Intoxicating

by Heather Heyford

  “You think you know someone,” she mused for what must’ve been the hundredth time. “After all these years, it’s still hard to fathom Diane walking out on Heath and Scott.”

  “At least his brewery is doing great.”

  Mom turned away from the storm door and walked over to the couch, her frown melting into a soft smile. “You always did look on the bright side. That’s one of the things that makes you special.”

  “If anyone deserves happiness, it’s Heath.”

  “Scott hardly ever comes in to the café anymore. Sometimes I think he’s turning into a hermit.” Mom sat down next to her. “Now, tell me what the doctor said about that foot.”

  “It’s nothing, really. I’m to keep taking my antibiotic so it doesn’t get infected.”

  “Well, thank goodness you’re here, where I can take care of you, instead of off in Portland living by yourself.”

  Poppy sighed. Here we go. Another mom rant about Poppy wanting to leave and get her own place.

  “Now don’t roll your eyes at me. You have a good life here. Lots of friends and a family who loves you. A nice home, with plenty of room.”

  “I know, Mom. We’ve been over this.”

  “It used to be enough.”

  It was—until she noticed everyone else moving forward while she was stuck inside the café, looking out.

  “And now you’re talking about moving into some tiny apartment where you don’t know anybody and God knows what could happen to you.”

  “Don’t be such a worrywart! It’s time—past time. I’m twenty-eight years old. That’s what people do. They find their own place.”

  “The restaurant was always good enough for us.”

  Guilt twisted in Poppy. “And I’m happy for you. But think about what you just said. The café was always your dream. Not mine.”

  “You have everything you need.”

  “Everything I have was given to me! Maybe I want to see if I can get something for myself.”

  “But why? That’s all I’m asking.”

  Poppy whipped her head around to her mother.

  “Because all my life, I’ve felt dumb. I failed kindergarten! Who does that? Who fails kindergarten?”

  To her horror, Poppy realized her mistake the second it was out of her mouth. Mom had failed eleventh grade—and dropped out of high school.

  In her haste to apologize, Poppy hopped up, forgetting about her heel.

  “Ow!”

  Her mom caught Poppy’s flailing arm. “Now, see what I mean? Lucky I was here to catch you. But you know dyslexia does not mean you’re dumb.”

  Poppy hugged her. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  Mom pulled out of her embrace while still holding on to her to keep her steady. “Your teacher told us that at that meeting, remember? The only reason they held you back was because you were a little behind on your reading.”

  A faraway look came into Mom’s eyes. “It’s too bad they didn’t know more about learning disabilities back when I was in school. Sometimes I think your problem is all because of—what’s the word?”

  “Mom. No.”

  “Genes. That’s it. And I gave it to you.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Being a waitress was all I ever did. But I was good at it. Your Pop and I worked hard to get the café up and running. Then when we saw the same problems cropping up in you that I had—trouble with reading, holding your pencil real awkward, like I do—we worked even harder. We always had it in the back of our minds that one day you could take over. Kind of like an insurance policy that you’d always have a job.”

  Poppy tried not to cry. Nothing her mom said was a surprise. But they didn’t dwell on her disability. It had taken something like this to bring it out in the open again.

  Mom broke the tension with a sniff and helped Poppy back to the couch.

  “So. What are you going to do now?”

  “Heath thinks I ought to ask Keval to shoot another practice session showing me doing something right, to vindicate myself.”

  “But, honey, won’t you just be putting yourself out there all over again? Didn’t you say it was live video?”

  “I can rehearse without Keval, then invite him in when I’m comfortable.”

  Her mom clenched her hands until her knuckles were white. “I just hate to see you get hurt again, that’s all.”

  “I can do this, Mom.”

  She brushed away a loose strand of hair from Poppy’s face. “Sure you can, honey.”

  Poppy wished she sounded more convinced.

  Chapter Seven

  Heath walked into the low-slung rancher and set the little bag Scarlett Springer had given him on the kitchen table. An unyielding melancholy hung in the stale air.

  “I’m home.”

  He stood still, waiting for a reply, but there was silence except for the ticking of the clock. If not for Heath changing the battery at the same time he changed the batteries in the smoke alarms, it would be long dead by now.

  He deposited a sticky bun on each of two plates.

  Dad wasn’t in his workshop. That only left his recliner, in the den.

  “Dad?”

  Dad grunted without turning away from the Seahawks and 49ers. An afghan at least as old as Heath covered his legs.

  “Sticky bun from Poppy’s. Scarlett sent them over.”

  “Hntp.”

  Heath set the saucer on the arm of his dad’s recliner and sat down on the couch next to him.

  Dad kept the room so dim you could barely see the old family photos on the mantel, the wall hanging his mother had macraméed in better times.

  “How come you got the curtains closed? It’s nice out today.”

  Other than football, one of the few topics that interested Dad was the weather. It had to. His nursery stock depended on it.

  “How long you been sitting there?”

  His dad blinked and turned to him, as if just noticing his presence.

  “Huh? I don’t know. Hour or two.”

  “What’s the score?”

  “It was seven, thirteen a while ago.”

  “Did you eat anything today?”

  “Some of that lunch meat that you bought.”

  The bomb thrown by the Seahawks quarterback was snatched one-handed from a near-interception by their receiver, who ran it in for a touchdown.

  “Yes!” Heath jumped up from the couch. “You see that? Now for the extra point . . .”

  As if he were in a trance, Dad chewed his sticky bun without replying.

  Heath watched the kicked ball soar through the goalposts, polishing off his own bun. “These are good,” he mumbled, licking his fingers. “I’m going to get a glass of milk. Want some?”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “No bother.”

  Dad’s listlessness was nothing new. He’d been withdrawing deeper and deeper into himself for the past twenty years. Hard as Heath tried to interest him in the outside world, he could only do so much.

  On his way to the kitchen he avoided looking down the hallway at two doors standing ajar. One of them led to Dad’s room, once shared with Mom. And though it’d been years since Heath had set foot in there, he knew from passing by it on his way to the bathroom that the sagging mattress had the same blue printed bedspread on it that had been there when his mother left.

  The opposite door led to the room that belonged to Heath and, back when they’d been a real family, his twin.

  There was a time when Heath and Hayden had shared the same crib. They grew into toddlers and then rambunctious boys.

  They ate, bathed, slept, and played together. They even wore matching clothes Mom bought them.

  Heath still didn’t know when he realized that he was the stronger of the two. For one thing, Hayden got tired before he did. If not that, it was the little bit of extra attention Mom gave Hayden.

  But at least there was always someone to play with, talk to, and even huddle up with during thunderstorms in the
blanket forts they made between the couches.

  Heath grew stronger, but inexplicably, Hayden didn’t. He used to be able to at least hold his own when they wrestled, even if nine times out of ten, Heath pinned him. But at some point he began getting breathless as soon as they got started.

  By the time Hayden was diagnosed with leukemia, he had become too tired to wrestle at all. Heath would try to goad him into playing video games on the couch, but after a while even that became too much, and Mom shooed Heath away.

  Before long their lives started to revolve around Hayden’s doctor appointments, hospitalizations, special food, and worrisome phone calls overheard when Heath’s parents thought he was out of earshot.

  From the sidelines where he was shunted more and more, Heath sensed his parents’ mounting fear and desperation as they became completely engrossed with his brother, to the exclusion of him.

  One day, Hayden was hospitalized yet again. The next thing Heath knew, his grief-stricken parents were getting dressed up for something called a funeral. But Heath wasn’t included. They said he was too young. Instead, they gave him a book. Something about angels and heaven. But when he asked Mom to read to him, she started crying again and left the room.

  He was seven years old and full of questions. He missed his brother. He missed his parents.

  His mom had stopped making meals for anyone but Hayden months ago. Dad went to work before Heath got up and came home after he had tucked himself into bed, only to stare at the empty one next to his in the gloom and wonder what had happened to the person once closest to him. Were they called still twin beds, if only one was occupied? Where was Hayden? Did he have a new bed, in that place called heaven?

  Then, one morning, Heath was gently shaken awake to find Mom sitting on the edge of his bed, looking down at him. She brushed his hair out of his eyes and told him to get up and get dressed.

  “What do you want for breakfast? I’ll make you anything you want.”

  “Anything?”

  With high hopes, he leapt out of bed, pulled on some shorts, and sat down to frozen waffles with chocolate syrup.

  Mom hadn’t been so attentive in weeks. Maybe the worst was over. Maybe things were going to get better now.

  “Are we going to do something together?” There was a playground with a curving tunnel slide he really liked, a few minutes’ drive away. He hadn’t been there in a long time.

  “We’ll see.”

  The day was hot. Maybe they were going to the pool, Heath thought as he dutifully did as he was told and got into the car. But no, they didn’t have their swimsuits or the beach bag.

  Mom drove silently with Heath looking out the back window, searching for some clue as to their destination, until they pulled in along the curb on Main Street.

  Then they went into Poppy’s Café and Mom told Mrs. Springer she’d be back in a while.

  He couldn’t have known then that those were the last words he would ever hear his mother say.

  Mrs. Springer’s friendly smile and warm stickies smoothed over Heath’s disheartened feelings. Mr. Springer let him hold the leaf blower when he swept the sidewalk in front of the café.

  And then there was Poppy. She fascinated him, even if she was a girl. She was always babbling to her dolls or her parents or the customers or nobody at all. In fact, Poppy said more in five minutes than everyone in his house said in a whole day.

  Midday, Mrs. Springer took Poppy and Heath back to their house so they could play outside for a while. Poppy collected an armful of dolls and accessories and he followed her out back where they sat down under the shade of a big tree. Poppy handed Heath a boy doll, then concocted an elaborate story about their dolls working at their own pretend café. It was kind of lame, but he went along with it. Nobody could see them anyway except Mrs. Springer, from her kitchen window where she washed the lunch dishes. Besides, playing dolls with Poppy distracted him from wondering where his own mom was and when she was coming back for him.

  At suppertime, Mrs. Springer drove Heath and Poppy back to the café where she made them sandwiches and ice cream floats.

  When the sun started setting outside the café windows and Mr. Springer said they were all going back to Poppy’s house, Heath knew that something was terribly wrong.

  That evening, Mr. Springer disappeared and came back with Heath’s backpack filled with his pajamas and a fresh set of clothes.

  Heath slept in the Springers’ guest room for the rest of that week.

  Finally, one day Dad’s car pulled up outside Poppy’s house.

  Heath ran outside to meet him.

  “Where’s Mom?” he asked, dreading the answer, but frantic to know.

  “We’ll talk about it on the way home. Let’s go in and get your stuff.”

  On their way back to their house, Heath asked him again.

  “She was sad. She went away.”

  Heath choked back panic. “You mean like to heaven, to be with Hayden?”

  “No. Just away, to be by herself for a while.”

  “But what about us? Doesn’t she want to be with us?”

  A tear slid down Dad’s cheek. Dad never cried, not even when Hayden died. But now, the tears wouldn’t stop.

  “I don’t understand,” said Heath, alarmed. “When’s she coming back?”

  Dad pulled the car into the driveway and turned off the ignition.

  “I don’t know,” he sobbed into his hands. “She left us. She’s gone!”

  He cried openly, in great, terrifying wails.

  That’s when Heath knew that someone would have to take control. And that that someone would have to be him.

  He unclicked his seat belt, climbed out of the backseat and walked to the driver’s door, opening it.

  “It’s okay,” he said, his voice sounding small and inadequate for the monumental task he sensed loomed before him.

  Now, a crowd cheer erupted from the TV in the den, bringing Heath back to the present.

  He opened the fridge and got out the milk.

  He had always been the strongest one. Stronger than Hayden, Mom, even his dad.

  * * *

  Heath went back to the den and handed his dad his glass.

  “Hey, Dad. Our class reunion’s coming up in December, at the Radish Rose. They want to borrow some saplings to dress it up. That okay? I’ll help you with setup and takedown.”

  “Fine.”

  He planted his feet between the recliner and the TV. “Something else I wanted to mention. I know a guy who can get me fifty yard line seats for the Rams game, the week of Christmas. What do you think?”

  Frowning, Dad craned his neck around Heath. “Get out of the way, would you? I don’t know.”

  “We always talked about going up to Seattle to see a game. Let’s do it.”

  “And get soaked? That’s the height of the rainy season.”

  “I’ll get us club seats, if you’d rather. They’re all under cover.”

  “I’ll let you know.” He made a sweeping motion with his arm. “Now, get out of the way.”

  “Want me to throw together some supper in a while? A grilled cheese, some soup?”

  He’d already eaten at the consortium, but he’d eat again if it meant some healthy interaction for Dad.

  “No need.” He finished the bun, brushed the crumbs away, and returned his blank stare to the TV.

  Chapter Eight

  On Thursdays after work, Heath went over to the consortium to compare industry notes with Sam. Their get-togethers had started organically, neither of them planning them. Now it was a weekly ritual both men looked forward to.

  But for some reason, Sam had sent Heath a text asking him to stop by tonight, a Monday.

  When Heath arrived, Sam wrapped his outstretched hand in both of his, creating a cocoon of trust. “Thanks for coming over, man.” He poured Heath one of the special blends he kept under the counter for industry friends. “What’ve you got going this week?”

  Heath held his wine u
p to the light, admiring its transparency. “The brew team’s working on some R-and-D test batches for new production beers. You?”

  “Couple of winemakers from over on Ribbon Ridge were in here blending this morning. A pianist from some big New York orchestra came in with her mother for a tasting. Said she was a guest performer at the symphony in Portland last weekend, and now they’re spending the week doing the tourist thing.”

  “Guess you meet all kinds here.”

  “Wine lovers come from every walk of life. Those ladies really got a kick out of watching real winemakers sitting right over there, blending wines while they looked over their shoulders. But then, I hear hopheads are the same breed.”

  Heath tensed at what was coming.

  “Craft beer has its own culture, too,” said Sam. “But then, you know that. They’re not the perma-drunks pounding growlers at some dive bar. They love to get together and talk about their new discoveries, compare old favorites, different processes.”

  “You and John. He doesn’t miss a chance to tell me how I should be opening up a tasting room.”

  “I know you don’t get off on schmoozing with strangers. But people are into the real deal. They love getting a tour from someone who just finished eight hours with their hands in the actual process, instead of some tour guide.”

  Heath tapped his fingers on the bar to the tune of the soft background music. Sooner or later Sam would open up about the real reason why he’d texted him to stop by.

  “How’s Poppy’s foot? Sorry about that whole thing. I feel bad that it happened at my place.”

  “Got a few stitches to remember it by, but she’ll be all right.”

  “Keval’s video was a big hit while it lasted.”

  Heath looked up. “It’s gone?”

  “He set it up to disappear after a certain length of time, but get ready. He wants more. Says fresh content keeps people coming back for updates.”

  “Poppy said you’ll let her do a blind tasting here. Any way we could come in and practice—without prying eyes?”

  “I owe her, after what happened yesterday. How about Friday night, after closing? You can have the whole place to yourself. I’ll show you how to lock up when you’re done.”