Now I was kicking myself. Never trust a fucking junkie.
“You need to stop talking to her,” Dutch says.
I feel the heat of tears rising in my eyes.
“Stop calling her, stop texting her, stop liking her baby photos on Facebook,” my sister continues. “And you definitely have to stop fucking her.”
“It was only once,” I say in my defense. “And I know it shouldn’t have happened — we both know that.”
“‘It was only once’ is an addict’s line,” Gerry says. “Takes one to know one. You need Jenny rehab.”
I look skyward. “It’s been three years,” I tell my brothers and sister with a shaky voice. I sniffle. “Three years. It’s not supposed to still hurt this bad after three years, is it?”
“You’re such a soft-hearted idiot,” Dutch says, and this time there’s no mistaking it; her voice is just as shaky as mine. Her arms finally unfold from her chest, opening wide as she steps forward. “C’mere, brat.”
And because my back is pinned against the pillar of the bandstand, and because I’m drunk, and because I’m tired of hurting, and because, fuck it, I need my big sister, I let her wrap her arms around me and I drop my face into her wedding-day hairdo. Gerry crashes into us from the side, knocking us sideways as he throws his arms around Dutch and me. After a second of hesitation, PJ comes up from the other side, crushes his butterball body into our awkward group hug.
We stand there for at least a minute or two, with me sobbing into Dutch’s perfect hair, and Dutch crying against my shoulder, Gerry babbling drunkenly, and PJ squeezing like he’s never going to let go.
Finally, I push away from them, wipe my eyes and nose on the sleeve of the white bridesmaid suit Dutch made me wear.
“Okay,” I say. I take a long, shuddering breath. “You’re right. I’ll stop talking to her.”
“Thank God,” Dutch says, dabbing at her running mascara with the tip of one well-manicured finger. “I thought I was going to have to force Gerry to steal your laptop.”
PJ looks relieved but says nothing.
“That was fun,” Gerry says. “We should do this shit more often.”
Chapter 26: Did I already say, “Siblings. Jesus.”? Once more. With feeling.
Friday, 2pm CST, Soul Mountain
“Are you guys there?” I say, leaning closer to the laptop screen.
PJ’s video comes online a moment later, blurry and choppy while he adjusts the position of his phone.
“I’m here,” he answers.
“I’m here, too,” Dutch says, and there she is, headphones on, Sherry just visible in the background inside a playpen. “So what’s this all about? The last time we had a sibling meeting, it was about — ”
“I don’t need the reminder,” I say, flashing back to Dutch’s wedding five years earlier. “This isn’t about me. It’s about Mom and Dad.”
Gerry leans closer to me so that he can be seen in the video frame. “And it’s about the restaurant.”
“What about the restaurant?” Dutch asks, frowning.
“Gerry did payroll this week when Dad took a few days off to be with Mom,” I say. “He found something… not good. After he did payroll, there was only, like, twenty bucks left in the checking account.”
“That can’t be right,” Dutch says immediately. “The restaurant’s been really crowded every time I’ve been by recently.”
“It is right,” Gerry says, leaning close again. “I checked it and double-checked it and triple-fucking-checked it. After everyone got their checks, there was twenty-three dollars and fifty-seven cents left in the bank account.”
“And they’ve been charging groceries,” I add. “At least for weeks, maybe for months. Gerry would know better than me.”
“Actually… I have a copy of the credit card statement,” Gerry says.
Which is news to me. I’m just hoping he didn’t break the lock on Dad’s filing cabinet to get to it.
He pulls out a folded-up piece of paper from his back pocket, unfolds it, and holds it in front of the laptop screen. “The card’s almost maxed the fuck out.”
“Gerry, will you stop dropping f-bombs? Sherry’s in the room,” Dutch says irritably.
“You’ve got headphones on, Dutch,” PJ says.
“So? I still don’t think it’s a good habit to — ”
“Can you shut up and listen, Dutch?” I say. “There are more important things right now than Ger’s use of the word ‘fuck.’”
“Anyway,” Gerry continues. “It looks like they’ve only been making the minimum payment on the card for the past six months. And almost every single charge is for groceries. There’s a few other things on here, too — looks like they paid the laundry service from this card a few times recently, and there’s an exterminator charge a few months ago.”
“That’s not like Dad,” PJ says, almost like he’s talking to himself, musing over this new information out-loud. “He almost always pays for everything in cash. He hates credit cards. And he’s never trusted banks.”
“I know,” I say. “Which is why I called this meeting. You guys… I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but Soul Mountain’s in trouble. They can’t keep going like this for much longer.”
“What did Mom and Dad say when you asked them about it?” asks Dutch.
“They won’t talk about it,” says Gerry, and from his tone, it’s obvious he’s still raw and irritated from his earlier fight with our parents.
“But we know that at least part of the problem is a huge loan payment they’re making every month,” I say. “It looks like they’re having trouble staying ahead of it, and it’s draining whatever profit they’re bringing in. Do you guys know what the loan could be for?”
PJ and Dutch both shake their heads.
“Dad hates loans about as much as he hates credit cards,” PJ says. “Remember what he used to tell us when we were growing up?”
All of us nod, remembering.
Before he and my mother married and moved to Ohio in search of better work, Dad worked incessantly for his brother-in-law’s restaurant. He bused tables, he waited tables, he went for days practically without sleeping. But lacking citizenship, and, despite his visa, constantly fearing that he would for some reason or another be deported, he never opened a bank account. Instead, living as frugally as possible, he saved almost fifteen grand in cash in a shoebox he hid behind his brother-in-law’s couch. That was the money he used to move to Ohio, to marry my mother, to pay the deposit and a month’s rent on their first apartment in Marcine.
Dad didn’t borrow money. He didn’t spend it, either. He saved it.
After a moment of silence, PJ says, “It doesn’t matter what the loan’s for. What matters is that we pay it off. See if you can find out how much it’s for.”
“I don’t know how open they’re going to be about that, given the reaction Gerry and I got this morning,” I say.
“I’ll handle it. I’m sure I can find out,” Dutch states.
I snort. “And how do you propose to do that? Breaking and entering?”
“No. I’ll just ask them,” she says.
“They’re not going to tell you,” Gerry says.
“I can be very convincing. And they trust me.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think this is a matter of them trusting you more than they trust us, Dutch.” She hadn’t said that, not directly, but I know that was what she’d meant. “Gerry’s right. Whatever it is, they’re not going to tell you.”
She quirks an eyebrow, and I realize she’s interpreting my words as a challenge. “We’ll see about that. Is this all you guys wanted? Because I have to go get ready to pick Nathan up from school.”
I glance at the time on the clock and see that it’s not quite two-fifteen. The elementary school doesn’t let out for another hour and a quarter. But of course Dutch would need to primp for something as important as driving through the elementary school carpool line. I suppress an eye roll.
/> “Yeah,” I say. “That’s all we got. Tell Nate I say hi.”
“Tell him yourself. We eat dinner at Soul Mountain every Friday night.”
I shift in my seat uncomfortably. “Uh… I guess I’ll have to see him some other time. I’ve got plans for tonight.”
Dutch cocks her head to the side. “Plans?”
“She’s screwing around with some chick she met on the plane on the way over here,” Gerry supplies helpfully.
I punch him hard in the arm. “I am not ‘screwing around’ with Amy, you asshole.”
Gerry only laughs.
“Guys, I have to go. I’m already late for a meeting,” PJ says. “But I’ll be home by Sunday night. Dutch, text me if you learn anything.”
“Text all of us,” Gerry says.
“I will,” she says lightly, and her screen goes dark. PJ’s screen goes dark a moment later.
Gerry turns to me. “Those pricks. They’re not taking this seriously.”
I shrug. “You expected something different?”
“I guess I thought ‘the restaurant is on the brink of fucking bankruptcy’ would have had more of an effect.”
“Then you have a higher opinion of them than I do. But don’t worry. They’ll get their shit together. And then we’ll figure this out.”
Chapter 27: Should auld acquaintance be forgot, / And days of auld lang syne?
Friday night
Lisa Vanderwerf’s lake house is one of several dozen small cottages lining a gravel loop around a man-made lake most of the way to Youngstown. It’s dark when I arrive, so I drive past Lisa’s place at least twice before I finally realize that there’s only one house on the road whose lawn is packed with a dozen cars. I park Mom’s SUV behind Amy’s blue rental car, step out into the lawn, picking up the faint sound of ’80s music emanating from the little cabin.
I’m here
I text Amy.
And as if I’m a nervous kid at a high school kegger instead of a grown-ass woman showing up to a bachelorette party for other middle-aged women, I have to take a long, deep breath to steady my nerves before I weave through the cars towards the house.
A few girls sit on the cabin’s front porch, their feet up on the railing in front of them, drinks in their laps. I recognize one of them vaguely as someone I think I went to high school with; the other two aren’t familiar at all. They track me with their eyes as I approach, and momentarily I feel ten feet tall instead of six-three, exposed and alien and utterly out of place.
But the feeling doesn’t last, because the front door opens, spilling out more ’80s music and a triangle of soft light onto the porch. Amy steps out, and that beautiful smile is on her face again, and she’s not looking at the girls with the tracker eyes, she’s looking at only one person, and that person is me.
She’s got two drinks in her hands, pushes one of them at me after I walk up the short flight of porch stairs and greet her with a peck on the cheek.
“You made it,” she states. “You brought your overnight bag?”
I nod. “Even some extra nail polish and a brush so we can do each others’ nails and hair later.”
Amy laughs; the three girls sitting with their feet against the railing all just keep giving me a look.
“Do you know these lovely ladies?” Amy asks, sweeping a hand towards the girls.
I meet eyes with the one I recognize. “We went to high school together, right?”
She nods. “You’re Anika Singh. You got a basketball scholarship to Rosemont.”
“Yeah, that’s me,” I say, embarrassed that I can’t come up with her name or how I know her.
But she doesn’t seem bothered by it. She stands up, reaches across her friends to shake my hand. “Callie,” she says. “I was in band with Grace and Jenny.”
“Right, of course,” I say, even though I still don’t really have any fucking clue who Callie is or if we ever actually hung out in high school. There was only one band nerd I paid attention to in high school. “Nice to see you again, Callie.”
After Callie, there are other, equally awkward introductions and small talk with the other girls.
When I feel like I’m small-talked out, I turn back to Amy. “Should we go in? Meet the rest of your friends? And I should say hey to Grace.”
#
Inside the stuffy cabin are about a dozen more women, some of whom I recognize, some of whom I don’t. Three or four play a board game at the kitchen table; Lisa Vanderwerf sits on the couch, where she and a couple others are sipping glasses of wine and exchanging tips about potty training over the high synths of what I’m pretty sure is Hall & Oates.
I let Amy take me from group to group, introducing me to everyone, including the ones I should really remember but don’t. When I spot Grace Adler herself mixing a drink in the kitchen, I excuse myself from Amy to do the polite thing — go say hello and congratulate her on the upcoming marriage. Second marriage, that is.
Grace turns away from the counter just as I cross the threshold into the kitchen, and when she spots me, there’s this double-take of pure shock that crosses her face that she doesn’t even try to hide.
“Hey, Grace,” I say. “Congrats on the — ”
“Anika?” she says, not even letting me get my well-mannered congratulations out. “What are you doing here?”
Grace closes the distance between us in two long steps, goes up on her tiptoes to give me a hug, which I am a little slow in returning. After a quick, tight squeeze from Grace, with me awkwardly kinda patting her back, she releases me and looks me up and down.
“God, you look exactly the same as the last time I saw you. Except your hair is shorter.”
“Thanks… I think.”
She gives a rapid shake of her head. “Definitely thanks. You don’t look like you’ve aged a single day.”
“I have.” I think of Jenny. Of her children. Of finding Grace and Jenny in my apartment the day I found out she was pregnant. “Believe me.”
“So what are you doing here? — sorry, I didn’t mean like what are you doing at my bachelorette party, because, of course, I’m glad you’re here, I meant more like — ”
As usual, Grace Adler makes me feel as if I need to justify my presence.
“I’m here as Amy Ellis’s date,” I say.
Her mouth drops open — further shock — and she closes it again quickly as her eyes dart past me to I guess wherever Amy’s standing. “Amy Ellis? My Amy Ellis?”
You know how your stomach lurches right before you’re about to throw up, and a bunch of hot fucking stomach acid starts burning your throat? When Grace says “my Amy Ellis,” putting her stamp of ownership on the Tinkerbell Jane Lane I found in a British airport, I get that feeling for a quick second. I can’t say why exactly. Maybe because I’ve already started thinking of Amy as my Amy, not Grace’s Amy, not anybody else’s Amy.
Maybe it’s because this is the second time the catty redhead has ended up as one of the nearest-and-dearest of a girl I like.
“Yeah. That Amy Ellis.” I hope my distaste for Grace — and the fact that I almost just threw up on her — isn’t too noticeable. After all, Amy likes Grace, and Jenny likes Grace; maybe I should be trying to give her a second chance (third, fourth, fifth chance), too.
“How in the world do you know Amy?” she asks, and the way she says it offends me a little further because the implication underneath the question is something like, What would Amy be doing with a person like you, Singh?
“We met on the plane to Cleveland,” I say, and briefly explain about Amy recognizing me as a basketball player, about Snakes on a Plane, about me distracting Amy with the story about my parents.
“Huh. Small world, I guess,” is all Grace says when I finish. Then she adds, “She always was into athletes,” which feels slightly demeaning again even though I’m sure she didn’t intend it that way.
I’m just about to say something like, “Well, congratulations on the wedding this weekend,” and then excuse
myself so I can get back to Amy when Grace grabs my elbow.
“Anika,” she says seriously, lowering her voice, “you know Jenny’s going to be here tonight, right?”
(“Don’t even fucking think about throwing up! I just washed these floors!” shouts the janitor who lives in my brain.)
I gently shift my arm out of Grace’s grip without being rude about it. “That’s fine. I’ve talked with Jenny a few times this week. We’re cool.”
And like she’s a fucking shark who can smell blood at a ratio of one part-per-billion, she cocks her eyebrow in a way that’s skeptical and curious at the same time.
“Honestly, Grace. Jenny and I are okay. It’s not a big deal.”
Annie. Ani. Yes, Jenny and I are completely cool. No drama whatso-fucking-ever.
“But you cut Jenny off,” Grace says, cocking her head like a curious cat. “You two haven’t spoken in five years. Now you’re hanging out with her again?”
I grind my teeth. Nosy as ever. Making it her business to know everyone else’s. I bet she has a fucking logbook she records shit like this, some leather-bound, dog-eared journal locked in a drawer somewhere. And right past the five-year-old entries about spying on her neighbors, there’s probably one that reads, Summer, wedding of Dechen (“Dutch”) Singh and Matthew Raeburn: Last time Anika Singh speaks to Jennifer Pearson. Tonight she’ll add a new entry about how she found out we’ve been talking again.
Fucking Grace Adler.
“Well, ‘hanging out’ might be overstating it,” I say after a moment. “I’ve been working at my parents’ restaurant this week. Jenny stopped by a couple times; we had lunch.”
Anika takes the long way home up soul mountain: A lesbian romance (Rosemont Duology Book 2) Page 16
