy.

  Mom turns to me again before the director lady pulls her away to her room or her cell or wherever she’ll be living. I don’t care what they call it if it’s not home. She wiggles her fingers at me one more time.

  “I love you,” I whisper softly as she disappears up the stairs.

  Seven

  A single star twinkles in the sky as I lie on my back high above the ground. Dad built this tree house for me when I was six, when I started getting really good at climbing the trees in our backyard. Most kids in our neighborhood pulled themselves up to the lowest branch, then stopped a few feet from the ground when they started getting nervous about falling and breaking their arm or leg or whatever.

  Not me. I never stopped climbing, not until I reached the tip-top branch in the tree, the very last one that would hold my weight without bending and swaying like crazy.

  Not until I could see the entire yard spread out before me.

  I think Dad built the tree house so that I’d have somewhere I was forced to stop, so I could be contained within four wa
lls without him worrying his hair off. (Unfortunately, that still happened a year later and now Dad is Baldy McBaldman.)

  I don’t mind being contained here, though. From where I am, on my back staring up at the sky through the jagged hole between two boards Dad didn’t quite make flush, I feel as free as I did when I used to climb this tree to the tip-tip top. The night air is crisp, but the wind can’t quite make its way inside to whip at my bare arms. I pull a purple fleece blanket over me anyway, the one I store in the special wooden chest Dad made for me to keep up here.

  All my important “tree house stuff” is in the chest. Even though I don’t have an annoying little brother like Claudia, I still like to store everything away where it’s safe. You never know when a wild animal might climb up in here and make a total mess of everything. A raccoon got into our next-door neighbor’s trash can one night and when I went out to the bus stop the next morning, there were coffee grounds and orange peels and even dirty diapers all over the street.

  It was the grossest sight—and smell—ever.

  That’s why my chest has a combination lock on it. Because raccoons can’t remember complicated numbers. Or open locks. I don’t even think they have thumbs. So they can’t get into my stash of special snacks—right now I have a bag of extra-cheesy popcorn and a bunch of those little fun-sized bags of M&Ms. (Which really aren’t so much fun, since they only have about ten M&Ms in each. Sometimes I don’t even get a red one, my favorite.)

  The raccoons can’t get in there and rip apart my books, either. Or poop in the spare softball glove I keep up here. (My best glove always stays in my practice bag. Obviously.)

  They can’t get at the important stuff.

  Tonight, though, all I want is my purple blanket. Tonight it’s just me and the sky. Me and that single star twinkling above me. It could be part of a constellation—maybe it’s the middle of Orion’s belt and I can’t quite see the other two stars that frame it. Maybe it’s the brightest gem on Cassiopeia’s crown.

  It could even be the North Star, the one that Ms. Davidson told us in science class will always lead you home.

  I wonder if Mom’s looking at the same stars tonight. Ms. Davidson also told us that different constellations appear in the sky depending on where the viewer is in the world. Mom should have the same view as me—she’s barely an hour away, not even in a different time zone or different hemisphere.

  It feels like she’s on the other side of the world, though; that she can’t see the North Star—or whatever this star is—no matter which window she looks out of at her treatment center.

  That there’s no possibility she’ll find her way home again.

  I rock back and forth on the floor of the tree house, then stand up. Even with that glimpse of sky, the walls feel like they’re closing in on me tonight. It’s why I came outside in the first place—to escape from the trapped feeling inside my room—but it’s even worse inside here. Is this what Mom feels like in her rehab place? Like there’s air to breathe, but it’s not fresh enough?

  The sign over the door may have said PINE KNOLLS, but there are definitely more trees here at home.

  I miss my mom.

  The words flit through my mind, and I close my eyes against them. But that doesn’t do anything to delete the thought from my brain. I just see them more clearly, lit up in bright colors against the darkness behind my eyelids.

  “You’re not supposed to miss your mom,” I whisper to myself, even though I’m the only one up here. Someone could walk down the sidewalk below me. Or maybe the neighborhood raccoon has educated himself and can speak English now.

  I still don’t want anyone to hear me. If my words are soft and wispy, maybe they’ll float away from me. Maybe they’ll disappear, along with the feelings that have stuffed themselves inside my chest for the past few days.

  “Why did you have to go away?”

  I imagine the question twirling and tumbling over itself, then winding its way up into the clouds.

  “Why couldn’t you stay here for me?”

  The words waft away on the breeze.

  I can barely say the last question out loud. That’s because I’ve worked hard to hide this thought from everyone else. It’s a worry that makes me feel mean and selfish and uncaring. It’s a worry that’s all about me.

  “What happens with my softball tryouts?” I know it’s not as important as Mom’s health. As our “family as a whole” or whatever. But softball is still important to me. Mom and I have been talking about the All-Star team for years. It’s why we’ve been training so hard, why I’ve been working so hard.

  Now it’s time for the payoff. The tryouts and the victory and then the schedule of three practices a week plus games throughout the state. While balancing it all with schoolwork.

  Every time I think about it, my stomach feels all twisty and turny. With excitement, of course. A little nervousness, too, but that’s normal. I’ll get used to the busy schedule. I’m not even that bummed about having to stop Chorus Club.

  Not really.

  Because softball is important. As Mom and I say, softball is a part of us. It’s who we are. So it’s understandable that I’m upset that she won’t be here for the big payoff.

  For so much other stuff, too.

  I picture the next few weeks at home without my mom. My mom, who promised she’d work on hitting with me. My mom, who told Claudia she’d help her with her batting stance. My mom, who used to be my coach and my friend and so many other things.

  My mom, an alcoholic.

  Eight

  “Yesterday was the best day ever!” Claudia’s voice enters the school before her, louder than everyone else in the general vicinity. As usual. I love my best friend, but sometimes I feel like I should invest in a lifetime supply of earplugs. If her intended career goal of becoming a marine biologist doesn’t end up working out, she should definitely consider becoming one of those announcers at huge sporting events. She won’t even need a microphone.

  “Seriously!” Tabitha Young trails behind Claudia, her beaded earrings jingling around her face. “That place was amazing. Laser tag, indoor mini golf, batting cages, and go-carts? I never wanted to leave.”

  Lauren Gregory giggles, hiking her backpack up on her right shoulder. “I think the trampolines were the best. I can’t believe I finally managed a backflip.”

  “I’m just psyched you didn’t break your ankle doing one,” Claudia adds. “That happened to my neighbor at a trampoline park once. He had to wear a cast for months.”

  Lauren shudders. “That would totally ruin my softball season. Maybe I’ll stick with go-carts from now on. Even if Tabitha did kick our butts.”

  “Every time.” Tabitha raises her hands in victory, and my friends all break into giggles, then high-five each other as I stand staring at them. It’s been at least three minutes and none of them have noticed me yet. I look down at my outfit. I’m wearing a bright pink shirt with bright yellow flowers. And bright yellow leggings. I’m not exactly blending into the walls.

  I cough and Claudia finally looks up.

  “Veronica! Hey! Where were you on Saturday?”

  A lightning bolt of panic strikes my stomach, sending every inch of the rest of me scuttling for cover. Does Claudia know we checked Mom in to Pine Knolls this weekend? Does she have some sort of best friend radar? Or maybe she planted a bug in our car?

  Luckily, Claudia speaks up again before my mind has a chance to brew any more totally unlikely conspiracy theories. “I called you like a billion times to see if you wanted to come with us. I texted you a billion and one times. Where were you?”

  Putting my mom behind bars.

  Sitting by helplessly as my life changed forever.

  Listening to music while drowning in my own tears.

  Obviously I don’t say any of that, though. I just pull my phone out of my pocket and look at it. The screen is black, so I press the power button.

  Oh.

  “My phone’s dead.”

&nb
sp; “It’s been dead for two days?” Tabitha pushes forward. “And you haven’t charged it yet? What’s wrong with you?”

  Even in the midst of my angst, I still stifle a giggle. Of course it wouldn’t occur to Tabitha that someone could forget about their phone for a single minute. Tabitha is basically attached to her phone. Sometimes I imagine an invisible cord tethering her thumbs to her phone screen. Even when it’s in her pocket, or in her locker, where we’re required to keep our phones during the school day, there’s a still a connection. A bond, like the one I feel for my softball glove. When I put it on, it feels like home.

  “I, um, was busy yesterday.”

  Technically, it’s the truth.

  “I went out with my family Saturday morning and left my phone at home. I must have forgotten to charge it yesterday.”

  That’s also the truth. It just leaves out the part about how I left my phone at home because I didn’t want to be reminded that there was a happy world out there going on without me. And how I forgot to charge it because I spent most of yesterday crying and trying to lose myself in a book.

  “Whoops.” I shrug my shoulders in a “what are you gonna do?” motion and hope that everyone accepts my answer. Which they should. Because I’m a very truthful person.

  Usually.

  “Weird.” Tabitha pulls her own phone out of her pocket and clutches it tighter, like it’s about to spring legs and skitter away. “You missed out on an awesome trip. We spent the whole day at that new entertainment complex. It was epic.”

  “Bummer.” I think I’m making an innocent face, but Claudia still looks at me curiously. Did she hear something in my voice? She is my best friend, after all. And best friends have powers, almost as strong as that power parents have when they raise an eyebrow and basically know what the other one is thinking. Claudia and I aren’t that good, but we’re close. I can always tell when she’s in a bad mood.

  Maybe she can always tell when I’m lying.

  I give her a reassuring smile and try to mentally send her the message that I’ll tell her the truth later. Because I will. Absolutely. Best friends don’t keep secrets this big from each other. She deserves to know the truth.