“Can you give Milo breakfast?”
“Sure.” Giving Milo his breakfast entailed either toasting a slice of Ezekiel bread or pouring him a bowl of high-fiber Kashi. Lizzie could handle it. Gary probably could, too, if it had ever occurred to him to feed his son, although, from what Lizzie had seen, Gary had enough trouble just getting himself dressed and out the door each morning.
Once her sister was striding along the sidewalk, her hair loose and bouncing over her shoulders as she walked, Lizzie went to the living room and began picking up the mess Gary left behind each night—the pair of beer bottles and crumpled Kleenexes on the side table, his shoes and his inside-out socks in front of the couch, an empty cereal bowl with the spoon milk-glued to the bottom that sat like a sculpture on the coffee table. She carried the shoes to the closet, dropped the socks in the laundry basket, and put the dishes in the dishwasher. She plumped the pillows, then sat on the couch, waiting for Milo to wake up so that her workday could begin.
Finally, at seven-thirty, Milo followed his father down the stairs, hair uncombed, dressed in what had become his summer uniform: a pair of khaki shorts, a dark-blue short-sleeved T-shirt, boat-sized sneakers (Milo was of average height but his feet were enormous), and one of his dozens of hats—this morning, it was a tweed plaid newsboy’s cap, tugged down low. “Good morning!” Lizzie said, as Milo rubbed at his eyes. Gary grunted a hello, picked up his work bag, and walked out the door. Lizzie served Milo toast on one of the salad plates Diana insisted on (a smaller plate made portions look larger, she said), and poured him a bowl of Kashi. “What should we do today?”
“Can we go see Jeff?” he asked, sounding surprisingly eager to leave the house.
She told him that they could, and, when he was done with breakfast and had consented to comb his hair, they walked together to Independence Hall. Jeff was speaking to a group of tourists, crisp and handsome in his khaki uniform and wide-brimmed hat. “Hey, guy!” he greeted Milo, who greeted him with a shy “hello” and a smile. They lined up for the Liberty Bell, Lizzie snapping pictures, not of the bell itself but of the tourists’ faces, some avid and some bored, as they came close enough to see it. Then they joined Jeff’s tour as he led them into Independence Hall, telling the story of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, explaining to the tourists that this—this building, this room where they were standing—was the place where the United States of America had become a free land.
They went to Whole Foods for Jeff’s lunch break, sharing a Diana-approved meal of organic hummus, carrots, and whole-wheat pita. For dessert, Milo asked for, and received, a gluten-free carob brownie. Jeff took a bite and then spat it out into his recycled-paper napkin. “You like this?” he asked, wiping his lips over and over, as if to eradicate the taste, and Milo, giggling, had shrugged and said, “It’s okay.”
“Dude, I’ve got to buy you an ice cream,” Jeff said. Milo had looked at him and said, “I’m only allowed to have ice cream at birthday parties.”
Jeff had taken Lizzie’s hand under the table and squeezed so hard she knew he was trying to keep from laughing.
“Is he for real?” he asked, murmuring into her ear while Milo diligently sorted their trash into the six different bins the store provided.
“Yup,” she whispered, and Jeff had said, “I think we should go out for cheeseburgers and malteds tomorrow night. Just thinking about that poor kid is making me hungry,” and Lizzie said that cheeseburgers sounded very nice.
She and Milo were back home by five o’clock. Gary arrived half an hour later to take his son to the Phillies game, which Lizzie knew for a fact Milo did not want to attend. “Do I have to go?” he whined as she smeared his face with the PABA-free sunscreen Diana had left out and made sure his aluminum water bottle was full. “You’ll have a good time,” Lizzie said. Milo looked dubious, so Lizzie had lowered her voice and whispered, “I bet your dad will buy you a hot dog.” Milo brightened at the prospect of processed meat and a bun made with white flour, and trotted down the stairs, where his father was whacking his fist into the cup of his baseball glove. “C’mon, champ,” he said. Milo, his head filled with hot dog visions, waved at Lizzie, then followed his father out the door.
Lizzie ate leftover pad thai for dinner, then went to a meeting in the church on Walnut Street, where, as usual, she sat quietly in a folding chair in the back of the room.
Once the Serenity Prayer had been read, instead of lingering for cookies and coffee and the small talk people made after the meeting, Lizzie decided to use the guest pass her sister had given her to try out a spinning class at Diana’s boutique gym on Sansom Street. They’d been big on exercise in rehab, about how it released endorphins, the same chemical reactions in the brain that using did, and that it really was possible to jog or hike or spin oneself into an approximation of a high. She thought of her sister’s happy, flushed face that morning. Exercise worked for Diana, so maybe it could help her, too.
Sixty minutes later, drenched in sweat, with her thighs and calves quivering and aching between her legs, she’d staggered out of the darkened spinning room, down the flight of concrete stairs, and the eight blocks home, promising herself that she’d buy padded shorts or a gel seat before attempting spinning again.
Gary was, as ever, in the living room, the remote in his hand and his laptop in his lap. “Milo’s sleeping,” he said, without taking his eyes from the screen. Upstairs, Lizzie took a long, cool shower, then, wincing, pulled on a pair of cotton boxers and a tank top, and settled into her bed. She talked to Jeff, who’d had class that night. “Sleep tight, sweetheart,” he’d said. Lizzie, beaming, had said, “You, too.” Sweetheart. She could get used to that.
A minute later, her telephone rang again.
“Hi, Mom,” Lizzie said.
“Hi there, Lizzie,” said Sylvie, miles away in Connecticut. She said the thing she said every night. “I just wanted to see how you were doing today.”
“I’m doing fine.” Maybe they’d gotten a bad connection, but unless she was mistaken, her mother’s voice sounded a little slurry. Was Sylvie drinking, up there in that big old beach house?
“How’s Milo?” Sylvie asked.
“Milo’s good. He’s getting out more.” She told her mother about their trip to Independence Hall, and how Milo had gone to a ball game with his dad, and painted pottery with her, and how she’d convinced him, a few times, to swap his ski cap for a Phillies hat.
“And you went to your meeting?”
“Yep.” She turned onto her side, wincing at the pain between her legs, cursing the bicycle seat and thinking that all her mother’s interest in Lizzie’s meetings and Lizzie’s job was a classic case of too little, too late. Sylvie also sounded as if she was reading from a script. How to Handle Your Addicted Child. You should think about having a real conversation with your mom, her Minnesota counselor had said, with her eyes soft behind her glasses. Well, maybe someday she would. But definitely not now.
“Take care of yourself, Lizzie,” her mother said, and Lizzie, as always, promised that she would.
She turned out the lights and closed her eyes, wishing her mother had called before Jeff had, so that Jeff’s voice saying sweetheart in her ear would be the last thing she’d heard. Two hours later she was still awake, unable to find a comfortable position. If she’d known that class would leave her in such agony, she never would have given it a try. She slipped out of bed and down to the second-floor bathroom, where she stared for a long moment at a bottle of Advil PM. Don’t take anything, they’d counseled her in Minnesota. Even an aspirin can start you down the road again. But everything below her waist was in agony. And did Advil even count as an actual drug?
What the hell, she decided, and shook two pills into her hand, considered for a moment, added a third, and swallowed them with a mouthful of water from the sink. Then she walked through the silent house to her bedroom tucked under the roof and lay down, eyes closed, until sleep finally arrived.
She woke u
p the next morning to the sound of her alarm clock blaring. Diana was shaking her, with two of her fingers pressed against Lizzie’s neck, searching for a pulse.
“Whah?” Her tongue felt heavy and furry, her head as heavy as a bowling ball.
“What did you take?” asked Diana, giving her another shake.
“I didn’t …” Lizzie sat up, blinking. Gary was standing at the doorway in his pajama bottoms, getting an eyeful of Lizzie in her tank top, which was sheer, in spots, from sweat. “I went to a spinning class last night, and I was really sore, so I took some of your Advil …”
“Oh, sure,” Diana said. “Oh, right. Advil. Absolutely. For your information,” she said, her voice dripping scorn, “Advil does not cause you to pass out and sleep through your alarm …”
“Advil PM!” Lizzie shouted. “It was in the bathroom downstairs!”
Diana ignored her. Her lips were set in a grim line, and her hair was still wet. She snatched Lizzie’s embroidered, sequined purse off the bookshelf and dumped it out onto the bed.
“What are you doing?” There was a pack of cigarettes in the purse. Sometimes Lizzie would have one at the end of the day, curled in the narrow space in front of the dormer window, blowing smoke out into the night. Diana snatched the cigarettes and tossed them at Lizzie’s chest.
“I told you no smoking! Milo’s allergic! And you’re asthmatic!”
“I never smoked around him,” Lizzie said, scrambling to re-stuff her purse. “I’m not doing drugs …”
“Hey,” said Gary. “Hey, ladies. Let’s all just calm down, okay?”
“Calm down?” Diana shouted. Her hands were balled into fists. “Calm down? She’s been watching our son high! Probably driving our car high!”
“I was not,” Lizzie protested, clutching her purse. She was beginning to realize that her protests weren’t doing any good, even though, for once, she had truth on her side.
“I think you’d better leave,” said Diana, turning away from her.
“What about Milo?” Lizzie managed.
“Milo can do computer camp.”
“I don’t want to do computer camp!” yelled Milo, who was standing behind his father, listening to the whole thing. He launched himself onto Lizzie’s bed, and threw himself against her. “I don’t want you to go!” he said, and started to cry. “You and Jeff said you’d take me for ice cream!”
Diana crossed the room in two quick strides and yanked Milo off Lizzie as if she were pinching a tick off a dog. “You can stay in day care at the hospital today,” she said to Milo, who started crying. “Start packing,” she said to Lizzie. She turned, with Milo still in her arms, and stalked out of the room.
“Fine!” Lizzie muttered, and added a “bitch” under her breath. She sat on the bed, still holding her purse, stunned and shaking. She couldn’t believe how quickly things had happened, how fast everything had changed.
Diana clomped down the stairs. “And I’m telling Mom and Dad!”
“Fine!” Lizzie shouted. “Tell them I took your Advil. I’m sure that’s exactly what they need, something else to deal with!”
Diana didn’t answer. Lizzie pulled on last night’s skirt with trembling hands and, after two failed attempts, got her bra hooked. Her hands were sweating, her heart pounding in her ears. She braced her hands on either side of her dresser and looked at her face in the mirror, trying to make herself be still. No more Milo. No more Jeff. What would she tell him? My sister thought I took drugs and kicked me out? And where would she go?
Don’t do anything hasty, a voice in her head—her counselor’s voice, she thought—told her. But her mind had gone directly to the liquor in the cabinet next to Diana’s sink. Back in June, when she’d arrived, Diana had asked if she should get rid of the booze, and Lizzie had said, Oh no, no problem. The world was full of beer and Baileys, and she might as well learn to deal with it. But now she thought of exactly what might be in that cabinet. She thought about the bottle of vodka in the freezer. She thought that maybe Gary had painkillers, somewhere, God knew he was always bitching about his back and his tendinitis. She could wait, pack up her things, biding her time in the bedroom until Diana left with Milo and Gary went to work. She could find pills, she’d always been able to find pills, the world was as full of pills as it was of liquor, and if she couldn’t find them she could buy them somewhere. There was a bar around the corner, and where there was a bar there were drunks, and where there were drunks there was, more often than not, someone who had pills to sell or pills to trade. She could comb her hair, put her shoes on, figure out how much cash she had in her wallet. She could …
It was at that moment, staring at herself in the mirror, that a voice in her head spoke up, and what the voice said was, Halt. Lizzie knew, instantly, that the voice wasn’t referring to the mnemonic of Hungry, Angry, Lonely, or Tired … that what the voice meant was, simply, Stop.
She looked in the mirror, cheeks red, blue-gray eyes wide and shocked, blond hair sticking up like a bad wig around her head. You can do this, the voice said calmly. It was a female voice, possibly even her own voice, although it sounded a little like her mother and a little like Grandma Selma, a little like that counselor in Minnesota, and even, she had to admit, a little bit like Diana, when Diana wasn’t yelling or accusing her of driving Milo while high. Maybe it was God, she thought; God as she understood Him, her Higher Power. Maybe God actually spoke to twenty-four-year-old junkies in recovery who’d been tied to chairs with fishnet stockings and shipped off to rehab in Minnesota, and consoled them when they lost their jobs.
So she’d go home early, she thought, pulling her suitcase and duffel bags out from underneath the bed where she’d stashed them back in June. She would tell Jeff what had happened, or at least an edited version of the events. She would say goodbye to Milo as best she could. Then she’d take a train up to New York City. She still had the keys to her parents’ apartment. Maybe, for once, instead of showing up needing help, instead of being the hurricane that tore through the family, Lizzie the permanent disaster, maybe she could help.
In New York City, she punched the button for the elevator in her parents’ building, unconsciously closing her eyes and holding her breath, as always, as it ascended past the eighth floor, where that boy had messed with her. She’d expected to find the apartment empty, had planned on a little private nap in her old bedroom, but she was surprised to find her father in the small, cluttered kitchen, a low-ceilinged room that was always dark and that her mother had always complained about. Barefoot, unshaven, in sweatpants and a stained white undershirt, he smelled stale, but he brightened when he saw her.
“Hey, Lizzie-Bee,” he said.
He’s falling apart, she thought, glancing over his shoulder at the pizza boxes and takeout containers on the kitchen table, the stacks of newspapers cluttering the living room beyond it. “How you doing?” he asked, still holding her.
“Fine,” she said, trying not to be too obvious about wiggling out of his grasp. He did not smell good at all. She wondered whether he was depressed, and tried to remember the symptoms as they’d been taught in Minnesota. Change of appetite, change in sleeping habits, lack of interest in things you once enjoyed.
“Diana good?” her father asked. She followed him into his office in time to see him sit down on top of his laptop, which was sitting on the couch, next to a blanket and a pillow.
“Dad …”
“Shit.” He got to his feet, shaking his head. He flipped the laptop open and shook it gingerly, as if it were a Magic 8 Ball. “You think it’s broken?”
Lizzie looked over his shoulder at the darkened screen. She pressed the power button, and the screen flared to life.
“Thank God,” her father exclaimed, then looked at her, shamefaced. “I broke one of these guys already.” As Lizzie stared, her father gave an unhappy chuckle. “I guess I’m not doing so well on my own.”
“Well, listen,” she said casually—if Diana had, in fact, ratted her out, she’d fi
nd out in a few seconds. “I’ve got a little time before my job starts. Maybe I could, you know, help out.”
He looked at her, eager as a puppy dog who’s just heard the rattle of a leash. “That would be great, Lizzie. I’ve got some ADL dinner to go to tomorrow night, and I’m …” He swept his arm out, indicating the cluttered living room. “I’ve got documents I’m supposed to read, I’ve got a schedule, somewhere, but I don’t know where it went, and I know I’m supposed to sit down with the corn lobbyist sometime this week, but I’m not sure when. I think I forgot Grandma Cindy’s birthday …” He stopped talking and looked at his feet, seeming startled to realize that they were bare. “Thing is, Lizzie, your mom took care of a lot of this stuff. And Marta’s off for August.”
She nodded, feeling relief as sweet as the rush of a drug hitting her bloodstream. She could be useful again. She could help. “Let me clean up in here,” she said. “Maybe you can go take a shower, and then we’ll figure out what to do next.”
He nodded—not the single firm up-and-down that she was used to, but a little boy’s rapid head-bob. Again she glimpsed that eagerness, a gratitude that struck her as more than a little pathetic, which was never a word she could have even imagined applying to her father. He’d always been the strong one, decisive, in command, in his suit and cologne, looking and smelling the part of the head of the house and a leader of men. And now … she watched him shuffle down the hall, his bald spot gleaming, picking at the drooping seat of his sweatpants, and felt an enveloping sadness as she saw, for the first time in her life, her father looking old.
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