Finding the positive in this situation feels pointless, but I do it.
If I hadn’t come home early tonight, I might not have caught her here at al . It’s only eleven. Dad must not be home yet, or she’d be in their room or one of the guest rooms. She’s not dressed for bed, either, though her mismatched outfit, unkempt hair and makeup-less face tel me she hasn’t left the house today. This is an unspoken agreement between my parents—Mom doesn’t go out in public when she’s been drinking. A quiet, depressive drunk, she’s always al owed herself to be coaxed into compliance with this edict. She never drives, either—the car service is on permanent cal , so no chance for a DUI. Each member of the staff has Dad on speed-dial. My family has enabling down to an art.
An hour ago I was at a party with John, staring at the familiar crowd of fashionably-clad undulating bodies and the smoke curling towards the ceiling, trying and failing to ignore my boredom as the typical laughter rose occasional y over the typical music. While the socialite sitting next to me droned on about her last trip to Amsterdam and the mind-altering experiences she had there, I found myself thinking about shelves.
“…and then I felt so, you know, at peace with everything and everybody, like I was part of the universe, you know?” she said, and I nodded, contemplating the studfinder, which is a clever-as-hel device. I’d attached those brackets with three-inch screws, driving them into the frame, daring them to ever come loose. If the house was demolished by an act of God, those damned brackets would probably remain affixed to the planks of wood inside the wal . When Dori pul ed on the shelves to test them, they hadn’t moved a mil imeter.
My thoughts shifted ful y to Dori. Was her kiss a reward for doing something right? And if so, what was I wil ing to do to earn it again? Not be hungover tomorrow?
The girl next to me paused in the middle of relaying her substance-triggered existential experiences. “Wanna find a room?” she asked, mistaking my silence for interest, I guess.
I focused on her for the first time since she’d begun talking. She was exceptional y hot, despite her buzzed, slow-blinking expression. Smiling, she took my hand. Her fingers were dainty, linked with mine—even her hand was pretty, her nails perfectly manicured, French tips folding over the top of my hand. She stood and headed towards a hal way. I stood and started to fol ow. And then I pul ed her to a stop and she turned back, confused.
I leaned closer to be heard over the music. “Not tonight.
Maybe some other time.”
She blinked, nonplussed. I untangled my hand from hers and scanned the room for John. As usual, he was relatively easy to find. I just looked for real y tal girls.
I told him I thought I had food poisoning and was ditching for tonight, and he fol owed me to the door, looking worried.
“Hey man, you need me to drive you home?”
“Nah, I’m good,” I told him. “Cal ed a taxi already.” I waited outside in the heat, the effects of the party slowly fal ing away. I’d only had one drink, hadn’t smoked anything or swal owed any pil s. It felt good to be in the open air. A little warm, but nothing like digging holes for trees or tamping down sod in ful summer sun. I had to laugh. Reid Alexander, landscaping a yard. Man. No wonder the paparazzi were having seizures over it.
Unsure what to do with Mom now, I leave her on my bed and go shower. When I come back, she hasn’t moved. I scoop her up, wishing I’d done so before showering, because her breath is sour, and even her perspiration exudes a noxious odor. As I carry her to her room, I’m sucked into a memory—a day prior to her earliest round of rehab.
I was ten or so, and must have just come home from school because I was wearing the uniform of the most elite private elementary school in the state. Mom was in her sitting room with her wedding album on her lap. “Reid!” she said when I peeked around the corner. “Come look with me.”
My parents’ wedding had been a social event, organized with a precision usual y reserved for royalty, the whole wedding party arrayed like beings from a fairytale hosted by exclusive designers, courtesy of old money. I don’t remember the photos themselves, just my impression of them, except for one snapshot of the two of them emerging from the church, thick wooden doors braced open behind them. My mother—petite, blonde and beautiful in her ivory gown, stood with her arm tucked through Dad’s, his opposite hand covering hers. My father, in his early thirties, was tal and good-looking. Impressive. No different from his present day look and demeanor—except in these photos, he was beaming. And he had more hair, not as closely shorn as the present salt-and-pepper version.
My mother’s fingers hovered over the photograph, one frosted pink nail tracing her own torso in the stunning ivory gown. “My gown had seed pearls sewn into the bodice,” she told me. “I felt like a princess. And your father was so handsome.” They made a striking pair.
“Reid,” she said then, her fingers shaking, suspended over the princess in the photo, “Mommy’s going to be gone for a little while.”
I frowned at her. “Gone where?”
She swal owed, and it seemed like she was trying to breathe normal y. Maybe she was trying not to cry. I stared at her, concerned, and she smiled through watery eyes.
“Wel , it seems that you are going to have a little brother or sister, and I need to go away for a little bit, to make sure I don’t… make sure I don’t…” She stared at her shaking hand and the photograph underneath it.
“Don’t what?” I asked, reeling with the news of a sibling. I remember feeling happy initial y, but something was upsetting my mother, so I pushed the joy aside until I had time to understand what I should feel.
“To make sure I don’t hurt the baby.”
I had no idea what she meant. I was sure my mother could never hurt anything or anyone. She couldn’t even stand to punish me when I was bad—and I was bad pretty often. There was no way she’d hurt a baby. I said as much to her, and she started to cry in earnest, the opposite of the effect I was going for. “This wil al work out; everything wil be wonderful,” she said, taking my face in her hands. “And I hope he or she is just like you.”