by C. Desir
“Whatever.”
“I’ll be back with it in a few minutes,” I say.
I head down the hall to the newspaper office. It’s usually empty in the morning, with all the journalism nerds waiting until after school to geek out together. I slip in and shut the door behind me.
I pull out Joe’s card and punch in his number. It takes him four rings to answer.
“Yo,” he says, and with just that one word, I know he’s drunk. “Who’s this?”
“You’re drunk. Jesus, Joe.”
“Ah. Natalie. You’re not supposed to call. Statutory rape.” His words are slurred, but I can make them out well enough.
“Where are you?”
“Not your business. We’re done.” There’s a strange tremble in his voice and I wonder if he’s maybe been crying too.
“Joe. Listen. I talked to my mom. It’s going to be okay. We’ll figure it out.”
“No. Your dad’s right. I never should’ve . . .”
There’s a beat of silence while I’m thinking what to say. What can make this better. How to sober him up. “Joe . . .”
Then before I can come up with anything, he hangs up on me. I dial him back but it goes straight to voice mail. I try two more times. Finally I text him.
This is Amanda’s phone. I don’t have mine. Don’t do anything stupid. Call your sponsor. I’ll figure this out.
Of course he doesn’t respond. I don’t expect him to. I don’t have any idea how far gone he is, but if he’s drunk this early, I’m guessing it started sometime last night.
The first bell rings and I know I should get Amanda’s phone back to her, but it feels like a lifeline. I fish through my purse and find the AA pocket guide. Kathy’s cell number is scribbled inside. I take a deep breath and call her. It goes straight to voice mail so I leave a message.
“It’s Nat. Things are shitty. I don’t have my phone. You need to find Joe. He’s in bad shape and sounds pretty wasted. He shouldn’t be driving. And he needs to call his sponsor. I’ve made a mess out of everything. I’ll try to call you from home later.”
My voice doesn’t even sound like my own by the end of the message. My heart is cracking and I can’t breathe right. I’ve done this to Joe. And I don’t know how to undo it. I slump to the floor and press my face into my knees. Tears leak from my eyes for almost the entirety of first period as I go over the events of yesterday in my head. As I think of Joe’s years of sobriety and how one stupid thing ruined that.
I want to be sorry for sleeping with him, but I’m not. That moment, when he held me and told me to let go, it was better than almost anything I’ve experienced. And not because it felt good, but because it felt right. Like Joe and I fit more perfectly than anyone I’ve ever been with. And I hate that my parents ruined that.
By the end of first period, I’ve pulled myself together enough to go to the rest of my classes. I don’t talk to anyone. I pass Amanda her phone at lunch and then walk out of the cafeteria, past Camille and her questioning gaze, past Brent and his concerned face. I spend the rest of the period in the library. My mind keeps clinging to the things I have control over. And praying for the things I don’t.
Brent finds me after school.
“Sorry . . . about showing up at your house drunk,” he starts, but I wave him off.
“You had your reasons.”
He pulls his hand through his hair and I zip up my coat to signal that we’re not getting into this now. “The thing is, Nat . . . I mean, you didn’t really ask me what I thought. You didn’t let me even work through all of it. You just decided.”
“You thought you were owed something?”
He shakes his head. “I thought I was owed the truth a little earlier. I mean, how long had you known? Long enough to know you didn’t want it.”
I shrug. “I can’t do this right now. It’s really a bad time. I get you’ve been trying to talk to me, and I know I owe it to you, but not now.”
“Jesus, Natalie, what the hell do you think is more important than this?” He looks so sad I almost want to hug him. But that’s completely ridiculous. It didn’t happen to him.
“Brent, a lot is more important than this. This isn’t even a thing anymore. It’s not an issue, so I’m not sure why you’re making it one.”
He flinches and I feel horrible. I want to see it from his perspective, but I honestly can’t. Not with the shit storm brewing in my brain over Joe.
“Look. I gotta go. If you want to talk more about this, or whatever, I’ll sit and listen, but not now. I need to deal with some other stuff first.”
He looks at his feet for a second, then fixes his gaze back on me. “I’ve given you a lot of time already.”
“I know. I need more. Just a little more. Please.”
He steps forward and squeezes my shoulder. “Okay. But don’t blow this off. The least you can do is listen.”
I nod and then spin out of his grip and in the direction of the exit. I need out. I need to talk to Kathy. I need to find Joe.
* * *
I beeline home, and when I enter the front door, I’m surprised to find Kathy in my living room, having coffee with my mom.
“I was going to call you,” I say.
She nods. “I know. I got your message. That’s why I’m here.”
I look at Mom, wondering if she’s given Kathy the lowdown on what she and Dad stumbled onto yesterday, but she shakes her head at me so I guess not.
“I’m gonna need more cigarettes.”
Mom frowns and opens her mouth to start on probably yet another anti-smoking lecture but Kathy cuts her off.
“I’ve got some. You want to go to the coffeehouse?” Kathy is already tugging on her coat and grabbing her bag. I like this about her. She knows that I don’t want my mom hovering while I debrief the mess of last night.
“Yeah.” I look at Mom. “Is that okay?”
“Of course. She’s your sponsor,” Mom says, waving me off. But I can see the tension in her face and I’m sure she’s wondering if Joe will be part of this little outing. I’m hoping with everything I have that he actually will.
“I’ll be home in a few hours,” I say.
“Try to make it before your dad gets home from basketball.” This is more of a warning than a request. Dad does a basketball league with a bunch of other aging traders on Monday nights. He’s usually not home until eight thirty.
I nod and follow Kathy out the door and into her car.
“I don’t know where Joe is,” she says as soon as she starts the car. “He didn’t answer his phone and he’s not home. I called his sponsor. He’s checking the bars.”
“It’s my fault.”
Kathy shrugs. “You didn’t force him to drink again. You didn’t funnel booze down his throat. He made his choice.”
“But it was because of me.”
“Maybe. Still. It’s not your responsibility. The people who hurt us, they aren’t responsible for our drinking. That’s all on us. Remember the Fourth Step? You can resent people all you want, but in the end, it’s your problem how you deal with that resentment.”
I nod. I get it and I don’t at the same time. Yeah, I might not technically be responsible for Joe’s drinking, but the fact is he’d be sober right now if I didn’t go to his trailer yesterday.
“But I did hurt him,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Wait till I get some more coffee before you tell me what happened. I had a hell of a night myself.”
“Your ex?”
“Yeah.” She sighs. “I should probably tell him Joe slipped.”
“Don’t. Joe wouldn’t want you to. He thinks he’s put too much on his brother already.”
Her face drops into a frown. “There’s not a limit on love from your family.”
“Of course there is.”
She looks at me sideways. “Do you really think that? That if you push too much or ask for too much, your family will suddenly withhold love? That’s not how it works.�
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“Yeah. It really is.”
“No, Nat, it really isn’t. Your family might be done with enabling you, but they’re never done loving you. Robert, my ex, Joe’s brother, he’d want to know if something was wrong with Joe. And he’s a good enough guy that he’d even try to help. No matter what Joe wanted.”
“Joe doesn’t want to be a burden on his brother.”
Kathy pulls over to the side of the road. She shuts off the car and stares at me. I look out the window at the fat flakes of snow that are just starting to fall. “Are we talking about Joe or you here?” she asks.
“Joe. Me. You. It doesn’t matter. It’s the same for all of us. We’re burdens on our family.”
“Everyone’s a burden sometimes. Even when you’re not a drunk. People get old and they need their kids to shovel the sidewalks for them. They get sick and they need someone to make them soup. When we’re babies we need our parents to wipe our butts and feed us. When we’re teenagers, we need our parents to bail us out of DUIs and send us to rehab.” She smiles at me. “Or maybe just buy us trombones so we can be in the marching band. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. There’re going to be times when you’re a burden. Just like there’re going to be times when you’re not. That’s life. Your parents chose to have you.”
I take a steady breath. She’s wrong, I think. It’s why I gave up boxing. Family can take love away. Everything is conditional. But I understand what she’s trying to say and the partial truth of her words wiggles beneath my skin. Mom does love me, in her way. I mean, if that fucking elf didn’t tip me off, I don’t know what would.
“I slept with Joe,” I blurt out.
“Ah.” There’s no judgment on her face, just a look of sadness. “Bad idea for you both.”
“I’m sort of in love with him.”
She raises a shoulder. “It happens. That’s why they suggest sponsors of the same sex. Not that that means anything. But I don’t think Bill W. was totally down with the gay community when he was drying out and coming up with his program, you know?” She starts the car back up again and pulls onto the road.
I blink at her. “ ‘It happens’? That’s all you’re going to say? I tell you I love Joe and you tell me ‘it happens’?”
She cracks her window and lights a cigarette. I light one too. “Of course it happens. We’re addicts, Natalie. We glom on to things that make us feel good and don’t let go. There’s an entire section in the Twelve and Twelve about it.”
I haven’t gotten very far in reading the Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions book, partly because I’m still baffled by the traditions and partly because I’ve been swamped with reading for school. Making up for that month in rehab is sort of killing me. Even if I’m not in super-hard classes.
“So you’re saying I’m addicted to Joe now?”
She shrugs and takes another drag off her cigarette. “Maybe. He’s a nice guy. He’s been around for you. You’ve become sort of a project for him.”
“Don’t start with the project thing. I’ve heard it already.”
“I don’t know, Natalie. What do you want me to say? Being around him makes you feel good. I’m sure being around you makes him feel good. For most people this isn’t a problem. But he’s a lot older. How many teenagers do you know dating guys twice their age?”
“I’m not a typical teenager.”
“That’s right. You’re more like an infant, learning to make good choices all over again. Learning that if you touch the oven, your hand is gonna burn.”
“I’m not an infant. I know what I want. I’m clearheaded. I see what I’m getting into. I know it’s going to be hard, but I want Joe.”
She sighs and for a second I see all the exhaustion of years of battling addiction in her face. And a part of me says a prayer that I might have a different life than hers, which is cruel, but still. “Natalie. You’re so young. So new to the program. All I’m saying is it’s not uncommon for addicts to avoid dealing with their shit by replacing booze with a person. Getting wrapped up in love, lust, whatever, as a means to a different kind of high.”
I puff on my cigarette for a few minutes in silence. I don’t know what to say at first. I don’t think Joe’s an addiction like booze. And yet he is something I’ve held on to, needed even, when I wanted the shitty feelings inside to go away.
“By that logic, everything could be an addiction. Food, exercise, surfing the Internet, calling you, everything.”
She nods. “That’s right. And for you, you’ll always need to be careful of that. Of becoming wrapped up in something to bypass your feelings.”
“I’m full of feelings right now.”
“Yes. But they’re all about Joe. Or about you and Joe. The rest of it, all the things you should be addressing in your Fourth and Fifth Step, have now been cast aside for this thing. That’s why they tell you not to get involved with someone until after a year of sobriety. Not because you aren’t capable of a relationship with another person, but because you haven’t established a solid relationship with yourself.”
I shake my head. “This sounds a lot like therapy.”
“Well . . .”
She tosses her cigarette out the window and I glance back at it. Joe would be pissed she didn’t keep the butt.
“I don’t want to lose him,” I say.
“Me neither. So let’s go see if we can find him.”
We spend the next two hours scouring all the bars in town, then driving to his place to see if he’s gone back home. He’s nowhere, which means he’s probably in the city and there’ll be no finding him until he wants to be found.
I tell Kathy about my parents and the statutory rape thing. I looked it up at lunch and it turns out seventeen is the age of consent in Illinois. My dad’s full of shit. She nods and tells me my family drama will pass. It’s dismissive, but what else can I expect from her? She’s not a guru. She’s an alkie with her own shit, trying to give me a little of her wisdom. But our stories aren’t the same. No matter what she says about me and Joe and becoming addicted to another person, I know different. We’re right for each other. I just need to talk everyone else into it—including Joe.
Chapter
Twenty-Four
Joe is MIA for a week. Mom gives me my phone back on Wednesday, but he still won’t pick up. Still won’t answer my texts. I talk to Kathy every day. She’s startled I’m not drinking, I think. I sort of am too. It’s a battle every night. When everyone is sleeping and I know I could head to the CVS or Walgreens and get a pint. But I go down to the basement and work out instead. I’m already up to twenty minutes on the punching bag, four-minute drills with only thirty seconds of rest in between.
On Sunday I work the pancake breakfast with Kara by myself. We’re slammed and even her usual peppiness is overshadowed by worry for Joe. Everyone asks where he is. I tell a partial truth—we can’t find him, have you seen him?—but no one has seen him. He’s part of this community, and everyone is worried.
Dad doesn’t say one word to me all week. Neither does anyone at school except Camille. She talks to me like an acquaintance and I know she wants me to somehow recommit to her, but I can’t. I don’t think there’s enough in me to give her anything worthy of a real friend right now. Brent nods in the hall, but he’s waiting for me to come to him and I can’t yet. With everyone else . . . well, I’m sort of a ghost. I’m not sure how this has happened, but it’s like stripping me of my party girl identity has made me pretty much invisible. Except to Mrs. Hunt.
“Two of your assignments received zeros because they weren’t uploaded correctly,” she says to me as I’m walking out after class on Monday. Her hair is tight against her head in a bun and she’s wearing a pantsuit. She’s like every Disney high school teen show cliché of a bad teacher.
“What? I did them right.”
“You did not. The instructions were very specific about margins and spacing and you disregarded them. If you checked your assignments online, you’d know you received zeros.�
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“There was nothing about spacing on those assignments.”
Her mouth drops into a frown. “There was. The instructions were very clear. I’m sorry you didn’t take the time to read them.”
The smug look on her face presses a button in me, and everything from the past week unleashes. An unstoppable wave of fury. My hands come up in fists.
“You. Fucking. Bitch. Are you kidding me? Your class is such bullshit. I did the assignments. I got extra time and I did them. Before any other assignment for any class. Because you were riding me so hard about it. Fuck you and your zeros.”
I want to punch her in the face. I want to claw her eyes out. Instead I drop my hands and spit at her feet. She smiles at me. And it’s awful and I know what’s coming but I don’t fucking care.
“You just earned yourself a three-day suspension. You’ll receive zeros for the assignments on those days too. And lucky you, you’ll be in really good shape to fail my class and have to take it again in the summer.”
She points me to the door and leads me to the main office. Rage is bubbling over and my hands are clenched so hard I’m pretty sure I’m going to draw blood on my palm with my nails. I clamp my mouth shut and try to focus on my breathing. I’ve never been so angry in my life.
* * *
The entire time Mom is talking to the principal, I sit boiling in hate and say nothing. Mom pleads but apparently she’s played all her sympathy cards and the principal is pissed. I receive a three-day suspension and have to write an apology letter to Mrs. Hunt.
On my way out of school, I see Brent. He eyes me and my puckered-mouth mom.
“Everything okay?” he says.
“Depends who you ask,” I answer, my voice still sharp and full of rage. Mom stiffens next to me.
“Did you . . . ?” Brent starts, taking a step closer, but Mom slips in front of me.
“This isn’t a good time, Brent. Thank you for your concern. Natalie will see you later.” Then she grips my arm and drags me toward the exit. I don’t even look back to see Brent’s face.
We drive home in a silent car, and when we arrive, Mom takes my phone again.
