by Anna Cruise
Sara covered my hand. “She's getting help. She's going to get help.”
My surprise was genuine. “What?”
“Tomorrow. A place in Ramona.”
“You mean she's leaving? What am I–?”
All I could think about was me. If she left, where was I going to go? My eyes widened as I thought about the frilly, God-awful white bedroom that waited for me at my Dad's. Not to mention the dark-haired witch who occupied the other bedroom there. I would not go there. Ever. I couldn't believe he'd even want me to, not after what I had done.
“Your dad wants you to stay with him,” Sara said, confirming my fears. She saw the look on my face and said, “Yes, even after last night. But that would mean switching schools mid-year...”
“I'm not.” I didn't care about school. I wasn't going to be stranded twenty miles away from my boyfriend. And I was not going to live with her.
She held up her hand. “I know, I know. Another option is to stay with me.”
I frowned at her. She lived fifteen miles in the opposite direction, a garden apartment in Hillcrest. Definitely not in my school district and not any closer to Aidan.
“Or I could move in here. While Sandy is gone.”
“You'd do that?”
It was Sara's turn to frown at me, as if she couldn't believe I'd asked that question. “You're like my little sister, Meg. You and your mom are the only family I have left.”
“So you'll stay? Here?” I swallowed. With my problem solved, I let my thoughts drift to my mom. “How long...how long will she be gone?”
“I don't know,” she admitted. She found another strand of hair to twirl. “Probably a month. Maybe longer. It's not going to be easy. For any of us.”
She stood up and opened the refrigerator. “Is there nothing to drink in this house?” she asked, scanning the empty shelves. “Or eat?”
I remembered what I'd seen the last time I'd opened that door. When I didn't say anything, she turned to me and I noticed her eyes were moist.
“Oh, Megan.” Her voice broke. “I had no idea. No idea it was this bad.”
She came back to the table and knelt down on the floor next to me. She gripped my shoulders with her hands. “It will get better, I promise. I'll make it better. We all will.”
She hugged me to her and I let her. I believed her.
SEVENTEEN
Sara made me call my dad that night. I didn't want to. Not because I'd changed my mind about apologizing but because I had wanted it to be on my terms. My decision. And I wasn't ready to swallow my irritation and my unresolved anger, to express remorse when I wasn't quite sure how much I actually felt.
But she handed me the phone after our love fest in the kitchen, her voice firm as she instructed me to call him now.
Immediately.
“Make sure you're sincere.”
The warm fuzzies from her whispered promises and hugs were gone. I was pissed and I wanted the phone call over with. And I certainly didn't want her hovering.
“Can I have some privacy? Please?” She'd insisted I call from the kitchen.
She stood. “Fine. I'm going to check on your mom.”
I listened for the creak of my mom's door before dialing. “Dad?”
“Megan.”
I took a deep breath. “I'm sorry. For everything.”
When he didn't respond, I continued. “For leaving. For breaking stuff. For,” I swallowed as I struggled with the next words. “For being mean to Cheri.”
His sigh was just as deep. “I'm sorry, too.”
He didn't give specifics and I wondered if he would apologize for telling me to leave, for not bothering to come and find me.
He didn't.
“I know this has been hard,” he said.
I couldn't think of a bigger understatement.
“None of this is Cheri's fault,” he continued. “Or yours. You know that, right?”
I knew the second part of his statement was true but I had my doubts about the first. “I know,” I said instead.
“Sara told you about tomorrow, right? Where your mom will be going?”
“Yeah, she mentioned it.”
“You're welcome to come here. Still. You'll always have a room here. Even after...” His voice trailed off and I knew he was remembering my outburst from the night before. Maybe he wouldn't be able to forgive and forget as quickly as he'd thought. Or hoped.
“I know. Aunt Sara said she'd stay with me here, though. You know, so I don't have to mess with switching schools and stuff.”
“Good.” I pretended I didn't hear the relief that flooded his voice. “I wouldn't want you to have to start at Torrey Pines this late in the year. And getting you to and from PB would have been...difficult.”
I knew what he meant. He couldn't be bothered.
“So,” I said. “We're good?” I couldn't wait to hang up the phone.
“For now.” He cleared his throat. “We'd like you to come back. Try again. Soon.”
“Sure, OK,” I said, hoping I sounded sincere.
I didn't believe a word of it. I was done. And I really wanted to make one more phone call before Sara came back out.
“Bye, Dad.”
Quickly, I punched in Aidan's number.
“What's going on?” he asked.
I filled him in.
“Mom's going to rehab. Aunt is moving in. Apologized to Dad.” He rattled it off like a list. “Right?”
“Yeah.”
“OK. So, you ready?”
“Ready?”
“Movie. We can probably make the 9:30 show.”
“Aidan, she's not going to let me out tonight.”
“Is that what she said?”
“No, but it's pretty much a given.”
There was a pause. “O-kay.” It was a long, dragged-out word that sounded anything but.
“I'm sorry.” I hated that I was apologizing to him. I wanted him to say he was sorry that all of this was happening, to offer some reassurance that everything was going to be OK.
But he didn't. All he said was, “I guess I'll call you tomorrow, then.”
I hung up angry. With my dad, my mom, my aunt, even my boyfriend. I wanted him to talk to me, to tell me everything was going to be alright. To tell me he loved me. He'd done none of those things.
I was mad at the world. Again. But this time, I didn't want to scream or cry or throw things. Those things wouldn't make me feel better, wouldn't help me calm down or forget.
But I knew what would. A drink. A smoke.
Tears of frustration pooled in my eyes. I knew I wasn't going to get either.
EIGHTEEN
I heard them moving around early the next morning. The sounds of shoes clicking down the hall, of a suitcase being dragged across the floor. Muffled voices from the kitchen, the sound of running water and, a few minutes later, the smell of brewing coffee. I hadn't smelled that particular aroma in my house in ages. Another smell, then, of bacon frying. I wouldn't eat it, of course, but that didn't stop my mouth from watering. Someone was actually cooking a meal in my house. Someone other than me.
I threw my covers off and made my way to the kitchen, Sara stood by the stove, picking up pieces of bacon and laying them on a plate lined with paper towels. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her brow furrowed as she concentrated on the breakfast she was preparing. Another pan brimmed with fluffy scrambled eggs. She must have gone grocery shopping last night, after I'd gone to bed.
“Good morning.” She smiled but her voice was tired. Her eyes were tired.
I sat down at the table and looked around. “Where's Mom?”
“Packing up some last minute things,” she said. “We're leaving right after breakfast. Do you need to take a shower before we go?”
I balked. “What? I'm not going. No way.”
Sara frowned at me. “Of course you're coming.”
“No, I can't go.” My voice was desperate. “I don't want to see where she'll be. I don't want to h
ave to say goodbye there.”
She turned back to the stove and moved the eggs around with the spatula. “Meg. You should do this. You need to do this.”
“I can't. I won't.”
“She doesn't have to come.” The voice was soft but firm.
My mother.
Her short hair was brushed and styled, her eyes rimmed with brown eyeliner, her lips coated a pretty pink. She looked normal, almost, and I suddenly thought that we were making a mistake. She was fine—she looked fine—and she didn't need to go away. She didn't need rehab.
She positioned herself next to me at the table and I smelled it then. She'd brushed her teeth and the scent of peppermint lingered but underneath was the sweet and subtle smell of rum. I swallowed and looked away from her.
“You don't have to come.” She directed her comment to me. “It...it'll probably be better that way.”
Sara set a plate down in front of her, a plate loaded with bacon and eggs and two pieces of browned and buttered toast cut into perfect triangles. My stomach growled.
She gave me a plate, too. “Are you sure, Sandy?” she asked.
My mom nodded. “I'm sure.”
Sara joined us and we ate our eggs in silence. I gulped mine down and was contemplating licking the plate when my aunt noticed.
She stood up. “You were hungry,” she commented. “There's a little left in the pan.”
“Thanks.”
“You sure you don't want some bacon?” Her hand was poised above the paper towel loaded with crisped pieces but I shook my head.
She handed the plate back to me and I continued eating. My mom pushed her food around with her fork but the only thing she brought to her lips was the steaming mug of coffee Sara had poured for her.
Later, after the pans were scrubbed and the dishes put away, it was time to say goodbye. I stood in the hallway near the front door, my arms folded against my chest as Sara hurried through the house.
“You have your insurance card?” she called down the hallway.
My mom's response floated back. “I'm getting it.”
She reappeared, her black purse clutched in one hand, a thick, dog-eared paperback in the other, some James Patterson novel. Her eyes were red, her eyeliner smudged.
“OK.” She smiled, her voice bright. She was trying too hard and I was embarrassed. “I guess I'm ready, then.”
She stopped in front of me. “You be good for your aunt. Don't give her any trouble.”
She acted as if she were going on a trip, jet-setting off to some fabulous vacation. I pretended right along with her.
“Will do.”
She gave me a quick hug and the smell settled over me, of wine this time. My mother had needed to get drunk to face rehab. Somehow, this did not surprise me and I wondered if Sara knew. I watched her when she came back into the house. She'd loaded the suitcase in the trunk of the Volvo and had returned to say goodbye to me and to see my mother out. Her ponytail had loosened and small brown tendrils framed her face, clinging to her forehead and cheeks. I thought again of how tired she looked.
“You've planned something to do here at home today, right?”
I looked at her. “What?”
“Home. You're staying home,” Sara told me. “You're not going anywhere.” It wasn't a question or a statement. It was an order.
Like hell I wasn't. I was calling Aidan the minute they pulled away. “OK.”
Her eyes lasered into me. “I mean it, Megan. Stay home.”
“I will, I will.” The lie didn't bother me at all.
I watched them leave, my mom walking slowly and steadily toward Sara's waiting car. I imagined her vacation—a trip to an exotic, far-away island, or maybe a cruise, or a jaunt to New York City for shopping and the theater. I visualized these locales, painting the figure of my mother into each of them, letting those images lull me into believing that this was what she was doing. Vacationing. Not rehabilitating.
As soon as they left, I raced to my room and grabbed my phone. Aidan didn't answer. I glanced at the clock. It was after ten; I knew he'd be awake.
I tried again.
“Yeah?”
“Hey, it's me.” The line was filled with static. “Where are you?”
“Bird Rock. I'm just heading out.”
Surfing. “Oh.” I thought for a minute. “You gonna be out long? My aunt wants me to stay home today but she's gone now. With my mom.”
“What, are you grounded or something?”
“I don't know. I think so,” I admitted.
“Well, that blows. I want to see you.”
“I know. Me, too.”
I could hear him sigh. “Look, I just got suited up. How about I call you when I'm done? Or you want me to just come by?”
I thought for a minute. “You'd probably better call. Just in case.” Maybe I could call Sara later, see where she was and gauge how much time I might have with him before she returned.
“Alright. Love you.” He hung up.
I sat down on my bed and sulked. I had nothing to do and the last thing I wanted was to stay home. Alone.
I stared at the ceiling for a moment before deciding to take a shower. I pulled clean clothes out of my drawer and turned the water on. The steam filled the bathroom, fogging the mirror as I stripped out of the shorts and ratty t-shirt I'd worn as pajamas the night before. I slid open the frosted glass door and stepped into the heated stream of water. I tried to relax, to allow it to wash away the tension and the worry about my mom, and the anger and resentment I was feeling toward my aunt. It worked. Sort of.
I dressed and pulled my hair back in a ponytail. It was almost eleven and Aidan hadn't called back. I paced through the house, ignoring the backpack looped over the chair next to my desk, filled with homework that needed to be done. I avoided my mother's room and the lower shelves of her bookcase, as well, shelves filled with bottles that promised an easy escape. I wanted to leave, to go somewhere, to flee from the memories that haunted this place, that reminded me that I was alone, that my dad no longer lived here and, right now, that my mom didn't, either.
Most of all, though, I wanted to leave before I succumbed to temptation. I didn't want to drink alone. I didn't want to be like my mother.
Leaving for an hour or so would be alright, I told myself. Just a walk to the beach, a dose of fresh air and sun to clear my mind, boost my spirits. Better than staying home and drinking myself into oblivion. I grabbed my phone and shoved it into my pocket before shutting the door behind me.
NINTEEN
I walked the six short blocks to the beach and turned left, heading toward downtown PB. Past the motels and the rental stands hawking bikes and boogie boards, past the small hamburger shack that already had a line of hungry beach-goers waiting to buy lunch. I didn't have a destination in mind. I just kept walking, past Crystal Pier and its rows of tiny white rental cottages, and further still past Grand. It was busier down here, the boardwalk packed with surfers and bums, tourists and locals.
I stopped by the lifeguard tower and leaned against the wall that separated the boardwalk from the sand, gazing out at the beach dotted with blankets and towels and sand castles in various stages of completion. The water was filled with people, too, with toddlers racing recklessly toward the waves and cautious parents hovering nearby, of girls my age braving the water, turning sideways and leaping up as the waves approached. The water was glassy today, the wind nonexistent and there wasn't a single surfer in the water. I wondered if Aidan was having better luck in La Jolla.
“Hey.”
I recognized that voice. I turned around.
A smile spread across my face. “Case.” I was happy to see him.
He leaned against the wall next to me and returned my smile. He wore jeans and a plain white tee and I realized I'd never seen him in shorts.
“What are you up to?” he asked.
I wasn't going to tell him everything that had happened at my house. “Just out for a walk. You?”
&nbs
p; “At a friend's house. Dropping something off.” He cocked his head. “You by yourself?”
I nodded.
“Going somewhere?”
“No.” I didn't know what I was doing. “Just hanging out, I guess.”
He hesitated for just a minute. “Are you hungry? I'm gonna grab something to eat before I go home.”
I didn't have my purse with me and he added, “My treat.”
“No,” I said. But I wanted to. I really did.
He voiced my thoughts. “Really. I want to.” He pushed off the wall and started walking. “Come on.”
I stood there for only a second before making my decision. I fell into step next to him. We walked further south, nearly pressed against the boardwalk wall as we navigated the crowds. Everyone was with someone else, chatting, holding hands, skateboarding together. Even the bums hung out in small groups, huddled around their overflowing shopping carts. I was glad I was with Case and no longer walking alone.
“In the mood for Mexican food?” He stopped in front of a tiny cantina. Palm fronds decorated the roof and enormous chili lights hung suspended from the plexiglass sea wall that separated its outdoor dining space from the boardwalk.
“Sure.”
We sat down in white plastic chairs at a table outside and a dark-haired waitress appeared. She handed us menus.
Case didn't waste any time. “So, did you talk to your dad?”
I nodded.
“Well? How did it go?”
The waitress returned with two glasses of water and I thought about what I should say. It was a long, complicated story and I wasn't sure I wanted to tell him. Especially the part about getting in trouble and being forced to call. I'd wanted to do it of my own accord; I just hadn't been given the opportunity.
I told him, as succinctly as possible, about my day. How I'd left first thing in the morning with Aidan, how I hadn't returned until evening and how my aunt had been there, waiting. Angry. How I'd wanted to call, had meant to do it before being ordered to. He listened, his eyes focused on my face. His features were smooth and soft. There wasn't a hint of judgment in his eyes and I was grateful.
