I walked right up to her and stood over her, and she looked up at me, and you could see her trying to focus. “What if Pat hadn't driven me home? You were going to come get me like this? In this condition?”
“I waited all night,” she said. Or something like that. It was really pathetic how one word ran into the next. “I didn't get going until you called.”
I just shook my head at her. Nobody could get that drunk in ten or fifteen minutes. I'm sure she had plenty after I called. But to get where she was now, you'd need a good running head start. I took three of her cigarettes out of the pack on the table. Right in front of her. She never said a word. I'm not sure she even saw.
I sat outside on the patio in the dark and smoked all three in a row. I was looking up at my tree house, thinking how much it sucked to get stuck on the ground for all this time. I was trying not to think this other thing, but in my gut it was there, and I couldn't ignore it. I was jealous of my mom. Because she didn't have to do all this work. She didn't have to go to school, and then probation, and she didn't have to go without even one little drink to take the edge off, because nobody was going to test her pee. She didn't have to have a sponsor telling her what to do. She didn't even have to try. And she didn't. She just did what was easiest.
I crushed out the cigarette butts on the patio and left them there for her to clean up some other time.
CHAPTER 9
Don't You Dare
That next Saturday morning, Pat met me at the IHOP for breakfast, which I guess was pretty nice of her, and then to even it out she insisted on talking about the steps.
“How're you doing on step one?” she asked. She put tons and tons of Tabasco sauce on her scrambled eggs. It made my mouth hurt just to look at her.
I'd been doing my best all week not to think about step one. In fact, I'd even managed not to read the stuff in the book about it. I heard them say the short version of the steps at the beginning of every meeting, but I swear they didn't even make any sense. “Okay, I guess.”
“Do you understand it?”
“Um …”
“Trouble with the first part? Or the second part?”
I just stared at her, trying to figure out how to fake my way out of this one. I didn't even remember it had two parts.
She set down her fork and looked at me funny. “You didn't even read it.”
“I forget it now.”
The waitress came by to refill Pat's coffee cup. Pat put away a lot of coffee.
Usually I felt sorry for waitresses. It seems like they've got a rotten job. But right about then I wanted to trade with her. I could hang up pancake orders for the cooks, and she could hear all about step one.
“When this breakfast is over,” she said, “so is this sponsorship arrangement between you and me.”
First I wanted to stomp out, but I still had bacon on my plate. I love bacon. And also there was the part about Zack. I was doing this for Zack. “Why? What the hell did I do?” I felt stung. Seriously stung. Which was weird, because I hardly even liked Pat. But I couldn't get why all my relationships with everybody I ever met kept turning out the same. I thought a sponsor was supposed to help you. Be on your side. For a change.
“Nothing. That's just it. You haven't done anything. You haven't even said you're an alcoholic. You haven't admitted your life is unmanageable. And when I give you the simplest little thing to do, like call me on the phone, like read a step, you don't even bother. I can't recover for you, Cynnie. I can hand you things, but you gotta take it from me. You gotta grab on.”
I looked out the window and watched a man buy a newspaper out of a coin-operated box. I wondered what Bill was doing this morning. I wondered if Zack would come to the noon meeting. I never answered Pat. She'd already made up her mind about me.
After a while I started to worry whether she meant what she said about when breakfast was over. She was shoveling those eggs in awful fast, like she couldn't wait to be done and get out of my life for good. Like everybody else.
So I said, “I'll do something. I'll tell you something. Aren't you supposed to tell your sponsor things?” She just looked at me and waited, so I kept going. “When I wake up in the morning these past few days, I can't move. I mean, I guess I could. But I can't make myself. Like my body is maybe three hundred pounds and that's more than I can lift. And it's kind of scary. Because it feels like it's bigger than me, and there's nothing I can do. And it goes on like that for about half an hour. Sometimes more. If I had a real mother, she'd come drag me out of bed and tell me I'm late for school. Which I always am. But I don't, so I have to fix this myself. And it feels like …” This was the part I didn't know how to say, because I didn't even really get it myself. “It's like it has something to do with the fact that there's a day out there. You know. Waiting for me. It's like there's a wall between me and the day and I can't figure out how to get through it. Or maybe I don't even want to.”
I stopped and waited, but Pat didn't say anything. Her look hadn't softened up much, either. She was almost done with her food.
I said, “Isn't that the sort of thing you're supposed to tell your sponsor?”
“What do you think it means?”
“I have no idea. That's why I asked you.”
“Sounds like you're having a bout of depression. Or even panic attacks.”
I shook my head. Way off base. I was disappointed. “No. I don't feel depressed. Or scared.”
“That you know of,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
“I don't think you feel much of anything anymore.”
“How can you say that? I feel things.”
“Maybe. Maybe some things. The really big ones. Most people, by the time they get to this program, they're so out of touch with their emotions, they don't even know what they feel. Takes the emotional equivalent of an atom bomb going off under their chair. Like if they're scared of something—like a social situation—they'll say it bores them. And they believe it. Later things sort of unfreeze and then they look back and see where they were all along.”
She gave a little signal to the waitress and the woman caught it right away and brought a little paper receipt that I guess was the check.
I said, “So, are you still my sponsor?”
She hit me with a look I really hated. Like she was studying something fascinating written on the inside of the back of my head. “Cynnie,” she said, “do you even think you have a problem?”
I couldn't answer, because I couldn't give her the answer she wanted. And I couldn't lie with her looking right through me like that.
“I don't think I can help you,” she said, and got up to go.
I sat there with my face burning, which I guess meant it was turning red. Even my ears were burning. After a second I got up and ran after her.
She was halfway across the parking lot, almost to her car, when I yelled out her name. “Pat!”
She stopped and turned around. But she didn't come any closer. Just waited to see what I had. What did I have?
All of a sudden I was pissed. I mean, really, really pissed. I felt that, all right. Whatever else I could or couldn't feel, I sure felt furious right then. My hands were all balled up in fists down at my sides, and I could feel my fingernails cutting into my palms. And I had to work to keep from crying, because I always cry when I get that frustrated and mad. And I had to yell at the top of my lungs, because she was halfway across the parking lot, and if I didn't say it fast, I was scared she'd be in her car and gone.
“Don't you give up on me!” I screamed. A bunch of people on the street turned and stared. “Don't you dare give up on me!” Don't you frigging dare.
She started to walk back toward where I was standing.
My palms stung from where my fingernails were digging in, but I couldn't unclench my fists.
“My own mother doesn't even care enough to try with me. My own grandparents left me behind like I was something that wasn't even important enough to bother p
acking. Even my sister ditched me because I wasn't worth having to talk to my mom.” And then Zack deserted me, but I couldn't bring myself to tell her that. She was getting closer now, and I was losing my fight with crying. I could feel tears squeeze out no matter how hard I tried to hold them. And when I talked, it bent my mouth around funny. “I have no friends. I asked you to be my sponsor. And your sponsor is supposed to be the one person who doesn't just blow you off.”
She was almost nose to nose with me by now. I could feel her breath on my face. It smelled like hot sauce.
“Don't give up on me,” I said. Quiet now. Like I finally realized it was a sad thing to have to say.
Then I waited. And waited. And waited.
“Tell you what,” she said at last. “If you don't give up on you, I won't, either. Have we got a deal?”
I sniffled and wiped my nose on my sleeve. Which is gross, I know, but so is what would've happened if I hadn't. Then I nodded.
I felt her hand slap down on the top of my head. Not really hard, but hard enough. Enough to surprise me, like I might've just been smacked a little. But then she gave the top of my head a couple of pats and walked off.
And I stood there, trying not to cry. Wondering why I'd just let somebody—anybody—matter to me. And, worse yet, let them know about it.
When I got home I called Nanny and Grampop. Nanny answered. My heart was pounding, wondering what she'd say to me. We hadn't talked since the accident.
I said, “I want to talk to Bill.”
Nanny said, “Talk … to Bill?” Like that was totally impossible or something. I was still waiting for her to say something about “It.” I forgot this was my family. We only talk about easy things. About the things that hardly matter.
“Yeah. Talk to Bill.”
“He doesn't do a lot of talking, Cynthia.”
“Well, he can listen. He understands me. And he can say my name. Just put him on the phone, would you?”
A long silence. I hate grown-ups. “I don't even know if he'll hold it.”
“Well, just hold it up to his ear, will you, Nanny? When he hears my voice, he'll listen.” My fuse was getting kind of short and we could both hear it.
“Okay, we'll try it.”
“Bill,” I said. “Bill, Bill, Bill, Bill, Bill.”
Finally he said it. “Thynnie.”
I almost started to cry. But I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't give in to it. I had something important to do. Besides, I'd cried plenty enough for one day.
I sang him a couple of songs. The first was just the alphabet song, because I couldn't think of anything. Then I sang some Christmas carols, and I could hear him sort of humming, singing along with me.
Then, just when I said, “Cynnie loves you, Bill, you know that, right?” Nanny got back on the line and said that was all the phone holding she could do for one time. “Fine,” I said. “But don't be surprised if I call back tomorrow.”
I started calling Bill every day. Usually after I got home from school, because it was late enough in the afternoon, my mom wasn't really a factor. I thought I'd really hit on a way to make life livable again. I didn't even care that Nanny sighed real big and dramatic every time she heard it was me. I could almost hear her rolling her eyes on the other end of the line. I didn't care. She could think or say or roll whatever she wanted. I practically had Bill back.
Zack came over to fix my tree house. With another guy. I couldn't believe it. This was not the way it was supposed to go at all. I had it all planned out in my head. With no other guy. It was like I'd gotten hit with something. I stood there feeling my face burn. Didn't he know it was important to be able to talk to him alone?
They were leaning this long ladder up against my tree. I didn't see Zack's motorcycle. Just an old beat-up gray Chevy at the curb. I took a big breath and walked up to them.
Zack said, “Hiya, Sport. This is Earl. He's a friend of Bill W., too.”
I said, “Huh?” Which is, like, always a stupid thing to say, no matter where you put it in a conversation. I said, “What do you mean? I don't know any Bill W. You don't mean my brother Bill, right? Because he's not a ‘W.’”
They both laughed. I looked at Earl and thought I remembered seeing him at some meetings.
“Bill Wilson, the AA founder. If you want to know if somebody's in the program, you ask if they're a friend of Bill W. It's a little more discreet than saying, ‘Hey, are you an alcoholic?’”
I said, “Oh, I get it.” I wanted Earl to be gone. I wanted to be alone with Zack. I didn't want to be a friend of Bill W. Any guy who invented that stupid program, I didn't even want to know him. But then I remembered again that I had to think different about the program because I promised Zack I'd try. I tried to breathe. My brain wasn't working fast enough.
I said, “Where's your motorcycle, Zack? Is it still all apart?”
“Yeah. Turns out I gotta rebuild the whole bottom end. But I'm nearly done.”
He was holding the ladder for Earl, who was halfway up it with a two-by-six. He was knocking the board with a hammer, trying to get it to wedge between the tree trunk and the right- hand side of my tree house to hold the whole deal up.
I couldn't think of anything more to say to Zack, with Earl right where he could hear, so I hobbled over to the porch and sat down. I thought about the day Richie and Snake and I built that tree house, with Zack sitting on the porch watching, just the reverse of how we were now. And I thought about Snake again. Like, where was he right this minute? Was he okay? But I didn't get to think too long or too hard because it didn't take them long to finish.
They walked over to where I was sitting. Earl said that ought to do 'er, she'd be pretty strong now. That's how he talked. Called a tree house “she.” Zack asked when I'd get my cast off, and I told him not soon enough.
Then Earl was tying the ladder onto the roof of his ratty old car. Zack was just standing there. I thought, Talk, Cynnie. Spit it out. In a minute he'll be gone.
I put a lot of force behind it and it popped out. “It's actually a week from Tuesday.”
“What is?”
“That I get my cast off. You promised me a ride on your bike, remember?”
He got a funny look on his face, like he was trying to remember promising. Actually, I'm not sure he did promise. I know we talked about it.
“Yeah,” he said. “I guess.”
It wasn't quite what I wanted. Which would've been something more like, “Perfect, I can't wait.” But it was enough. It had to be.
One of the days after that, I got home from school and my mom was sitting up at the kitchen table. Really not passed out at all. It was unfortunate. She didn't look very happy, either. I pictured her like this cartoon character with a dark black cloud hanging over her head. Maybe with lightning bolts shooting through it.
“Why have you been calling Nanny and Grampop?”
I got a little pissy about the stern business. Don't start pulling that “I'm the boss” crap on me. If you're the boss, act like the boss. All the time. “Because I feel like it.”
She held up a couple of papers that I figured must be the phone bill. Waved them around. Always the actress. “You spent forty-seven dollars of our money talking about me with them. What are you telling them? Are you planning something behind my back?”
From the tone of her voice, I don't think she was guessing surprise party. More like family intervention kind of a thing.
“I don't talk about you to Nanny and Grampop.”
“Bullshit! Then why are you calling them? You never talk to them! You don't even like them!”
“True enough,” I said. “I call Bill.”
She gave me the evil eye. “I don't believe you. Bill doesn't even talk.”
“Would everybody please stop saying that?” I was shouting all of a sudden. “He's not a dog, for God's sake. He understands things. He communicates.”
She sat back and folded her arms over her ratty, lumpy robe. “So why don't you tell me
what you two talk about? Forty- seven dollars' worth?”
“Nothing. I just talk to him. We sing songs and stuff.”
She laughed the way people do when they're not happy and nothing is funny. “Not for forty-seven dollars you don't. This stops now.”
“Like hell it does.”
“Unless you want to pay these bills yourself.”
Then I walked out because I was seriously about to say something that would have been going too far even for me. I mean, I actually had to leave before something really bad happened, and I caused it.
I called Nanny and Grampop's house collect. She accepted the charges.
“What's wrong?” she asked, sounding out of breath. “Is it your mother? What happened?”
“Nothing happened. I called to talk to Bill.”
Long silence on the line. “Collect?”
“Mom's pissed off about paying for the calls.”
“And you think Grampop will like it any better?”
“Just this once, Nanny, please?”
She sighed and held the phone for Bill.
The next day I called again, but not collect. I didn't care what my mother thought. In fact, I didn't care what my mother thought every day for the whole rest of the month.
The day I got my cast off, Zack took me for that ride I'd been begging for. The bike was sounding real good since he'd done all that work on it, real loud and strong.
I put my arms around him, and he said, “Where to, Sport?”
It seemed so obvious, I couldn't believe he would ask.
“The reservoir, of course.”
“Sure you don't want to see something new?”
“Positive.” I wanted it to be just like it was before. I wanted everything to be just like it was before.
I held him real tight, waiting for that moment when he put on the gas and nearly blasted me right off the back of the bike. But he accelerated nice and smooth and never got more than five miles over the speed limit the whole way.
The Year of My Miraculous Reappearance Page 9