Life in the Balance

by Jen Petro-Roy

  “Yeah.” I can’t bring myself to look up. “I might not be able to play on the All-Star Team.”

  “Why are you at tryouts, then?” Claudia asks. “And you’re just telling me this now? What’s going on with your mom? Is she sick?” She sounds worried, which makes me feel even worse. Of course Claudia cares about my mom. Of course she’s not judging me.

  “I messed up,” I say miserably. “I’m sorry.”

  Libby’s head whips back and forth between us. “Uh, maybe I should go?”

  “No!” I snap, then immediately shoot Libby an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Claudia blinks a bunch of times, like she’s trying to hold back tears. “Why didn’t you tell me about the talent show, either, Veronica? Do you not trust me?”

  “I do!” I pause, realizing that I’m doing exactly what Mom used to do, when she told us that everything was fine and when it totally wasn’t. When her lying ruined so much about our family.

  “No.” Claudia fixes me with a laser beam stare. “You don’t.”

  Then she runs to meet the rest of the players, leaving me in the dirt without a chance to explain.

  Without the words to explain, either.

  Twenty-Nine

  When I get home from tryouts, there’s a letter on the table with my name on it.

  Veronica Conway.

  The return address says it’s from Pine Knolls and the handwriting is one hundred percent, abso-total-lutely Mom’s.

  All of these clues add up in my mind, but the pieces click together slowly, like a snail is solving the puzzle. I picture a snail in one of those detective hats, with the wide brim all around, holding a mini magnifying glass and notebook. Usually, the thought of something like that would make me smile, but not today.

  Today I’m too sad, and all I can do is stare at the envelope I’m about to open.

  I should open it, right? That’s why I wrote Mom a letter in the first place. To hear how she’s doing. I won’t be able to know that unless I open the envelope.

  My fingers slowly make their way toward the flap. It’s sealed with tape, which makes me smile the teensiest bit. Mom always says that envelope glue is her least favorite taste in the whole world, worse than even liver and onions or that gross prune juice she gives me when I have … uh … stomach issues. If she can’t find a sponge, she always tapes the back of the envelope, then pops a sticker on top, usually from a huge sheet of multicolored hearts she keeps in the junk drawer.

  There’s no sticker on this envelope, but there is tape. Which makes me think that the real Mom is still out there somewhere, quirks and all. That if part of her is on the outside of this envelope, then part of her must be on the inside, too.

  That there could be good news in there.

  “What if there isn’t, though?” I whisper to myself.

  I remember one time a few years ago when I overheard Dad mention something called “Schrödinger’s cat” to Mom. At first, I’d thought he and Mom had finally conceded to my years-long battle for a kitten. It turns out that Dad was talking about some concept in a book he was reading.

  Apparently some philosopher came up with this idea that if there’s a box, you have no idea if there’s a cat in it or not. And until you open up that box, both options are possible. So it’s basically like there both is and isn’t a cat … at the same time!

  It didn’t make much sense to me then. I’d just whined at my parents that if there was always a cat in the box, it’d have way more fun living with us.

  Now, though, I get it. Today, I have my very own Schrödinger’s letter. If I open it up, I might get bad news about Mom. But if I leave it closed, the good news will never disappear. It will always be there.

  Buzz!

  I look down at my phone as it vibrates with a text from Dad, relieved to take a momentary break from this potentially life-changing decision.

  At the hardware store until eight. There’s money beside the stove for dinner.

  Yay. More pizza. I grimace, then check the time. It’s six o’clock, but I’m not hungry. Apparently losing your best friend can mess with your appetite. I look around the kitchen, trying to figure out how to distract myself so I don’t think about the words floating around inside that envelope. I’m not in a TV mood and I finished my last library book last night. I don’t even have any homework this weekend! I could practice, but even hearing music makes me think of Claudia.

  I wonder if she’s thinking about me.

  I try to read a book, but I can’t concentrate, even though it’s super good. I turn on the TV, but Netflix isn’t connecting.

  “Of course!” I throw up my hands and flop back against the couch, then head into the kitchen for a snack. I can’t deal with pizza again, but I need something to quiet my rumbling stomach. I grab an apple and some peanut butter, then sit at the kitchen table, the sealed envelope in front of me.

  I think about when I was a kid and I used to pick daisies in the backyard. He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me, he loves me not. I’d pick petals off and imagine that if I ended on “he loves me,” I’d grow up to marry Flynn Rider from Tangled.

  I de-petal an imaginary daisy in my mind. Open the letter, leave it sealed. Open the letter, leave it sealed …

  I hold it up and rotate it before my eyes, trying to see if the envelope is see-through. Maybe if I can see a word or two, I’ll be able to tell if it’s good news. The envelope is thick, though. Nothing shows through.

  I take an apple slice and dip it in peanut butter, then chew really slowly. I’ll open it when I finish this slice.

  No, the next slice.

  When the whole apple is gone, I stare at the letter, my heart pounding out of my chest. The closest thing I have to Mom is inside. It makes me angry—I should have the real Mom here. But it also makes me grateful. At least Mom can write to me. At least she’s healthy.

  I hope.

  I think.

  I guess it’s time to find out.

  * * *

  Dear Veronica,

  I miss you, too. I miss you more than words can say. I’m going to try, though, because right now, words are all I have. The written word is hard. There’s so much pressure for me to craft the perfect message here. On the phone I could just start talking. I’d plan beforehand, of course, but there’d be no way for me to go back over my words again, to edit and delete and rewrite them until they’re perfect. In person, I could just hug you, and hope that my touch is able to communicate all the love and regret in my heart.

  Here, I have to stare at my words as I write them. I have to know that once your eyes are on this letter, I can’t explain exactly what I mean or clarify some small detail. You can’t hear my tone. The letters, the words, the sentences … they’re all here, unchanging.

  I need to realize that I can’t change the past, though. Once I write this letter, it’s done. I can’t alter it, just like I can’t alter the things that I did to hurt our family. To hurt you.

  I’m so sorry that I wasn’t the mother you needed me to be. I’ve been learning in here that I need to make amends for the things I did wrong, but that I also can’t excuse them away. I messed up. I hurt you. And I am so, so sorry.

  I know that you’ll never understand how I valued drinking so much. I still don’t understand it myself. I don’t understand how a bottle … a glass … a few sips of liquid pulled me away from the love that you and your father gave me every day.

  I could say that there’s something in my brain that made me vulnerable to this addiction. I could say that that same brain told me to drink and that it was hard to disobey that voice in my head.

  I could say that. It would be the truth, too.

  It would also be an excuse. I don’t want to lean on excuses anymore. I want to move forward and make changes.

  I’ll always be an alcoholic, Veronica. I may battle this disease forever. But I promise you with all of me—with every heartbeat of love I have for you—that I will f
ight this disease forever. I will not take another sip of alcohol because each sip takes me away from you.

  Being your mother is the great privilege, honor, and gift of my life. I treasure it more with every day, especially since I almost lost it. I pray that I haven’t lost it and that you haven’t given up on me.

  I love you so much, honey, and I’m so proud of you. Whether or not you make the softball team. Whether you play softball or choose something else entirely to love.

  Family Day is next weekend and I would love if you and your Dad would come. I’ve sent him a letter, too.

  My love always,

  Mom

  Thirty

  “So you signed us up?” Libby throws me the softball and I easily catch it. We’re on the school fields after school, even though there’s no practice today. Rec league is over for the year—Libby’s team beat ours in the final game of the season—and we have to wait a few more days until we even find out if we’ve made the All-Star team.

  Usually, I’d be hanging out with Claudia. We’d paint our nails in her room or have Netflix marathons. We’d ride our bikes to the store in the center and get ice cream cones, then take the long way home to avoid doing our homework.

  Claudia’s ignoring me, though. I don’t know if that means we’re in a fight or she’s not my friend anymore. We never sat down and decided what’s going on. She just stormed off the field after tryouts and hasn’t talked to me since. Tabitha and Lauren are so confused that they’re avoiding us entirely.

  So I’m with Libby instead. Which isn’t a bad thing. I just feel weird, like there’s a part of me missing.

  “Yep.” I toss the ball back at Libby. “I just made the deadline, too.”

  “Whew!” Libby mimes wiping a bead of sweat off her forehead. “You mean we almost didn’t have to get on stage and totally and completely embarrass ourselves?”

  “Libby.” I motion for her to hang on to the ball, then move across the field toward her. “Are you sure you’re okay doing this? I can do it alone. I just … well, I thought it’d be fun to do together.”

  Especially now that I don’t have any other friends left.

  “Nah, I’m just nervous.” Libby tosses the softball between her hands. “I’ll be okay. As long as I don’t eat anything before the show.” She puffs out her cheeks like she’s going to barf.

  “Eww!” I giggle. “And good. Because they didn’t have any more spots for solo acts, so I need a partner!” I take my glove off my sweaty hand and wipe it on my pants. “I really think we can win that prize.”

  “Then we can hang out even more this summer!” Libby smiles. “As long as we both make the team. Which we will. Totally.”

  I raise my eyebrows at her. “You’ll make it for sure. You did amazing.” I think back on the tryouts and all the mistakes I made. “You didn’t drop three fly balls and almost strike out.”

  There’s been a pit in my stomach ever since tryouts, and not just because of Claudia. I can’t stop thinking about how much better all the other girls did than me. About how much tougher All-Star games will be. What if I make the same mistakes then? What if the pressure gets to me? My chest tightens just thinking about it.

  “You did awesome!” Libby says. “Seriously.”

  “I’m super nervous,” I admit.

  “You’ll be fine.” Libby’s voice is light. “You love softball. Just focus on having fun.”

  Was it fun, though? Is it fun? I don’t know anymore.

  I hold out my arm. “Look at how much my hand is shaking. Every time I think about the team, my body turns into Jell-O.”

  Libby giggles. “What flavor?”

  “Anything but lime.” I smile. “Because lime…”

  Libby doesn’t say anything, though. She tilts her head to the side quizzically as I finish the sentence in my head.

  Because lime tastes like slime.

  It’s from the time in third grade when Claudia and I did a science project ranking the flavors of freeze pops. It was a super-technical process involving lots of freeze-pop eating. Lots and lots. Blue raspberry and strawberry tied for first, but no matter which brand we tried, lime always lost.

  It’s always been one of my favorite memories, and usually makes my insides feel happy.

  Today it makes my stomach churn.

  Libby may be my new friend. She may understand what it’s like to have an alcoholic mom, too. But she’s not Claudia.

  I miss Claudia. I may not have directly lied to her, but I didn’t tell her the whole truth. Any of the truth, actually.

  I think about how even though I know Dad got a letter from Mom about Family Day, he still hasn’t mentioned it to me yet. He’s doing that “Dad thing” where he keeps hinting around something without actually mentioning it.

  Like talking about how nice it was to hear from Mom and “boy, wouldn’t it be nice to see her in person?”

  Like mentioning how Mom misses me and how pretty Pine Knolls is.

  Like leaving out all these articles about how important therapy is and how my generation is “way savvier” about mental health than his. (“The Savvy Schoolkids”—that was the actual name of one of the articles. Insert eye roll here.)

  I know he’s trying to get me to bring up Family Day so he can claim that it’s my idea. He did the same thing when my distant cousin Erin got married last year in some small town in Florida in the middle of August and he kept talking about how pretty Florida was in the summer.

  Which, duh, Dad, that’s prime hurricane season, but of course he didn’t think of that. Instead, he wanted me to ask to go to Florida, which would make him feel less guilty about dragging our whole family on a road trip to Boringtown, USA, where we might be in mortal weather danger.

  I didn’t take the bait, and luckily Mom backed me up. We sent a card and an ugly vase instead.

  But the whole Florida drama took almost five whole days to figure out, all because Dad didn’t want to have a hard conversation.

  He’s doing the same thing now, and I am not here for it. If he wants me to go to Family Day, the least he can do is tell me that he wants me to go to Family Day. Even Mom was direct with me, if only in letter form.

  That’s why I’ve been ignoring the hints and the strategically placed articles. Why I’m waiting for Dad to actually talk to me like a normal adult. Maybe Mom got so bad because Dad couldn’t confront her earlier. Maybe if he’d spoken up, she’d still be here right now.

  I don’t know if that’s the answer to Mom’s alcoholism, any more than me making the All-Star team. The more time that passes, the more I’m starting to think that there may not be one answer at all.

  But I deserve more than silence. Now more than ever.

  Claudia deserves more than that, too.

  Thirty-One

  “I made it.” I blink, like my action will somehow make the words on the page disappear. That Coach Ortiz used some sort of magic ink to torture the girls who didn’t make the team.

  But no. There’s my name up there:

  Veronica Conway.

  Libby’s name is right below mine. Claudia and Tabitha made the team, too.

  “No!” Next to me, Lauren’s eyes widen in shock. She turns to me. “I … didn’t make it.” Her voice is wooden, like she left all her emotions and energy on the field.

  I reach out to give her a hug, but she pulls away. “I … need to go.” Her sobs trail behind her as she runs down the hallway, and I move to follow her, but Tabitha puts her hand on my arm. “It’s okay,” she says, her face a mix of excitement and sadness. “I got her.”

  I watch Tabitha trail Lauren, then look at the list again. I feel the same way, only for a different reason. Of course I’m excited I made the team. I’ve been waiting for this list to go up for days. Years, even, if you count the first All-Star game I went to when I was eight, when I stood on the third-base line, my fingers curled around the chain-link fence, my eyes wide open.

  Of course I’m excited, I repeat to myself.

>   Then why do I keep checking the list, wishing that my name wasn’t up there?

  “We did it!” Libby bounds up next to me and gives me a hug, and I push the traitorous thoughts away. That’s what they are, after all. I’m a softball player, which means I play softball. Coach Ortiz herself decided I was good enough.

  “We did!” I force some energy into my voice and hug her back. “It’ll be so much fun!”

  “Totally.” Libby leans closer to whisper in my ear. “This means that after the talent show this weekend, everything will be fine. Back to normal.”

  I pull away at the word normal and stare at the list again. Normal would be my mom being home. Normal would be my mom never going away in the first place. But in a way, Libby’s right—playing softball is as normal as things can get right now. I force another smile and turn back to her. “Absolutely.”

  “Sharing secrets again?” Claudia’s voice comes from behind us, and I whirl around to face her.

  “No! Really. I promise.” My words come out so fast that they sound insincere and rehearsed, and I take a deep breath. “We weren’t sharing any secrets, Claudia.”

  She’s not looking at me, though, and I follow her eyes to the list. “Congratulations,” I say softly. “You did awesome at tryouts.”

  “You too,” Claudia finally says. She sounds like a kid forced to be polite, but I’ll take what I can get.

  “Claudia, I—”

  She shakes her head and cuts me off. “Veronica, don’t. I … I don’t know why you didn’t tell me the truth about what’s going on. I don’t even know exactly what’s going on, but I do know that you don’t trust me. And that hurts. A lot.”

  Tears prick at my eyes and I nod furiously. “I know. I really do. And I get why you’re mad. I just … can we talk? So I can explain?”

  Claudia moves to let a few other kids look at the list. Her face hasn’t changed expression at all. I feel like I’m back at our kitchen table, when my parents explained Mom’s alcoholism. Except now the places have changed—now I’m the one listing all the ways I’ve messed up.