by Unknown
“You don’t have to be nice.”
“I’m not being nice. I’m being factual. There’s a difference.”
“You have a bruise.”
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Mel ran her fi nger over the lump forming on her jaw. “Do I? Huh.
Didn’t even feel it.”
“Did my dad take her home?” The worry in Nate’s voice shredded her, but she refused to allow him to think she was affected or put off by him because his mother was an alcoholic.
“Not sure. You want me to go see?”
He shook his head hard “No! I mean. No,” his tone softened in his typical showing of respect. “Please don’t. She’ll only get angrier if she sees you.”
Mel nodded her understanding. “Then I’ll stay put.”
“I don’t get her. She doesn’t want my dad, and she doesn’t want to be married to my dad, but she doesn’t want him to be around anyone else. That’s why she acted like that when she saw you. I’m sorry she called you a slut.”
Mel tried not to let Nate see how that information affected her, and she didn’t want him to think she’d use him to pry. Nate was letting off steam, and she had to show him she respected that. “How about you quit apologizing for someone else’s behavior? And let me tell you about the competitive world of ballroom dancing. That word is cotton candy compared to some of the words I’ve been called. No one can ever top what Joanna Lucille Vega called me. She was dreadful.” Mel wrinkled her nose to show him how dreadful.
“What’d she call you?”
Mel snorted at the memory. “Ladies don’t repeat such things. Suffi ce it to say, it wasn’t nice and it was exceptionally unsportsmanlike.”
“Nate?” Drew’s voice came out of the darkness, making them both stop their swings.
“Did you call her a cab?”
Drew approached them, his mouth set in grim disapproval, his hands shoved deeply in the pockets of his jeans. “I did. She’ll be fi ne.”
Nate rose from the swing, his expression sad. The light from the 9780425245507_WaltzThisWay_TX_p1-344.indd 192
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backyard glimmered in his eyes, sharing his unshed tears. “She’s never going to be fi ne. You know it, and I know it.”
Nate’s adultlike acceptance of his mother’s alcoholism left a cold chill Mel couldn’t shake. Shouldn’t he at least be hopeful Sherry could overcome? But knowing Nate, he’d looked up the statistics of beating such an ugly disease, weighed reports, and factually calculated his mother’s fate based on her past behavior.
If Sherry was the kind of repeat offender she appeared to be, Nate’s sense of hopelessness was warranted. Being a genius gave Nate a logical mind, and surely he’d drawn logical conclusions. But logic didn’t always allow you to dream.
Drew sucked in a breath. When he let it go, he blew out a puff of air, cold with condensation. “I wish I could say that wasn’t true, son.”
She had to fi ght to keep her rising anger in check. If Drew didn’t at least leave Nate with some hope his mother could recover, then who would? “Hold on,” Mel intervened, unable to relinquish the idea that nothing was impossible. “Nothing’s impossible, right? People do it all the time.”
“Right. Ever watched Intervention?” Nate asked sarcastically.
“I’ve watched marathon after marathon,” Mel responded. “I’ve seen a lot of recovery in there along with the failures. Nothing’s impossible.”
Drew popped his lips together, shooting Nate a glance. “Son?
Why don’t you go inside and help Grandma with the clearing up. I’ll be in in just a sec.”
“You’re mad at Mel,” Nate assessed in his oh so logical way. “Don’t take it out on her, Dad. She’s just trying to be hopeful because she doesn’t know.”
“Inside,” Drew commanded with the hitch of his thumb.
Nate shot Mel a quick look of sympathy before skulking back in the house.
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Drew rounded on her the second he heard the back door shut.
“How about you don’t fi ll my kid with bullshit hope of any kind of recovery for his mother?”
Mel jumped up from the swing set, her feet cold and numb from the chilly night, knowing full well she was interfering where she didn’t belong but taking the road less traveled anyway. “How about you remember he’s twelve, and while it’s fi ne to teach him reality sucks, it can be tempered with some hope?”
“Because he’s my son and not yours, and while you teach him in the classroom, I think I have a pretty good handle on everything else.”
“Good comeback, but his emotional well- being’s just as important to me as it is to you. A healthy, well- adjusted, secure child always learns better.”
“Nate knows where his mother stands. There’s no point in candy-coating it.”
Mel was astonished and even a little disappointed. “God forbid you should instill the possibility for recovery exists. It’s called hope, Drew, and I don’t know if you were paying close attention to your son’s face in there while the woman who gave birth to him made a complete ass out of herself, but it hurts him. Does he have to be so dipped in reality he can’t believe things can change?”
Drew shoved a hand through his thick hair, the lines on his face weary. “I have a lot of trouble with hope where Sherry’s concerned.”
Gazing up at him, Mel pursed her lips. “Yeah, I get that. It’s pretty clear, but do you have to steal Nate’s hope, too? She’s his mother, for God’s sake. He has every right to wish she’d get better. She’s not my mother, and even I hope she gets better.”
He pulled her to him, smiling down at her. “I’m being a caveman again?”
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switch on and off to avoid the subject, Drew. I understand preparing Nate for the worst. I’d bet my left ovary he’s already done that himself by looking up all sorts of things related to alcoholism online because that’s just who he is. But you can’t fi nd optimism on Google, Drew. That’s an attitude, and something you should wholly participate in practicing. Sure, tell him things don’t look good, but don’t count her out just yet. You have no right to steal that from him until he gives it up himself.”
“And then he ends up hurt because he’s continually disappointed in her? This has been going on since Nate was six and Sherry and I divorced, Mel. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I only know what I saw, and Nate’s resigned to her never recovering because you are. She’s his mother, good, bad or otherwise. Was she always like this? Or were there good times?”
Drew’s smile grew fond— a smile that stabbed at her heart like tiny needles being thrust into it. “No. Not always. She was a good mother— at fi rst.” But that was all he had to offer, leaving Mel feeling left out.
“I don’t want to pry, and you don’t have to tell me what happened between you and Sherry, but I also don’t want to see Nate stuff his wish for his mother’s recovery away because you say it won’t happen.
You don’t know everything, Drew McPhee, and you sure as hell can’t predict the future. So with that thought in mind, I’m going to keep hoping Sherry realizes the terrifi c luck she has in a s
on like Nate, and wish for the best.”
His face grew soft again. “She called you a slut.”
“Is that an apology I hear in your tone for someone else’s bad behavior? Like I told Nate, that can’t touch some of the things I’ve been called. So forget it.”
His thumb caressed her chin. “She also hit you. I’m sorry.”
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Mel raised an eyebrow. “I’ve broken my coccyx— and yes, in case you didn’t know, that’s my ass. A little lump on my jaw won’t kill me.”
“You broke your ass?” His chuckle was deep, rumbling and echoing in the night, breaking the tension between them.
“Well, Neil broke it when he dropped me. And don’t let him tell you he didn’t drop me. He dropped me like I was hot. But I try not to hold grudges.”
Drew’s face went grim. “I should have known she’d show up.”
“I take it she does this often.” Mel didn’t ask it as a question, she had a horrible feeling this was just one episode in a string of them.
“On more occasions than I can count. How she can love booze more than our brilliantly funny kid always leaves me astounded.”
“Has she tried to get help?” How could you not at least try when you had a son as incredible as Nate?
Drew’s next words were snide and fi lled with residual anger. “Oh, she’s been to plenty of rehab courtesy of me and at the expense of my business. And she always leaves rehab the same way she went in—drunk.”
Mel let her hand rest on his arm, her eyes sympathetic. “I’m sorry for both you and Nate.”
“He’s such a great kid. I don’t know how she can’t want to be as great for him as he is to her.” There was a defeated sorrow in Drew’s voice— sorrow for a wrong he couldn’t right for his son.
Mel remained silent. If Drew wanted to share with her, she wanted something so painful to be done in his own time.
He braced a hand against the swing set. “I guess I owe you an explanation.”
“You don’t owe me a thing. The only thing you do owe me is fl an.”
“I know everything about your sordid past.”
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Mel rolled her eyes, tightening her sweater at her chest. “Like you’re breaking records there? Who in the free world doesn’t?”
“Tell you what. I’ll go get us some fl an, and you meet me up there.”
He pointed to the tree around the corner, a tremendous oak, shedding its leaves in a colorful array of bright patterns on the ground.
“In the tree?”
“You afraid to climb?”
“ Hah— go get the fl an. We’ll see who’s afraid of what.”
“I’ll check on Nate and meet you back here in fi ve.”
Mel rounded the corner of the house, and when her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw a ladder made of rope hanging down the side of the oak. Looking up, she grinned, feeling foolishly lighthearted. A tree house.
She grabbed a handful of the rope and began to climb, hoping it was sturdy enough to hold her. As she hit the top, she threw her leg over the limb that served as the entry to the structure and slid in.
The interior had her catching her breath. Even in the dark, she could see the outlines of two small benches built into the wall of the tree house, polished and shiny. The moonlight streaming in from the window with actual Plexiglas cast a golden hue on the interior that bounced off the walls, creating a world all its own on the planked wood walls. There was a round table made of knotty pine meant for a child in the middle of the small fl oor, positioned by the benches with a book on it.
Mel slid in and found she couldn’t totally stand up, so she inched over to the bench and grabbed a seat, marveling at the craftsmanship that had so apparently gone into this tree house. Her eyes caught the title of the book on the table— The Forensic Science of C. S. I.
“Nate’s,” Drew said, sliding a plate with fl an toward her with two forks. He dropped a Thermos on the fl oor of the tree house and pulled 9780425245507_WaltzThisWay_TX_p1-344.indd 197
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two disposable cups out of his jacket pocket before angling himself upward and into the interior.
“Is he okay?”
“He’s fi ne. He asked to go to my sister’s with his cousins for a sleepover.”
“This,” Mel said, spreading her arms out with a smile, “is amazing. It’s like a dollhouse.”
“Don’t let Nate hear you say that,” he warned. “We don’t need no one callin’ this a stinkin’ dollhouse. This is a man- cave, complete with manlike things, including a refrigerator that, if you run an electrical cord to the house, can be plugged in.”
“Who built this? It’s got the most unbelievable little details to it.
For instance, the coat rack— the knobs on it look like kitchen cabinet handles. And the fl oor is linoleum, isn’t it?”
Drew popped open a drawer just beneath his feet to pull out a candle just before sliding in beside her. He lit the candle, illuminating the small space, then threw an arm around the back of the bench.
It was small, making their seating a close one. His thigh pressed against hers was warm, leaving her skin tingling. “I built this when I was thirteen.”
“You made this?”
“Cavemen are good with their hands.”
“You designed it?”
“Your tone, it saddens me. Why so surprised?”
She shrugged, eyeing the creamy dollop of fl an on the plate.
“Because when you said handyman … I guess. Never mind. I don’t know what I thought, but this is incredible. When did you build it again?”
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have somewhere to hang out. That’s how I found out the only thing keeping him from being the postman’s kid is our love of accuracy when measuring. Otherwise, he’s not interested in building anything but maybe the next atomic bomb.”
Mel laughed, savoring the sugary goodness of the fl an. Taking the spoon from his hand, she dragged it through the dessert and fed him some in return. “He’s so brilliant it scares me. That has to be tough for a parent.”
Drew smacked his lips in appreciation. “You mean when the parent isn’t as smart as the kid?”
“Yeah,” she said on a teasing grin, licking the spoon, shivering at the intimacy of putting something in her mouth that had just been in Drew’s. “Where did that come from anyway? Is Myriam a secret member of Mensa?”
His chest expanded with a sigh. “Actually, Sherry’s the genius.”
Mel kept her face placid, though internally, she couldn’t help but be saddened by so much potential left to pickle in alcohol. “I see.”
“You can ask, you know.”
“And you can tell. But only when you’re ready.”
Drew settled in, leaning his head on his hand. “Sherry was an artist. She had a successful gallery in the city. Unlike Nate, it took her a long time to come to terms with her genius. She struggled in school.
You know, the typical stuff when you’re smarter than everyone else.
Instead of burying herself in a book, she acted out, did some really stupid
things: dabbled in drugs, pills, played a lot of hooky. She was part of the artsy crowd.”
There was a familiarity in Drew’s reference to Sherry’s high school days. “So you knew her in school?”
He nodded, dragging the spoon through the now forgotten fl an.
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a little, but we didn’t reconnect until well after we’d graduated. It took her a long time to get her act together, well into her early twenties, but when she did, she enrolled in college and she was on the fast track— a real superstar. We met again at our tenth high school reunion when we were twenty- eight. I had a fairly successful contracting business at the time. We got married within the year, had Nate, and then almost fi ve years later, everything went to shit.”
“Went to shit?”
“Yep, right after Sherry killed her brother.”
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C H A P T E R T H I R T E E N
Dear Divorce Journal,
So, this entry is a much more pleasant addition.
Tree houses. Yay!
Mel didn’t even try to hide her gasp of horror. “Killed him?”
Drew shook his head. “Technically, she didn’t kill him. But she thinks she did. Back then she was what they call a ‘functional alcoholic.’ Somebody who’s built up a tolerance and doesn’t exhibit the typical signs of inebriation. After Nate was born and as her gallery grew more successful, the pressure to stay on top got harder, but Sherry liked the fi ner things in life, and she was willing to do whatever it took to keep wearing Gucci and Prada. Growing up poor gives you a different perspective on things, I guess. Either way, the pressure was intense and she coped by drinking.”