Other Broken Things

by C. Desir

  “What was this one about?” I ask, grabbing a coffee mug from the cabinet and pouring myself a cup, adding a splash of peppermint creamer at the last second.

  Mom dabs her face again. “It was about a woman whose daughter is addicted to meth. The daughter’s been living on the streets and the mother wants to get her home for the holidays.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “The radio station is paying for rehab? Huh. That’s pretty progressive.”

  Mom waves her hand. “No. Of course not. Nothing like that. But they’re buying her all new clothes and paying for the mother’s grocery bill so she can make a real family dinner for Christmas.”

  I snort. “So wait, the meth addict is getting a new wardrobe to show off to her pals on the street, and her mom is getting a ham and some green bean casserole? That radio station is so classy with the gift giving.”

  Mom’s mouth pinches. “Don’t be sarcastic. I thought you’d be more understanding of someone suffering from addiction.”

  I shake my head. “People who do meth are idiots and deserve whatever they get. Everyone has seen those pictures of the holes in the brain, and the teeth . . . Jesus.”

  I did meth once. It was fucking awesome. But disgusting junkie teeth are so not worth it. Plus the people you have to deal with to even score any are complete paranoid freaks.

  “What are you doing today?” Mom asks. I knew meth talk would bring about a subject change. Shit was getting too real and Mom is a gold-star deflector. She’s done it for years. It’s why she’s still with my dad.

  “I thought I’d buy a pint and fill the ice cube trays with Jell-O shots.”

  Mom’s eyes go wide.

  “I’m just kidding.” Though, actually, a smoothie with Bacardi in it would be outstanding about now.

  “Natalie.” It’d be better if it was a reprimand, but it’s a plea. And I feel like an asshole.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing. I got homework to catch up on. I gotta find some friends who aren’t loadies. I gotta buy another carton of cigarettes. You know? The usual.”

  This honesty is a new thing for me. I’ve never been honest with my mom—I’m still not about a lot of things and it’s not like she’s all that honest with me—but I feel like I owe her something because I know she thinks she’s failed at parenting. I mean, she doesn’t work, she only has one kid, she has a husband who barely even eats here, and she spends most of her time doing fund-raising for the art museum. It’s all very 1950s mom, and a daughter who goes to rehab really puts a kink in that image.

  “More cigarettes? You’re seventeen. You don’t want to start this habit. Studies have shown—”

  I press my hands over my ears and start humming really loud. “I’m not listening to this,” I holler.

  Her mouth pinches and I release my hands.

  “Mom. You’re going to need to give me a pass on the cigarettes right now. I get how you feel, but I’m doing the best I can here.”

  Her face is sadness and love and concern and I want to slam my eyes shut and start this conversation over. “You used to have friends who weren’t loadies,” she says. “Camille.”

  “I used to have a lot of things,” I snap back because I don’t want to talk about Camille and how I used to be, and the best way to do that is to push Mom.

  She draws in a deep breath. “Are you . . . ?” But she doesn’t finish. Of course she doesn’t finish. It’s there, between us, but we won’t talk about it.

  “Would you like me to take you to a meeting?” she says instead.

  I take a gulp of coffee—Jesus, that’s good—and shake my head. “I don’t think I’m going to one today. I’m already meeting my sponsor tomorrow morning and then I’m going to work this pancake breakfast so I can knock out that community service.”

  Mom’s eyes light up. “Oh? You found community service to do.”

  “Yeah. Maybe. I was going to do some gift wrapping for children’s literacy or whatever, but one of the guys at AA told me the judge won’t count that.”

  “I don’t see why not. It’s work for a good cause.” Her fingers fiddle with the napkin, folding it into some sort of origami boat. Mom really needs to get off Pinterest and get a job.

  “Apparently the judge doesn’t realize that getting a million wrapping paper cuts and being forced to deal with crabby holiday assholes for no money is legit community service. They actually want me to work with the less fortunate.”

  Mom’s mouth droops. “Where’s the pancake breakfast?”

  “At SFC. It’s not just a meeting place for drunks. Community stuff happens there too. Which basically means I’m going to be serving pancakes to a bunch of alkies and homeless guys, but whatever.”

  This is the longest conversation I’ve had with Mom in a while. It’s almost like the whole thing is too much for her to process.

  “Well, do they need more help? Because maybe I could . . .”

  I hold up a hand and stop her. “Mom. Sobriety, community service, AA meetings, these are not mother-daughter bonding activities. This isn’t book club. I know you’re a total joiner, but trust me when I tell you this is one party you don’t want to be invited to.”

  She’s got the kicked-puppy face. I’ve hurt her feelings now. I feel like an ass. But honestly. Who does this? It’s like my mom is so bored she even wants to co-opt the shitty things in my life.

  I get up from the table before I feel even worse, and head upstairs. I one hundred percent do not want to feel bad about this. And usually when I don’t want to feel something, I have a really solid solution. Only now I don’t. Because Mom got rid of all the booze in the house except for Dad’s super-expensive scotch, which he keeps locked in the bottom of the credenza.

  I smoke a cigarette and watch as Mom trudges to each of the neighbors’ houses to deliver tins full of cookies. Her shoulders are slumped and her red-and-green striped hat is lilting to the side. Shit.

  I duck into my closet to grab a sweater and go help her, bracing myself for the twenty minutes of chitchat she’ll partake in at every fricking house. As I’m pulling down a thick wool Lily McNeal striped cardigan, my boxing gloves fall from the side of the shelf where I’d tucked them forever ago. My chest freezes. I move my fingers over the laces and smell the leather. Tears push against the backs of my eyelids but I blink a bunch of times to stop them. I won’t. I can’t.

  My right hand shakes as I slide it into the glove, just for a second. My knuckles curl on instinct, my whole arm tightening to swing. It’s fast and hard and right into the back wall. Right through the drywall. I slump on the floor and let out a sob before tearing the glove off my hand. No. No. No no no. This isn’t mine anymore.

  I bolt from the closet, snag my phone, and text Brent. I need fortification. Vodka and cranberry. Do NOT skimp on the vodka.

  He’s at my house twenty minutes later. I chug down half the booze-filled water bottle before we say more than two sentences to each other. Then I give him a handy because I sort of owe him for doing me a solid.

  “If you give me a few minutes, we could have sex?” He’s leaned back on my bed, catching his breath while I mop up his spunk with my nightshirt. At least he’s nice enough to ask.

  “Nah. I don’t have any condoms,” I say, and drink the rest of the vodka-cran. Jesus, that’s good.

  “Well . . . I could pull out. Oh. Sorry, shit. Maybe we could do other stuff or . . .” He looks like he is going to start in on the talking thing again, so I stroke him a few more times until he gets that sex-stupid look.

  I’m not thinking about this. Not thinking about my past with Brent, and luckily, I’ve had enough vodka-cran to shut down my brain. “Mom’s going to be done with cookie deliveries any minute. You better go.”

  He looks up at me. “You’re serious?”

  I nod. “Zip up, B. I’ll catch you at school.”

  His dark eyes blink at me in shock. I don’t know why he’s so surprised. We’re hardly the hang-around-and-chat-after-sex types. He pulls himself tog
ether and shakes his head, opening and closing his mouth a bunch of times like he wants to lay into me but can’t find the words. Whatever. He’s the only one who’s come, so I’m not sure what he’s got to complain about.

  Resigned, he drops a kiss on my head, tucking my curly hair behind both my ears, and says, “I get that you’re avoiding this, but we really do need to talk at some point.”

  I shake my head. “B. Stop aiming so high. We’re not going to be a thing. Move on.” I kiss him though, because I’m buzzing enough that I want to. “Thanks for the vodka.”

  He leaves and I collapse on my bed, staring at the ceiling as the buzz courses through me. It’s not full-on drunk. I could’ve had at least two more water bottles, even though the vodka made up more than half the concoction. Still. It’s been enough time that it feels good and it’s better than Tylenol with codeine.

  I end up texting Brent again an hour later when I see the hole in the wall of my closet.

  Sorry. Come back?

  What for?

  Truth?

  Please.

  More fortification. Bring condoms.

  His pause is way long and I think he’s going to bail, despite my added incentive, but finally he answers, Fine.

  When he gets to my room—past my mom, who doesn’t offer anything but a polite “It’s nice to see you, Brent” in her worried voice—I drop to my knees as soon as he shuts the door.

  “Nat,” he says, but then he shuts up real quick as I unbutton his pants.

  I’m still buzzed enough that it’s not a big deal, pulling out his dick and shoving down his boxers so they’re cutting across the tops of his thighs. I’m also sober enough and motivated enough for more vodka not to be sloppy and make Brent realize I’m not that into this.

  I used to hate the whole business of blowjobs, worrying if it’d be rude to spit or pull off before he got too close to coming. Then one time when I was too wasted to do more than just let Brent shove himself in and out of my mouth, he came and it turned out swallowing it all really fast like a shot of shitty Jäger was much easier than stressing about spitting or dealing with him wanting to go longer.

  “Nat,” he says again as I work my tongue around him in circles. I hold his hip with one hand so he doesn’t start trying to control the situation, and grip the base of him with the other hand so I barely have to do more than pay attention to the top inch of his junk.

  “Enough,” he says after a minute of my half-assed licking. “You’re not even into it.”

  Shit. “I am,” I lie.

  “Give me a break,” he says, pulling me onto my feet. “Talk.”

  “No.” I try to drop down again, but he holds my elbows and looks at me hard.

  “Nat.”

  “Where’s my vodka-cran?”

  He sighs and pulls two bottles from the inside of his Mark Jacobs down coat. I snag them and shimmy out of my jeans as I down the first bottle. I turn and am ready to pound the second bottle before we really get to things, but he’s standing at my door, rebuttoning his pants. He has the saddest look on his face. Too many questions, too many answers, too many things we’re supposed to say but I don’t fucking want to.

  “You’re a dick,” I say, my voice cracking.

  “Yeah. So you say.”

  “Thought you said you wanted to have sex?” I wiggle, trying to distract him. Trying to do something to wipe the look off his face.

  He shakes his head and opens the door. “Let me know when you’re ready to talk.”

  He slips out of my room and it’s the worst kind of sucker punch. I throw the empty bottle at the door and quickly uncap the second one, slamming it down even faster. This night needs to fade away.

  Chapter

  Ten

  I wear my Prada sunglasses to my sponsor meeting with Kathy. She’s already got a full cup of coffee and a half-eaten scone beside her when I get there. Plus the Big Book right in the middle of the table. I quickly glance around to see if anyone I recognize is here, since apparently my sponsor is as subtle as a car crash. No one is and I ease into the chair opposite her.

  I point to the book. “Isn’t there a pocket-sized version of that so we don’t have to be so obvious?”

  She rifles through her big pleather bag. Same one she had at the meeting. I almost feel guilty about the number of Coach and Kate Spade purses in my closet, but whatever, I can’t help my parents being rich.

  “As a matter of fact, there is.” She hands me a mini Big Book and I drop it in my lap. “Are you ashamed of someone seeing you?”

  “Yes. Duh. I mean, my friends know I went to rehab, but the whole town doesn’t. And my dad sort of wants to keep it on the down low.”

  Her face pinches. “Huh.” She grabs the book and shoves it into her bag—yes, the bag is that big—and pulls out another mini. Which, okay, so she was testing me? And apparently carries an entire library in her bag.

  “Lose the glasses,” she says. I push them off my face and up to hold my hair back. My hair is loose and crazy, untamed curls because I woke up too late to shower.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I mumble.

  She tips her head to the side. “You’re hungover? Jesus.”

  “What? No, I’m not.”

  “Of course you are. I’ve seen that look in my own mirror more than once. It’s not a bad hangover, but it’s still a hangover.”

  She’s right, but I don’t say anything. Silence normally makes people think they’re wrong or being judgmental. Unfortunately not with Kathy.

  “That’s strike one. Two more and I’m dropping you as a spons. I don’t need the hassle, and if you’re just playing, I’d prefer to have my Sunday mornings to myself, thank you very much.”

  “Why are you even doing this?”

  She takes a sip of coffee and shrugs. “My sponsor told me it was time I get a spons of my own. It’s the Twelfth Step, helping bring the message to others, practicing it in all aspects of our lives.”

  I smirk. “So? You need me as much as I need you.”

  “Hardly. There are always people looking for sponsors. Way more demand than supply at SFC. You’re lucky I agreed to take you on.”

  I probably am, but I’m not about to admit it. Especially with my head pounding as much as it is. “So you said there were rules?”

  She nods and pushes the plate of scone toward me. I shake my head because, gross, I’m not eating half of someone else’s food, and also, I need grease right now.

  “You need to call me every day you’re not going to a meeting. I need you to meet me here once a week. I need you to call me if you’re thinking of drinking again. I need you to shut up and listen.”

  “That all?”

  “Yeah. It’s not that hard.”

  She’s basically just mandated that we’re to be best girlfriends for an undetermined length of time. Sure, not that hard.

  “I’m already at the Eleventh Step,” I say.

  She laughs. Not even shy. More like a horse laugh. The barista looks over at us and I slump a little in my chair. “You’re not at the Eleventh Step. You don’t even believe in God. I saw you mouthing ‘watermelon’ during the Lord’s Prayer on Friday night.”

  Oh. Well, seriously. I’m sure half those women in there do the same thing. At least I’m not being hypocritical.

  “Your first assignment is to read the chapter for the agnostics in the Big Book. It’s called ‘We Agnostics.’ ”

  “I have a crap ton of homework to make up, Kathy. And I’m starting my community service today.”

  “Yeah. Joe told me about that. It’ll be good for you. Meet some of the other guys at SFC. Get to know people in the program. But still. Read the chapter. Before next Sunday. It’s not that long.”

  I’ve read it before. In rehab. My therapist suggested it when I first started arguing that God didn’t exist. But if I’m being completely honest, I don’t really remember much of it. Pretty much the only two things I remember about rehab were the itching need to either get drunk or g
et out. Most of the time both those things at once.

  “Fine.”

  “You still have my number?” she asks, and I nod. “Good. Call me before school every morning you’re not going to a meeting. What time is your first class?”

  “Eight.”

  “Okay. I’m up by six. So call anytime after that. What days are you going to meetings?”

  I shrug. “Haven’t really locked in my schedule yet.”

  “Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Sundays with me, then pancake breakfast.”

  “Are you handling me?”

  She shakes her head. “Not my job. I’m just trying to make it as easy as possible for you to stay sober. Let’s go outside and smoke.”

  Yes. Okay. This is good. This, I can deal with. Only as soon as we go outside and light up, she starts asking a bunch of personal questions about my family, my life, my DUI. And I’m wondering if this whole sponsor idea is not such a good one after all.

  “Look, Natalie. I don’t give a shit if you’ve got an attitude. Life can be crap sometimes and it’s best you know that early. Then you won’t be surprised when things go to hell. If you recognize nothing’s perfect, you won’t drink to make it go away, because you realize it never goes away. There’s constant suffering. It’s good you understand that.”

  “So today’s lesson is: get used to suckiness? Bang-up job on the sponsoring, Kath. You’re reeling me right into the program.”

  She snorts. “I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”

  I blow a ring of smoke. “So how about you do that? Tell me something different. Give me some wisdom here, so peeling my eyes open this morning feels worth it.”

  “How about this one: everyone alcoholic, including you, princess, is a liar.”

  “I’m not . . . ,” I start, but she waves her cigarette around.

  “You are. And your attitude comes from the fact that you think everyone else is lying too. Not just the alcoholics. Everyone. And the reason you think that is because you lie all the time. That’s what alcoholics do. And once you get real with the fact that more than likely you’re the only liar in the room, you’ll save yourself a ton of grief. And you’ll start to trust people.”