Jase takes the top off the bottle he pulled from the fridge and slides it over the counter to me. "We're a classic cocktail bar. We're going for that really old-school feel, doing things the right way. You know, none of those shooters with gross sexual names."
He laughs, and I giggle along with him, even though all I'm thinking is what the hell is he talking about? I'll have to Google that when I get home.
"So Lia." He twists the top off another beer and tilts it in an angle toward me, leaning over the bar, his arms folded over the counter.
"To new beginnings."
I grab my beer and chink it against his, the cool bottle not nearly cold enough to make me feel less flustered. "To new beginnings."
Then we both tip back our bottles and drink to what could either be the best or the worst thing I've ever decided to do in my life.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ever since I can remember, Mum has been a fidgeter. She's always needed to have something to do with her hands, to keep them busy.
Since she started drinking, it's gotten worse.
Way, way worse.
Her fingers dance circles around each other, her joints creaking as she pulls them, and even though every time the little click sounds it reminds me of something breaking, I don’t try and force her to stop. Because she’s here. She’s finally at the doctor’s office.
"Do you want to just go?" she whispers to me, and I raise my eyebrows at her. "Okay, okay! Just asking." Her hands fly up in defiance, and I give her a small smile. At least she's here. That’s a step in the right direction.
She picks up a dated magazine off the coffee table, then flicks through it, pausing on a page with a picture of a handbag. It's yellow, a bright sunny colour that screams out I am handbag hear me roar.
"That's nice, isn't it?" She points, and I nod. "I'd love to one day have a handbag like that ..."
"Maybe you could try getting a job again—" I stop when her eyes widen.
"You know I try, Lee Lee. Don't give me that speech."
To an extent, it's true. Or, at least it was in the beginning. I haven't seen much evidence of trying since Smith came along. Then again, I haven't seen much of her in general, so perhaps that's why.
Back then, though? She used to make a point of applying for at least three jobs every week, circling them in the local paper and leaving it out so I could see, almost as proof. See, I'm trying to be a good mother. I don't want us to have to live like this. I’m sorry … for everything.
But each time, nothing would come of it. Occasionally, she'd have an interview, but they never worked out, and in a town the size of ours, it didn't take long before the phone calls for more questions started drying up too.
I lick my lips and try a new line of conversation, something to make this silence between us less laden with tension. But there’s only one thing on my mind.
“Duke and I broke up,” I choke out, blinking back the tears that threaten to fall whenever I think of him and Kat.
“Honey.” Mum squeezes my knee. “I’m so sorry.”
I look into her eyes. They really do seem to bleed sympathy.
It’s strange to see that emotion there.
"Marie Stanton?"
Both our heads snap up in unison as Dr McDonald calls her name. He turns and strides down the hall, and you can hear the words time is money in his footsteps, and I'm under no illusion in thinking that it's not when it comes to him.
I scramble to my feet, and Mum gives one last lingering look at that handbag before closing the magazine and placing it back on the pile, then strolling down the hall where Dr McDonald disappeared.
I close the door behind me and Mum sits in the seat closest to the window, leaving me the hard plastic one next to her. Dr McDonald takes his glasses off, twiddles them between his thumb and forefinger, and asks, "What can I do for you, today?"
Silence.
"Mum?" I prompt gently.
"Oh! Sorry." She smiles, and places her trembling hands under her thighs. "I ... I'm here because ... I'm having some trouble with ... drinking."
Time stops. The world halts on its axis and does a freaking backflip because oh my God, did my mother just say she has a drinking problem?
"Mum." I wrap an arm around her shoulder and squeeze her small body closer to me. She smells like lemon and stale wine, but I'm so proud of her in that moment that I don't care, because this is leaps and bounds from where she once was.
"My daughter ... I need to be better for Lia." This time, her words hold more confidence than before.
"Congratulations," Dr McDonald says. "It's not an easy thing to admit." He pauses and looks at some notes on the computer. "I have here, though, that you have perhaps tried to quit, or at least come in to talk about it before." He licks his thin lips. "What do you think let you down last time?"
"I don't know." Mum shrugs and giggles, a nervous little laugh. "Maybe I didn't want to ... enough."
"And now you do?" Dr McDonald prompts.
"Yes." She nods decidedly. "This time is different."
"There are lots of tools available to help you during this difficult time, but one of the things we recommend most is that you attend regular AA meetings. Having someone, some people to check in with, to chat about your struggles and your achievements with—that's a real benefit." Dr McDonald puts his glasses back on and tappity-tap-taps some notes into his computer. "How often at the moment would you say you're drinking?"
"Oh ... too much, probably," she hedges.
"How much?" Dr McDonald pushes those glasses back up his nose.
"Maybe four glasses everyday?"
"Mu-um." I sigh.
"Let's just put four for now, as a regular amount, not a binge."
"She does those too," I say, and I feel like the world's biggest bitch, but I'm worried that if I don't do this now, I might lose my mother. I need her to be strong for when I go to Melbourne. I can't leave the shell of the woman shaking next to me now.
"Mrs Stanton, is that correct?" It's Dr McDonald's turn to glare at me, and I look at my feet with what I hope is good grace.
"Sometimes. Occasionally." She nods.
Dr McDonald does a few more of the routine tappity-taps, then hits print and the big grey machine whirs to life, spitting out four sheets of paper, the first of which he takes and signs. "This is for some blood tests, just to check on your general health and see if perhaps your drinking has resulted in any adverse conditions," he says, handing Mum a green, white and grey sheet of paper. "The other sheets are information on eliminating alcohol from your routine, and the third has numbers for different alcohol support groups in the area."
"Do they cost anything?" I ask, mentally running through our budget.
"No. At the end, though, often a bowl is passed around to cover the costs of renting the space." Dr McDonald folds the papers and hands them over to Mum, who takes them and starts flicking through, her eyes alive with interest.
"Miss Stanton, can I ask you to step outside for a moment?" the doctor asks me.
I blanch, frowning. "I—"
"I have some private questions and assessments to discuss with your mother."
I shuffle out of the room, heading back for the waiting area. When I get to the door, I turn and look at my mother, begging her with my eyes. Please, tell him.
Because there's a secret between my mum and I that just isn't mine to tell.
"I'll see you outside." She smiles, and my heart breaks a little. Because I know from that line that our secret will stay safe.
Hidden under my shirt.
***
After the doctor's appointment, Mum doesn't drink. Not that whole afternoon, or even that night, and I can't think of a time when she's been so sober for so many hours in a row. It's not that she's blind drunk all the time—she's just not often completely without it. And every other time she's tried to quit, she's caved once the sun has gone down and what she calls the lonely hours kick in.
The lonely hours are the tim
es in the afternoon, the times when she would have previously welcomed Dad home. They'd have hugged by the front door, then spent time chatting in the kitchen while she prepared dinner. Then we'd all hang out and eat, maybe watch some TV before I went to bed, and then they'd have their alone time once more. Once a week, he’d even bring her flowers—violets, usually, and she’d place them in a vase on the coffee table.
Now, she's lonely. The vase still sits on the table, occasionally with some weeds and a rank green liquid floating around inside it. And those afternoon hours are a painful reminder of time she could have been spending with him.
"Pass the salt, please." She reaches across the dining table, and I grab the shaker and pass it over. "Thanks."
Forks and knives screech against porcelain, a horrific booming soundtrack to our quiet-as-a-mouse dinner.
"It's really good." She puts a mouthful of what I'm now calling Lia's Pasta Bake in her mouth, and I breathe out and smile.
I put down my cutlery, and stare at her. "Thanks, Mum."
"I'm just telling it like it is—"
"I mean for the doctor's today. Seriously, I'm so proud of you." It feels weird to be saying that to your mother, but it's hard for me not to feel kind of maternal around her now.
"I should have ..." She shakes her head, and places her fork on the table, too. "It shouldn't have taken my daughter to get me there. Lia, I'm so sorry."
She stands and walks over to me, then wraps me up in her arms. She rubs her hand over my back, and even though I didn't feel like crying, suddenly I'm this great big cheese-ball of emotion, and tears well in my eyes because this is my mum and I think she's turning a corner. That maybe this could be the start of a new Marie Stanton, one who can function on her own. One who will be more than fine when I leave.
A tear wets my forehead, and I look up and break our hug to wipe the tears from her eyes, before giving mine a brushing over too. "Do you think you'll be different now?"
She shrugs. "I'm going to try, darling."
And I guess that when it comes down to it, I can't ask for much more than that.
***
Screaming.
Loud, haunting and solitary, echoing through our house.
I bolt upright in bed, and the LED clock reads three in the morning. My breath hitches in my throat and I throw back the covers, then fly down the hall to Mum's room. The door is shut, and I wrestle with it, the lock clicked into place.
"Mum!" I yell, hammering on the door with my fist. "Mum, Mum! Open up!"
But the screaming just continues, and nothing I do seems to get me in there, to the place I really want to be. I take two steps back and slam my shoulder into the door, but it doesn't budge, and I don't know why I expected it to because I'm not Arnold Schwarzenegger and this is not a movie. This is my life. And I can't rely on muscle-man moves to save me.
"Mum!" I yell again, and the screams falter, and I'm not sure if that's a bad or a good thing. My heart pounds away like jack-hammer, hard, fast, and sending vibrations throughout my body. She can't ...
"Please," I gasp, breath short in my throat.
The door lurches open, and I almost fall on the tiny woman standing before me. I switch on the light and study her. Hair is plastered to her face from sweat, and her nightgown is askew, the strap twisted over her shoulder. She shakes as she reaches out her arms, and I throw myself into them without a second's thought.
"Are you okay?" I whisper, pulling back to study her face.
"It was just ... a dream." She nods, but her eyes are so wide with fear that if she'd told me it was real, and that she'd walked in on it again, I would have believed her.
"It's okay." I walk back over to the bed and pull the sheets out from under the comforter, straightening them both so they're no longer in a tangled mess. Then I pull them back in an inviting fold for her to slip into.
Mum meekly walks over and hops between the sheets, letting me tuck her in and smooth her hair back as she hits the pillow again.
"I'm going to leave the door open, okay?" She nods, and I continue. "And I'm right down the hall. If you need me. For anything."
The nods are slower this time.
"Lee Lee ... I drink to forget." She swallows down a sob. "Do I have to remember?"
I close my eyes. I did this to her. I forced her to relive that truth.
"I think so." I kiss her forehead then get up, turning off the light as I walk past the door.
I try so hard and ignore those words that come out of her mouth. Those words that hurt me to hear on so many levels.
"But I don't want to."
***
Mum is up and sitting at the table, picking at the skin around her fingers.
"Don't do that!" I bat my hand at hers, and she pauses for a second, then resumes the activity.
"I'm so anxious," she says. Big, purple bags sag under her eyes.
"Did you get back to sleep at all last night?" I ask, hopeful. It's day two of no drinking, and so far she's passed the test with flying colours.
"No." A shake of the head that's far too quick. "But I cleaned the kitchen."
I turn to look behind her, and she's right. The usual stack of dishes I pile next to the sink, leaving them for the next day or night, is gone, and the recycling isn't piled up on the counter as it usually is.
Then I look closer, and it gets weird. She's stacked the fruit I bought at the shop according to colour. The celery on the bottom is green, then she has a layer of red apples and tomatoes, then yellow squash and bananas. The coffee mugs are arranged according to height on the shelf above the toaster.
With a quick glance at her, I get up and open the pantry. It too has its contents arranged according to colour—tomato paste, tomato sauces and tinned tomato squatting next to a red breakfast cereal and a bottle of creaming soda I'd gotten on sale two months ago but never bothered to drink. Pasta next to tinned corn and taco shells.
Slowly, I spin around, but she's turned her attention back to her nails again. I frown. She's been drunk, and she's been depressed, but this? This is ... Has she ... lost it?
"Mum." I slide into the seat opposite her. "You colour coded the kitchen."
"Nice, isn't it?" Her eyes briefly meet mine, and it's still my mother there, not some strange person I don't recognise. "I just thought it would keep me busy."
I don't know how to argue with that, so I busy myself preparing us both a bowl of cereal—taken from the red shelf, of course—and we sit around the table in silence, our crunches too loud for the quiet.
When we finish, I clear our bowls and then sling my backpack from its place near the door over my shoulder. "I'll be off then."
"Have a good day at school." Mum smiles, and for a second, guilt hits me. I'm not going to school. I'm going to a place where I shouldn't be. "I'm going to spend the day going through the paper for more jobs ... as soon as it arrives."
Warmth rushes through my body, and I drop my bag and give her a big hug. Maybe she is turning a corner. Maybe this is the one thing in my life that’s finally going right.
This could be the start of something big.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I drive to the bar, figuring Mum will probably be suspicious if I don't take my car to school as usual. The trip is short, the road alongside the river overhung with majestic branches of ancient trees on one side, and the grey of the river on the other, the dark clouds in the sky reflected on its surface.
Thunder cracks, and I widen my eyes and focus as sheets of rain come bucketing down toward me. I flick my wipers on and lean forward, hunched over the wheel to try and see against the onslaught of this unexpected downpour.
Finally, I pull up outside the scout hall and drive my car right to the lake's edge. There’s a fence here now, newly erected, but it’s one of those chain link ones that don’t spoil the view.
Training doesn't start until ten, so I have two whole hours to kill here. After taking off my school jumper and stuffing it in my bag, revealing my black non-unif
orm shirt, I remove my shoes and shuffle my way into a pair of jeans, taking off my skirt as I go. I'm used to the getting-dressed-in-a-car dance. Sometimes after school, Duke and I used to—
Ow.
Hurt crashes into me, and I think of his warm, safe arms and how comfortable I was in his embrace. How if things go wrong at home again, I don't have an escape route. How I have to see him and Kat together every day for the next two months, till school ends.
Step two: Just ignore your ex.
If only it were that easy.
I need a distraction. I re-lace my Cons then stuff my clothes into my bag and rifle through it, sliding out my Ancient History textbook and start to read, making notes on my phone as I go. It's the subject I struggle with the most, but it's not because I don't find the content interesting. For some reason, my brain just doesn't seem to retain it all. Or perhaps I get lost in the fantasy and myth too often, and the boring archaeological facts fail to rein me in.
My phone dings with an incoming text, and I swipe across the screen. Kat.
You're not at school. Hope you’re okay.
Every time I feel as if I’m getting a grip on conquering the pain, something happens to remind me of it again.
I’m fine.
I stare at my phone, waiting for the next message to flash through, but nothing comes, and I hate myself for being disappointed in that.
"Lia the loner," I say softly to myself.
My only friend right now is my mum. I throw my head back against the headrest and chuck my phone toward the back seat in frustration, just as the door opens.
I spin around in shock, and a very wet, very flustered Jase slides into the seat, sitting on my phone and slamming the door behind him.
"Hi," he says, rubbing his hands together.
"You're sitting on my phone!"
"Damn it!" He shuffles from side to side, and finally pulls the device out from under him. "It's a little ... damp." He grimaces, then starts to wipe it on the back of my car seat.
I turn back to look at him. His hair is so wet it's actually dripping onto my car seat, and his shirt clings to his body, revealing everything. It sticks to his chest, highlighting his pecs, those arms, his torso, and his pants are glued tight to his legs, his thighs.
How To Save A Life (Emerald Cove #1) Page 11
