When I was fourteen, Grandma died of a brain aneurysm. She’d been diligent about good diet and exercise, cancer checks and heart disease prevention. I researched and found out that they’re virtually undetectable, especially if there are no symptoms like headaches or double vision. And even if they’d found it earlier, they might not have been able to do anything about it, nestled in her brain. She would have hated knowing there was a ticking time bomb in her head.
I begged my father and Chloe to allow Hector to come live with us. I swore to vacuum and use pet rollers every single day, promised to feed, water and scoop litter. All Chloe said was, “I’m allergic, Connor!” I’m convinced that the only thing about Hector that Chloe was allergic to was the thought of his fur attaching itself to her garish clothes and furniture.
“I’m sorry, Emma,” my father said as I stomped to my room. “We’ll find him a new home.” He sounded remorseful, but unwavering. In a conflict, Chloe’s desires always overrode mine.
Emily, livid in my defense, pleaded with her mother to take in my orphaned cat. Mrs. Watson wasn’t thrilled about Hector’s beautiful long white hair, but to our shock, she consented. Hector, no dummy, transferred his feline displays of adoration—infrequent lap sitting and frequent tail hugs—to Emily’s mom. My cat is ten now, a senior citizen in feline years.
***
“Only one bag?” My father eyes my duffel dubiously when I exit the airport. He’s used to Chloe, with whom there’s no such thing as skipping the baggage carousel.
“I’m only here for a couple days.” I toss it into the backseat and climb into his SUV.
“How’s the filming going?” he asks, pulling into traffic as I take a deep breath.
“Fine.” I’m trying to focus on seeing Emily, and her mother, and Hector. If they hadn’t been waiting for me in Sacramento, I’d have rather stayed in Austin for the weekend, even if I was completely alone there. I wouldn’t have come home to see Chloe, not in a million years. I wouldn’t have come home to see my father.
Opposing viewpoints war inside my mind. On one hand, I want to ask his advice about Reid and Graham, and college, and the fact that I’m going to be a legal adult soon. I want him to know that it scares the hell out of me because I have no plans for my life besides continuing what I’ve always done.
On the other hand, I don’t want to speak to him at all.
Every developmental psychology website I’ve searched says that the desire to separate is natural in adolescents. But what I’m feeling can’t be natural, and the freedom I have wasn’t gained normally. I grew up with no religious commandments, not much of a curfew, and no pressure to succeed academically. Grandma and Mrs. Watson loved me, but they couldn’t parent me. That authority was always with my father, and all he’s ever exerted it to do is urge me to become a star. I’m a seventeen-year-old who’s raised herself for a solid freaking decade. I’ve done a pretty good job of it, but that fact is so incredibly sad that it’s infuriating. Sitting here in the front seat of my father’s car, I realize that I am furious.
In an effort to fill the silence, he begins to talk about work, and the kitchen redesign Chloe initiated, and a problem with the sprinkler system that required the entire yard to be dug up and a new system to be installed.
I don’t respond.
And he doesn’t notice that I don’t.
Chapter 29
REID
We’re halfway to the rehab facility, and neither of us has said a word. Once we leave LA proper, the haze that domes the city almost 365 days a year abates. A bright blue sky seems painted above the landscape; the only clouds are wisps of smoke in the distance.
I have no idea what to expect from the therapy session, or from Mom. I have no faith in the process. Why should I? The process has failed her multiple times. She struggles to stay sober while I struggle to avoid it.
That’s not exactly true. While it’s true that I push my boundaries as often as possible, I have it under control when it needs to be. I like getting hammered sometimes, sure. I’m young. It’s fun. Why not? I’m not using alcohol to “numb the pain” or any stupid shit like that. I’m not using it when I’m working. Any number of Mom’s therapists would say I’m in denial. That I’m making excuses. I’d say I’m explaining. They’d say there’s a difference between explanations and excuses, and I’m doing one and calling it the other. Then I’d say I don’t fucking care which it is, I’m fine. And that’s the end of that.
John’s texting me—says there’s a party tonight we’ve got to make it to. He wants to know if I want to stay over at his apartment near campus. He starts classes Tuesday, not that he’s stressed about it. I doubt he’s even got an idea what his schedule is—his father required him to apply as a finance major. I can’t imagine how that’s going to end, but it’ll be explosive. John is riding the ragged edge of pretending to follow in his dad’s footsteps. I’m glad that at least I don’t have to do that. I’ve got my own path, and while Dad may not get it, he seems to support it. At the very least, he’s never tried to mold me into a younger version of himself: Mark Alexander, fucking brilliant attorney at law. Bonus—beautiful, alcoholic wife and talented, irresponsible son.
I doubt he thinks I’d even be capable of turning out like him, not that I can argue the point, and not that I ever wanted to be.
***
When we arrive, Dad charges straight across the lobby to the reception desk and I trail him, not taking my sunglasses off until I get past the reception area and anyone hanging out there. The woman behind the desk recognizes him and immediately looks at me, blinking rapidly even though her expression remains neutral, confirming that she knows who I am by association. I wonder if my fame makes being here more difficult for Mom, where everyone knows, or will know—that she’s the mother of Reid Alexander. She can’t be anonymous, any more than I can. But at least my notoriety was/is my choice.
The place is posh, no surprise, and Mom seems as fragile as always, also no surprise. We are only allowed to meet with her in the counselor’s office for this visit, and frankly I’m hoping this time will be the only one required of me.
There are two sofas—one of them is more like a loveseat—and two chairs, surrounding a low table. The therapist, Dr. Weems, takes one of the chairs, crossing her legs and opening the file on her lap, giving us no direction on where to sit. I sense a test, but I’m not sure what arrangement she’d accept as positive, or if she perceives that I know she’s analyzing each of us and how we relate to each other based on our choice. By the time these thoughts make their way through my brain, Dad is sitting in the middle of the long sofa, mom next to him in the corner. I plop down in the middle of the loveseat because that choice doesn’t require anything but sitting straight down. Dr. Weems is scribbling, already finding my faults, or maybe she’s doodling a cartoon of funny cats while waiting for us to stop playing musical sofas.
“Mark, Reid, I’m Dr. Weems—please call me Marcie. It’s good to meet both of you.” She smiles that calculating therapist smile, the one that doesn’t quite reach the eyes, as Dad greets her politely and leans up to shake her hand. When she turns to look at me, I’m leaning forward, elbows on knees, ready to bolt out of here at the first opportunity. I raise my chin once, acknowledging her. That’s the best I’ll do, and my peripheral awareness of Dad’s glower won’t change it.
She’s undaunted. I doubt asshole adolescent males are new to her. “We’ve made some really solid progress in the last two weeks.” The heel of Marcie’s pump is hanging slightly from her foot, as though she’s actually playing dress up and wearing her mother’s shoes. “I’m pleased that the two of you could join us so you could see for yourselves that your loved one is doing well, and so we can do a little work as a family unit.”
Our “loved one” is sitting right there, being spoken about in the third person with an epithetical term rather than her name. I’ll admit I have issues with therapists in general. I think they’re a pretentious group of people who believe they know your innermost secrets from body language and what they trick you into saying. Marcie is all that plus attributes from your least favorite, most biased teacher ever.
I watch Mom, the way her fingers shake with the slightest tremor, barely perceptible, whenever she has to speak. When she looks up, I try to catch her eyes—dark blue, identical to mine—wondering if she wants someone to just grab her hand and get the hell out of here. But no, she’s determined to tackle the demons. She clenches her jaw, frowns at the flower arrangement in the center of the table or the stack of magazines on either side. And then she pushes her small voice forward, and answers Marcie’s probing questions and Dad’s careful inquiries.
Marcie squints at me a few times during the hour. I’m not saying anything unless asked directly, and even then, I’m the opposite of forthcoming. What I don’t say: I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to contribute, and I don’t see why I have to when it isn’t me in rehab. When the hour is up, I feel like I was just released from prison.
When Mom hugs me goodbye, my arms slide around her and I realize she’s even smaller than usual. “Thank you for coming,” she says into my shoulder. “I’m sorry. I love you.”
I close my eyes. Say it, say it, say it. “You too.” Both not good enough and better than nothing. She gives me another squeeze before letting go. She walks into my dad’s arms and I turn towards the window. He’s the worst kind of hypocrite—pretending this level of give-a-shit now when she’s spent years flying along behind him like a kite, just trying to stay airborne.
*** *** ***
Emma
“Where are Reid’s posters?” I’m reclining on Emily’s bed, Hector draped over my abdomen, purring an atypical welcome. I stroke his silky back and scratch behind his ears.
Emily closes her bedroom door, where two sexy-beautiful close-up posters of Reid are attached with double-stick tape. (Emily’s mom has two rules for posters: double-stick tape, not thumbtacks, and on the doors, never the walls.) “You downgraded him to the back of the door?” Emily’s system: the favored boys go on the closet door, visible all the time; the lesser ones go to the back of her bedroom door. Quinton’s is still on the closet door, and has in fact moved to the number one spot: face level above the door knob.
“It didn’t seem right to have Reid in a prominent spot when you two are practically a couple. I can’t cheat with my best friend’s guy. Even theoretically.”
“So he’s like a brother to you now.”
“Don’t be crazy,” she answers. “Look at him.”
“I do look at him. Practically every day.”
She mock-glares at me and I laugh.
“I found a few pics of Graham, by the way.” She plops onto the bed next to me, grabbing a pillow and propping her head at the foot of the bed so we can see each other over the lump of Hector fur. “He’s hot, though more in that intense, introspective sorta way, rather than Reid’s all-American look. My coworkers would be all over him.”