Amy laughed yet again and left.
15
Hosting a support group session wasn’t too difficult. As long as you had chairs, coffee, and pastries, things seemed to run smoothly. And typically, not many chairs, coffee, and pastries were needed. Attendance was spotty at support group sessions in one’s home. Certainly nothing like group therapy at one of the clinics where it was usually a packed house.
But then that was therapy. A therapist was present and running the show.
This was support group. No therapy offered, none asked. Just a social gathering run by whomever the host might be, where attendees were free to open up about any and all things. No sign-up sheet, no last names. Just a smile, a welcome, and a please help yourself and have a seat.
• • •
All traces of his daughters’ sleepover gone, a semicircle of folding chairs now center stage in his den, and refreshments spread out on a table in back, Allan checked his cell. 6:50. Ten minutes until showtime. He wondered whether that was enough time to sneak a quick drink. Booze was forbidden in support group. The reason was fairly simple. Booze made it easier to talk. Easier to open up and share. The goal of support group was to open up and share without any substance crutch. A somewhat amusing prospect to Allan when odds were better than good that every single attendee was on some type of medication to deal with their grief.
Still, it wasn’t booze. Unlike the myriad antidepressants that attendees were likely on, they were just that—antidepressants. Booze was a depressant. A sinister little devil who promised the goods at a price. Working faster and more efficiently than anything from the pharmacy, it caught you smack in the ass with its pitchfork before too long, reminding you that you knew the deal coming in, buddy.
Allan had managed to steer very clear from the bottle immediately following Samantha’s death, focusing all of his attention on his girls and the support they needed. But “slippery slope” was a saying for a reason. Soon, a small nighttime scotch became a large nighttime scotch became two or three or four large nighttime scotches.
The end came one day when he was supposed to drop off Jamie’s science fair project at noon. The night before, the number of large nighttime scotches had hit a record high, and he’d been horrifically hungover all morning. Promising himself a short nap around ten, he then proceeded to sleep straight through his alarm and didn’t arrive at Jamie’s school until almost two, begging the teacher to forgive his tardiness, imagining what a hungover fright he must seem—once discovering he’d overslept, he’d bolted from the house without so much as a brush through the hair or across the teeth—and then having to shuffle on over to his daughter’s desk where she sat crying as he apologized repeatedly, only to have her look up at him with eyes that seemed to scold Allan with the very real truth that Mommy would have never let this happen.
For a solid year following that, Allan never even entertained a glass of wine with dinner. Yet as time went on, and after managing a decent enough footing within the new dynamics of his home, he was able to drink again, becoming the poster boy for moderation.
And right now, ready to entertain who knows how many people in his home, he’d love nothing more than a quick nip from the bottle to give him the proper layer of chill he’d need to get through the night. Maybe during their first break, he might be able to persuade Amy Whoever (no last names in group) to sneak into the kitchen with him for a quick belt just as they’d done the last time he hosted. He hoped so.
Amy Whoever was good people. She reminded him a lot of his Samantha. The confident way she carried herself that never once crossed the line into arrogance. A natural beauty right at home in either a five-star restaurant or a company softball game and, better still, eagerly taking part in both. Allan was not ready to date. He didn’t know whether he’d ever be. But if the time did ever come, at the top of his list would definitely be Amy. Their secret sip of whiskey shared at the last session he hosted had cemented that truth—a woman who drank whiskey weakened his knees faster than a punch on the jaw.
Allan hurried to his cupboard, reached for the bottle of whiskey, and the doorbell rang.
“Balls,” he said, and put the whiskey back.
Maybe it’s Amy, he hoped, thinking the two of them might hurry right on back to the kitchen and pick up where he’d left off.
Allan opened his front door. It was not Amy.
• • •
It was not one but two people. A man and woman. Both young, pale, and thin. Dark circles under their eyes. The man had thinning blond hair; the girl’s locks were long and straight and black with what appeared to be a thinning patch on the side of her head. Putting it politely, neither looked well. And to many, that fact might have been cause for alarm. But not to Allan; he saw it as the result of grief. Lord knows, he must have appeared no better soon after losing Samantha.
Allan smiled and stepped aside to allow them entry into his home. “Hey there,” he said. “I’m Allan; please come in.”
The young man and woman stepped inside and immediately began scanning their surroundings.
“Nice house,” the woman said.
“Thank you. Any trouble finding it?”
“No.”
Allan smiled. “Well, you’re certainly not required to give me your real names, but it usually makes it easier if you give some—”
“Jennifer,” the woman said.
Allan extended his hand. Jennifer shook it. “Nice to meet you, Jennifer.” He turned to the man. “And you are?”
The man was still seemingly entranced by the house, eyes going all over. Jennifer nudged him. The trance broke.
“Huh?” the man said.
“This is Tim,” Jennifer said for him.
Allan extended his hand. Tim took it. “Nice to meet you, Tim.”
Tim nodded and mumbled: “Nice to meet you.”
The newly grieving, Allan guessed. The girl seemed sharper, more assertive. The guy, somewhat stoned. Again, no cause for alarm. He probably was. Klonopin or Xanax, most likely, Allan thought. Once again, booze was a no-no, but everything else was fair game, as long as it was prescribed by a doctor, that is. Although truth be told, Allan had smelled the skunky smell of pot on several attendees on more than one occasion in meetings past.
“This your first meeting?” Allan asked.
“Yeah,” Jennifer said. Then, bluntly: “Our mom died.”
Allan hid his surprise at her bluntness. Once again, though, he did not question nor judge it. It could simply be another prime example of the unpredictable behavior that loss caused in some people.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Allan said.
Both Jennifer and Tim muttered a thank you.
Allan flashed a warm, practiced smile and gestured towards the den. “Well, why don’t you come on in and have a seat? The others should be here any minute.”
“How many?” Jennifer asked.
“I’m sorry?” Allan asked.
“How many others will there be?”
Allan stuck out his lower lip and gave a little shrug. “I really don’t know—it varies.” He chuckled and added: “It could just end up being the three of us.”
Tim, still appearing a little stoned, turned to Jennifer with a confused frown. “What?”
Now it was Allan who frowned. First-timers usually preferred a small crowd. The way Tim was looking at his sister now, it almost seemed as though he was counting on more.
Jennifer looked at her brother sharply, as though annoyed by his ignorance. “He was just making a joke. Of course there’s going to be more people coming.”
Allan’s gut did a funny swirl. The kind of swirl he felt when someone was eying him up in a bad part of town. The newly grieving. First-timers at group. Loaded up with benzodiazepines and antidepressants. All solid reasons for odd behavior. But these two…as much as Allan’s mind justified their odd behavior with those solid reasons, his gut apparently wasn’t having it. His gut felt something was off.
The door
bell rang, quieting Allan’s gut before he could indulge it further.
“Ah—there you go,” he said to them with a smile. “More people.” He gestured into the den again. “Why don’t you guys go on in and make yourselves comfortable.” He then gestured toward the table of coffee and pastries. “And please help yourselves—all the coffee and sugar you can handle.”
Tim and Jennifer went into the den.
Allan answered the door.
“Amy, welcome,” he said.
16
“Any trouble finding it?” Allan asked Amy as she entered the foyer.
“No—I’ve been here before, remember?” Amy said. She then mimed a quick sip from a bottle followed by a finger to shushed lips.
“Oh, right! I forgot all about that.”
Seriously, man? Lame. So lame.
“Am I the first one here?” Amy asked.
“No—we have two first-timers in the den.”
“Darn. Was hoping we could”—she mimed the secret drink gesture again—“before anyone arrived.”
“Looks like we might just have to be ninjas in the kitchen again after first break,” Allan said.
Amy raised her fist. “I’m in.”
Fist bump. Sam used to do that.
Allan tapped his fist against Amy’s. “See you then.”
• • •
“Amy, this is Jennifer and Tim,” Allan said when the four of them were in the den.
“Hello,” Amy said pleasantly.
Tim, sipping a cup of coffee, slowly lowered the cup from his mouth and just stared.
Jennifer offered a thin smile. No hello.
Well, nice to meet you too, Amy thought. She shot Allan a quick, uncertain glance.
Allan flashed a big codependent grin for all. “Tim here was worried it was going to be a small turnout,” Allan said to Amy.
“Oh yeah?” Amy said. “Most first-timers prefer a small turnout.”
“How do you know we’re first-timers?” Jennifer said.
Amy frowned a little. “Uh…because Allan told me in the foyer.”
“What’s your last name?” Tim blurted to Amy.
“Last names aren’t required in group,” Allan said.
“We’ll tell you ours,” Tim said.
Amy shot Allan another quick glance, then replied: “That’s okay—I don’t need to know.”
“Why do you keep looking at him?” Jennifer asked Amy, gesturing to Allan. “I see it, you know. Is something wrong?”
Yeah, you’re fucking weird. “No—everything’s fine on my end. How about you?”
“Our mom died,” Jennifer said.
“Oh yeah? My husband died,” Amy replied flatly.
Allan flashed his codependent grin for all again. “Uh, Amy, can you help me with something in the kitchen for a sec? Jennifer and Tim, please help yourselves to more coffee and food.”
• • •
“What is the deal with those two?” Amy whispered once she and Allan were alone in the kitchen.
“So it’s not just me?” Allan whispered back. “They seem kinda strange?”
“Well, I would expect them to be a little strange—lost their mother; first-timers—but they’re rude. New surroundings and loss shouldn’t justify that.”
“Yeah, they seemed a little off to me. Like not sad or shy off, but, I don’t know…off, off.”
And then like so many memories that arrived unwelcomed, and with an even more unwelcomed clarity, Amy was suddenly back in Crescent Lake with Patrick, sitting at the kitchen table, heavily shaken after her first “chance” encounter in a supermarket with what would turn out to be one half of the infamous Fannelli brothers, James Fannelli:
“He was so creepy, Patrick. I mean, I’ve met some strange men before, but this guy…there was something different about him. Something…wrong.”
“Amy?”
Amy was still in Crescent Lake. She had not ignored her gut back then about James Fannelli; Patrick had ignored it for her. She’d told him she wanted to pack up and leave following the supermarket incident. Especially considering earlier events at a family diner when Carrie, then just six, had traded her beloved doll to a stranger for a single piece of candy. That stranger would end up being the other half of the infamous Fannelli brothers, Arthur Fannelli.
Patrick had refused to leave. Refused to let two unrelated incidents with two unrelated assholes (they’d not yet known that supermarket jerk and family diner weirdo were related and in the beginning stages of one of their sick and twisted games) ruin his family’s vacation.
Bullheaded male ego on Patrick’s part? Perhaps. But the truth Amy had come to back then was the same as it was now: She hadn’t truly wanted to leave Crescent Lake; she’d just wanted Patrick to convince her all would be well, that he would look after his family with all the vigilance of a lion who led his pride. It was the dynamics of their relationship. Amy worried, and Patrick soothed her, even at the expense of his own misgivings. In hindsight, in all of hindsight’s cruel truths, they were the stereotypical family who refused to leave the haunted house even after the ghosts all but appeared and warned them to get the hell out.
But they hadn’t. And chaos had ensued. And her husband was dead because of it.
“Amy?” Allan tried again.
Are there ghosts here now, Amy? Are they telling you to leave?
“Amy?”
Amy snapped to. Allan immediately asked whether she was okay.
She dropped her head and nodded. “Yeah. Just bad memories, I guess.”
The doorbell rang.
“I need to go get that,” Allan said. He then gestured to the kitchen cabinet. “You can start your ninja training without me, if you want.” He winked and smiled—not a secret naughty wink and smile as they’d shared before, but more a sympathetic one that was the equivalent of a hug.
Amy returned an equally compassionate smile that silently thanked him, not for the offer of the booze, but for the offer of understanding.
“Thanks,” she said. “But something tells me it wouldn’t taste as good if I started it alone.”
Allan raised his fist.
Amy smiled again, and they fist-bumped.
Allan left to answer the door.
17
The first thing Allan noticed as he started crossing through the den and into the foyer to answer the front door was that there was no sign of Tim and Jennifer. When he’d left them to go into the kitchen with Amy, they were standing by the coffee and pastries, huddling and keeping to themselves in their odd little way.
Allan paused in the den. “Tim? Jennifer?”
He got no reply.
“Hello?” he tried again.
Brother and sister finally appeared, strolling casually from the dining room and through the foyer to meet Allan in the den.
“Is something wrong?” Jennifer asked.
“I was just about to ask you the same. Where were you guys?”
“Bathroom,” Jennifer said.
“I never told you where it was. I’m assuming you found it okay?”
They both nodded.
Only Allan hadn’t heard a flush. Sure, the downstairs bathroom was through the dining room and in the neighboring mudroom by the garage, but the flush of their downstairs toilet was a damn powerful one that could be heard throughout the house. It had caused many a giggle during the sleepover last night, potty humor apparently still a thing amongst nine-year-old girls.
And so what do you ask next, Allan? If they actually used the toilet? And if so, did they remember to flush? Come on.
There was an awkward moment of pause. The three of them standing in the den, considering one another.
“Is something wrong?” Jennifer asked.
Again and again with the same stupid question. Yes, he wanted to say. Yes, something is wrong. I can’t put my finger on it, but something is definitely wrong with you two, and it’s neither grief nor loss. You’re making me uncomfortable in my home, and I’d like you
to leave.
The doorbell rang again.
“Are you going to get that?” Jennifer asked. And wasn’t there the slightest hint of a smirk creasing the corner of her mouth just now? Short and fleeting, but there. He saw it.
For the second time that night, the doorbell had interrupted Allan’s gut. He would not allow a third. Once he welcomed his new guests, he would politely ask Jennifer and Tim to leave.
18
Allan opened the front door and was pleased to see Jon and Karen Rogers waiting. Having lost their daughter, Ella, to leukemia roughly around the same time Allan had lost Samantha, the three had formed a decent friendship, or as decent a friendship that could be formed under such circumstances. There were dinners and other social gatherings outside of support group and therapy at the clinic, but nothing heavy. The three of them enjoyed one another’s company and saw chances for social outings as a sort of unspoken therapy, unspoken being the primary word considering they never discussed Samantha or Ella during their outings. It was their time to enjoy good company while leaving loss at home where it would always be waiting, undeterred by lack of invitation.
“Hey, you two,” Allan said with a warm smile. No big codependent grin necessary this time; he was genuinely happy to see his friends. Better yet, happy to have allies—Jon and Karen would likely understand his asking Jennifer and Tim to leave. He knew Amy would.
“Everything all right?” Jon asked the moment he and his wife stepped into the foyer.
Allan was momentarily stunned. How could they know the dilemma he was facing with Tim and Jennifer already?
“Huh?” was all Allan could manage.
“It took you awhile to answer the door,” Karen said.
Oh, right. Duh.
“Oh, no, no—everything’s fine, it’s fine. Come on in.”
• • •
Allan led Jon and Karen into the den…where Amy stood alone.
Bad Games- The Complete Series Page 81
