Life in the Balance

by Jen Petro-Roy

  “Veronica.” Dad motions for me to sit down again. I don’t have the energy to fight.

  “Courage isn’t just saving kittens from bridges, you know.”

  I sigh, then sit back down. “I know.” I quote the words Mom and Dad have told me seven bajillion times over the years. “Courage means doing something even though you’re scared.”

  It’s what they told me when I stepped behind the plate during my first softball game.

  It’s what they told me when we went to the amusement park and I refused to go on any of the roller coasters, even the little one that my six-year-old cousin rode over and over.

  It’s what Dad is telling me now in his “official lecture” voice.

  “What about your mother?” Dad straightens up and puts his feet on the floor, like by invoking her name he’s finally remembered the house rules.

  “What about her?”

  “She’s brave.”

  I try to figure out how to word this so I don’t get in trouble. “But Mom has an addiction, Dad. You both told me that she’s struggling. How is that brave?”

  I imagine researching Mom’s past “issues,” or listing all the times she’s let me down. I don’t think it would all fit on this one sheet of paper.

  “It’s the very definition of brave.” Dad sounds like he’s trying to convince himself, though, like he’s reciting from a textbook.

  I roll my eyes.

  “Your mother is struggling, but she’s still working to get better. She’s doing something that’s extremely hard for her, and she—the Mom that you and I know is still in there—is fighting back against her addiction. Every day. Every minute.”

  But she wasn’t strong enough to do it on her own.

  But she had to ask for help.

  “I thought you were mad at Mom.” I cross my arms over my chest.

  “I’m not…” Dad trails off. “Okay, you’re right. I was mad at her. I am mad at her.”

  Then why aren’t you as upset as me?

  I don’t know how to ask that, though. Because I don’t want Dad to know how upset I am. I’m afraid that if I let my feelings out, there will be no way for them to get back inside me.

  They’ll grow bigger and bigger until they take over the world.

  “I’ve been angry at your mother for awhile, actually,” Dad admits.

  “You have?”

  “For more than a year now. Ever since … things got really bad. You probably heard us fight, huh?” Dad gives me a wry smile.

  “Yeah.” I wince as I remember the last big fight, which ended with two slammed doors and Mom storming out to her car.

  Dad reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “To be honest, I’m more relieved than angry now. Tired, too. I’m just glad she’s getting help.”

  Dad’s hand is warm. I don’t squeeze it back, but I don’t pull it away. I may still be angry at Mom and Dad, but it’s nice to have one of my parents close.

  “I’ve actually been going to see someone,” he adds. “To talk about how I feel. Which has been helping me feel differently.”

  “A therapist? Like Mom’s seeing?”

  “Kind of.” Dad nods. “It’s someone that Pine Knolls recommended. Mom didn’t get sick in a vacuum, after all.”

  I picture our heavy-duty vacuum cleaner. “What do you mean?”

  Dad gives me a gentle smile. “It means that Mom didn’t get sick all on her own. That she was the one who did certain actions, yes, but that we may have done things that weren’t helpful to her. That we’ll need to adjust our family dynamics in the future if we want to maximize her chance for healing.”

  “Maximize her chance for healing.” It sounds like something a therapist would say. “So you mean that I did cause this?” It feels like Dad dropped a heavy brick onto my chest.

  “No! I don’t mean that at all.” Dad pauses, his finger to his chin, then starts again. “Do you remember the three months before Grandpa died, when he stayed here for awhile? Do you remember how stressed we all got?”

  I nod. “I had to sleep on the couch.”

  “Exactly.” Dad nods. “And I was always super cranky.”

  “So are you blaming Grandpa for getting sick?”

  “Of course not! I’m not blaming your mom, either.” Dad pulls back to look at me. “I’m just trying to explain how specific actions and moods can affect others. For example, if your mom was already stressed from work, and then we got in a fight, those two things together could have made her want to drink.” He rubs his eyes. “Which is why when she gets out we both need to be careful to—”

  “To not get mad at her?” I cross then uncross my legs. My entire body feels jittery. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

  “We won’t be perfect.” Dad’s voice is still gentle, which makes me grit my teeth. “And Mom’s actions will never be our fault. But we do need to think about how our actions may affect her.” He twiddles his thumbs. “You could talk to someone, too, if you wanted. There are groups out there specifically for kids dealing with … your mom’s problem.”

  Dad can barely say the word.

  It’s not a “problem,” Dad. It’s alcoholism. Mom drinks too much. You may say that she’s brave, but do you really believe it if you can’t even speak the truth? If you can talk to a therapist about what happened, but not to me?

  His anger may be fading, but mine is still as vivid as ever.

  I shake my head as Dad continues talking about Mom’s strength and courage and blah blah blah. Because right now I don’t want a lecture on how awesome Mom is. I want to finish this assignment and go to bed. To start the day over tomorrow. To go to music class and get to sing. To go to softball practice and zone out. To be anyone but the girl with the alcoholic mother.

  “Maybe writing about Mom would be too personal,” I finally mutter.

  Dad drums his fingers on the table, his eyes softening. I’m already bracing myself for another therapy suggestion when he surprises me. “What about your Great-Grandma Rose?”

  “Great-Grandma Rose?” I search my memory, trying to remember who she is or what she looks like. “Have I seen a picture of her before?”

  “Maybe?” Dad holds up a finger. “Hold on a second.”

  He’s back in a few minutes, a scratched-up photo album in his hand, which he spreads out in front of me. I watch as he rifles through the pages, the pictures transforming from color to black-and-white as he nears the back of the album. “Here!” he exclaims, pointing to a faded photograph of a curly-haired woman in a white-and-red uniform, a baseball bat held over her right shoulder.

  “She was a softball player, too?” I exclaim.

  “Baseball, actually.” Dad points at the logo on her uniform, a tightly fitting jersey and a matching short skirt.

  I look closer. “All-American Girls Baseball League,” I read aloud. “She was one of those female players during World War Two? Like in that movie Mom loves so much?”

  “A League of Their Own,” Dad says with a smile. “It’s your mother’s favorite.”

  “I remember.” I smile, too, thinking about the night we curled up together on the couch, a bowl of popcorn in my lap, Mom practically bouncing out of her seat next to me.

  “I can’t wait for you to see this!” she exclaimed. “There’s girl power and amazing baseball and even songs!”

  Her eyes didn’t leave the television for the entire movie, and her clear voice rose as the members of the Rockford Peaches sang their team anthem.

  “The time has come for one and all … to play ball!”

  Sometimes, before practice, we sang the line to each other, then shared a knowing laugh.

  “Great-Grandma Rose was one of those players? Why didn’t anyone ever tell me?”

  Dad shrugs, a veil of sadness slowly descending onto his face. “Your mom only found out herself about six months ago, when Grandma Kathy was cleaning out her house and found all this memorabilia. I guess Great-Grandma Rose didn’t talk about it much. We were planning o
n mentioning it to you, but … things got in the way.”

  Mom’s drinking got in the way.

  I know what Dad meant to say.

  What he didn’t say.

  I block the thought out of my mind and point to another picture. “Wow! She played baseball while the men went to war.” I read on, already planning my essay in my head.

  Even though my great-grandmother wasn’t risking her life by fighting, I bet she was nervous on that ball field. I bet people made fun of her for doing what everyone thought of as a “boy sport.” I bet playing in front of hundreds of people and hearing about herself on the radio was scary.

  I bet trying out for an entirely new league was scary.

  Trying out for the All-Star team is scary enough.

  I start writing notes, pushing Dad’s lecture on Mom out of my mind. “Thanks, Dad,” I say.

  “You’re welcome, honey. Glad to help.” Dad ruffles my hair like I’m a little kid, then gives me a soft smile.

  I grin back up at him, then freeze. Am I still mad at him? Should I be? What about Mom? I wish there was a rulebook for this whole thing.

  Dad doesn’t seem to notice my hesitation, though. “We’ll figure out dinner in a bit. I have a phone call to make.”

  “To your therapist?” My eyes widen. “Oh! Is that where you’ve been? After school? And in the morning?”

  “After school, yes.” Dad nods. He doesn’t say anything else.

  “What about this morning?”

  “Work stuff. Which is what I have to do now, too.”

  I stare at Dad more closely. I recognize that tone in his voice—it’s the one he uses when he has a secret he doesn’t want to share. The one he uses at Christmastime when he goes on a secret shopping outing, then bustles into the house with an obviously hidden package under his coat.

  The one he used when he surprised Mom with a trip to Maine for their tenth anniversary, and Grandma Helen and Grandpa John showed up to stay with me for the weekend.

  The one they both used when they tried to hide Mom’s alcoholism this past year.

  I bet Dad expects me to go along with his lies again, to sit back and ignore his bad acting. Today, though, after everything that’s happened, I won’t let one more secret slide by.

  “Can you tell me the truth for once?” I demand, forcing my voice not to shake.

  Dad’s eyes widen, like I’ve grown three sizes into some big green monster, with sharp dripping fangs and everything.

  I guess I look scary enough, because Dad shrinks before me. He looks exhausted, like he’s just run a marathon. Maybe one of those ultramarathons my gym teacher does, where she runs one hundred miles at a time.

  “You’re right.” Dad rubs his eyes. “I’m not telling you the truth.”

  Seventeen

  Any other time, I might have done a victory dance or yelled out “Gotcha!” Today there’s nothing to celebrate, though. Because I know what’s coming won’t be good.

  Nothing has been good lately, so why should I expect anything different?

  “I’ve been looking for another job,” Dad says.

  My eyes widen. “Did you get fired?”

  Dad shakes his head. “No, nothing like that. I’m still working at my regular job and doing sales.”

  “Then why do you need another one?”

  Dad looks at the ceiling. He looks at the floor. He looks anywhere but at me. “Because we need more money, sweetheart. Because even with insurance, Mom’s treatment costs money. A lot of money. And after your mother comes home, I’m not sure that her work will be the best environment for her.”

  “Oh.” Now I look at the floor, too. When I was a kid, I used to try to make patterns out of the shapes on the tiles, the squares and rectangles fitting together to make all sorts of buildings and animals.

  Now I just see lines. Boring blocks. Nothing’s fitting together right now, either before my eyes or in my head.

  “So that’s why you had that meeting?” I ask.

  “Yup.” Dad nods. “And this phone call. I had a few interviews, and I think I’ve just about lined up a job at the hardware store in town.”

  “Big Bob’s Hardware?” I ask, picturing the small storefront between KJ’s Coffee and the dry cleaners.

  “That’s the one!” Dad forces an excited tone into his voice. “I’ll be working there a few mornings stocking the shelves and on the weekends at the register. It’ll be fun.”

  I think of Dad’s life now, of all the time he spends on the phone, the trips he makes across the state, and the conferences he goes to a few times a year. “Do you have … time for all that?” I ask. “When will you sleep?”

  Or be here?

  “I’ll manage.” Dad stifles a yawn. “I have to manage. But I have to go, too. Bob will be calling any minute.”

  “Okay,” I say slowly. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry you have to get another job, I mean. I wish I could help.”

  I do, too. I’m not that mad at Dad anymore. He was only keeping this secret so I wouldn’t worry. Just like I don’t want him to worry about me, either. That’s why I’ve been hiding how much I cry at night. And how nervous I am about tryouts.

  Then I have an idea. “Hey! Maybe I could get a job instead!”

  Dad shakes his head. “Oh, Veronica, thank you for the thought, but you’re too young for that.” He gives me a hug. “We’ll be okay. I promise.”

  “I want to help, though!” I exclaim. “I can help.”

  “You are helping.” Dad squeezes tighter, then pulls back to look at me. “Just by being you. There is one thing, though.” He takes a deep breath. “One thing that you may have to do to help us out. Maybe. I’m not sure yet.”

  Dad’s words come out fast, like he’s giving a speech he’s so nervous about that he memorized it and practiced it five billion times.

  “What is it?” I hold my breath. It feels like something’s creeping alongside me, just in the corner of my vision. I think I know what it is, but I can’t quite make it out. It’s still in shadow, like in some super-creepy horror movie.

  “We may not be able to afford the All-Star team, Veronica,” Dad says. “Between the cost of the new uniforms and all the other fees … well, it’s a lot of money.”

  Dad blabbers on, but I’ve stopped listening. My entire body is frozen.

  Mom and I planned for me to do the All-Star team. Softball is what we do together. That means it would totally mess up our dynamics if I stopped playing.

  I have to do softball for me, too. What would I do without it?

  You could sing, a little voice whispers in my head, but I quickly muffle it. Singing is just for fun. It isn’t who I am. Who this family is.

  “I have to do the All-Star team!” I plead. “I mean, I have to try out, at least.”

  Dad shakes his head sadly. “I know this has been your dream, Veronica, but it may not work out. Not this year.”

  “You said it’s because the team will cost money.” I feel like I’m hanging on to the side of a cliff by my fingertips, trying not to fall into the void below. “But isn’t that why you’re getting another job? Won’t that help?”

  Dad gives me a sad smile. “The job is to help pay for your mother’s treatment.” He says the word treatment like it’s fragile, like if he stops worrying about Mom for one second, she’ll break into pieces.

  But what about me? Shouldn’t I be handled with care, too? And softball is my way to help, to anchor Mom in what we—in what she—used to be.

  “How much money could Pine Knolls even cost?” I ask.

  Dad sighs. “More than you’d think.”

  I grit my teeth together. It’s such a “parent” answer. An “I don’t think you’re old enough to deal with this” answer. But shouldn’t Dad know by now that I can handle a lot? That Mom’s “problem” has made me learn to do that?

  “But … but … then softball can’t be that much money. And if I can’t get a real job, then maybe I can do something else to help with the t
eam costs. Like babysit? Or do odd jobs?” My mind flails about for solutions, even though the thought of changing diapers makes me grimace. I have to think of something.

  “It’s not just the money, sweetheart.” Dad rubs his eyes. “There are a lot of other factors involved in this.”

  “Then what are they?” I demand. Ms. Beatty always tells us that we need to know all the factors before we start working on a math problem. It’s only fair that Dad follow this rule, too.

  Dad’s voice hardens. “Veronica Elizabeth, watch your tone.”

  I run my fingertip along a grain of wood on the table. “Sorry.” We got this table when I turned ten, when Mom and Dad decided that I was past the age when they’d have to worry about me drawing on things with permanent marker. It’s big and shiny and has these cool table legs that curl up at the bottom. (And no, I haven’t ruined it yet.)

  I wonder if my parents realize the irony of Mom being the one to ruin everything.

  “It’s not just the cost of softball,” Dad continues. “It’s the travel, too.” I open my mouth to argue, but he holds up a hand. “Let me finish.”

  I nod but keep the grumptastic expression on my face.

  “I can’t drive you to all your practices and games if I’m juggling two jobs and helping to manage your mom’s appointments.”

  I do remember Dad telling me how Mom will have to go to support groups and therapist appointments basically every day once she’s released. “Can’t Mom handle all that herself? She is a grown-up.” I point to the big calendar on the side of the refrigerator, the one Mom says she’d fall apart without. It has all our birthdays and dentist appointments on it. Mom even schedules the times she’s going to food shop each week. “She can write her meetings there.”

  “She can. And she might.” Dad’s voice is gentle. “But I want to make sure your mother has as little stress as possible when she’s discharged. Her brain will still be shaky, and she may need encouragement to go to her support meetings. She may need a break from work—or even to change jobs.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “I have to be here for her, honey.”