Best Kept Secret (11 page)

I snort. My stories of four, five, even eight orgasms one night with Martin—back before we went all to hell—drove her mad with envy. It’s the one area I can one-up my sister and though I know I shouldn’t, I revel in it.

“Okay,” I consent, “I suppose that makes us even. Sort of.” I sip my coffee. “Where’s Derek?”

“Showing property. He’s trying to get some horrible couple to buy a condo downtown. He bet me ten bucks he could have them writing an offer by the end of the day.”

“Huh.” I don’t pretend to understand the real-estate industry, though I do attempt sympathetic and interested noises when my sister begins to talk about her job. Since the boys were born almost three years ago, Derek carries the weight of the upfront selling and Jess works behind the scenes to run the business from home. She picks up clients where she can to help make ends meet, especially since the market took a nosedive. Luckily, their brokerage was strong enough to weather the economic downturn, but even so, most months they’ve been forced to dip into the savings they’d each built up during the late 1990s housing boom. According
to Jess, those funds are quickly depleting, so each sale they make today takes on greater significance for their financial survival.

“How’s work going for you?” Jess asks.

I shrug. “Okay, I guess. I’m having a hard time getting back into it.” For too many months, pulling the words from my brain to write has felt like trying to squeeze fluid from stone. It made sense when I was actively drinking, I suppose, since my thoughts were muddied by alcohol, but Andi says this is normal even now; for up to two years my brain cells will be in the process of rebuilding. Post-acute withdrawal symptoms, she calls it. Memory loss and the lack of ability to focus are only the tip of the dysfunctional iceberg. I already went through Baby Brain; apparently, Booze Brain is a similar experience.

“I did get a call from Peter the other day,” I say. “My old editor at the
Herald
?”

“Oh, right,” Jess says, taking another sip of her coffee. “What did he want?”

“I guess he was in Chicago a few weeks ago and ended up meeting an editor from
O
.”

She looks confused.

“Oprah’s magazine?” I say.

“Oh, right, right.”

“He said he thought our personalities would click. She’s expecting me to get in contact and pitch her a few ideas.”

“That’s
amazing,
” Jess says, then crinkles up her forehead and lifts a single, perfectly plucked eyebrow when I don’t look as enthused. “Isn’t it?”

“It would be if I
had
any ideas. I’m not even sure I should be freelancing right now. I sort of let things slide over the past year.” More like I let them disappear. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d sold an article. “I’m starting to think I might need to find a new career. One that actually pays my bills.”

“Are you okay? Do you need to borrow a little bit to get you through? If Derek makes this sale today—”

“That’s very sweet of you,” I say, cutting her off, “but I can manage. I still have some of the divorce settlement left. But it won’t last much longer.” I figure if I really cut corners, I can survive about six more months on what’s left in my account. After that, I may have to practice inquiring whether customers would like to supersize their meals.

“You’ll figure it out,” my sister says. “You could always sell the house, right? Maybe move into something more affordable?”

“I suppose so, but I’d hate to move Charlie.” The divorce left me with two main assets: the house and my cashed-out half of Martin’s 401(k) account, the latter of which I’ve been using to pay my bills. With the account already so diminished, I didn’t want to lose the house. Not yet.

“Well, at least you know a good agent if you need one,” she says with a grin.

“Really? Who?” I tease.

“Funny,” she says, rolling her eyes, then pauses for a moment to sip her coffee. “So, do any of the editors you usually work with know about your problem?”

“No.” I realize I’m gripping my mug tightly enough to make my fingers ache. I relax them. “I was pretty good at keeping it under wraps.”

She shifts her shoulders almost imperceptibly. It’s suddenly her turn to not make eye contact.

“What?” I push. “I know that look.”

“What look?” She moves her gaze to meet mine.

“That one.” I put a finger in her face. “You’re trying not to say something. Give it up.”

“This coming from Little Miss Not Forthcoming.” She bats my finger away and points hers back at me. “You’re not quite as sneaky as you think you are.”

I sit back in my chair. “What does
that
mean?”

“It means, Cadee,” she sighs, “that it’s not like people didn’t suspect what was going on with you.”

There is no condescension in her tone, only a factual edge, and it cuts deep. A panicky feeling grips my belly, the kind where it seems that the jig is up on something you thought you had gotten away with free and clear, and suddenly, there you stand, caught, your emotional pants down around your ankles.

She leans forward and takes one of my hands in hers. “We knew. We might not have said anything, but we did know.”

I pull my hand back, tuck my fingers in between my thighs, and squeeze them. Tears threaten to roll and I hate them. She hasn’t said this to me before now, not once in the last eight weeks.

Jess sighs, pushes back into her chair. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” I keep my tone neutral. Hysteria claws at the edges, just below the surface of my words. Only I can feel this. I will not show it to her. I will not show it to anyone.

“For bringing it up, I guess.”

“It’s okay.” It’s not okay. It is very, very far from okay.

“Yeah, you sound like you mean that.” We are silent for a moment. And then she continues. “I should have said something. I should have tried to help.”

“I wouldn’t have let you.” I swallow hard and clear my throat. “I didn’t know anything was wrong.” This is not entirely true. A person can’t drink the way I did and not suspect she might be completely screwed in the head. Crazy, even. Like the grandmother I didn’t want to tell Martin about on our first date.

Jess takes a deep breath, registers the expression on my face, then asks, “Should we talk about something else?”

“Yes, please,” I say with a faltering smile.

And just like that, we do. We talk about the twins, her latest deal, the lack of intelligence she perceives in the Mommy and Me pool. We talk about our mother, who has a new boyfriend with a funny-looking mustache. The sense of normalcy around our conversation
calms me, distracts me from the whirling tornadoes in my mind. I am exhausted of thinking, of examining every tiny scrap of information and emotion that flows through me. I long for a shutoff switch for my brain, a way to halt the never-ending supply of synaptic chatter.

Natalie goes home around noon, and Jess and I make lunch for the boys: toasted cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, and for us, mandarin grilled chicken salad. Jess gets Charlie’s jeans washed while the twins take a nap, and Charlie and I walk to a nearby park so we don’t disturb their rest. Charlie wears a pair of sweats he left at his aunt’s house the last time he slept over; the elastic hems hit just above his ankles now. Watching him play, it strikes me just how quickly he has grown.

After we return from the park and the boys wake up, Jess and I decide to get out of the house for a few hours. We take the boys to Tube Time, a venue filled with well-padded, obstacle course-like tunnels and cushioned slides, both designed to wear out even the most energetic kid. Jess and I take turns crawling in after our children when they refuse to get out of another child’s way, or when Jake is too frightened to go down the bigger slide. For a while, chatting with my sister and seeing the kids play, I almost feel like myself again.

The afternoon passes and the light starts to fade as we pull into Jess’s driveway. Derek calls and tells Jess he has to go out to dinner with his clients to write up an offer on a house. Jess growls playfully at her loss of their bet, happy, I know, to have another commission coming in. Lured by the promise of Jess’s cheesy lasagna and garlic butter-drenched bread, I agree to stay for dinner. My nephews have gone downstairs to play, but Charlie runs around the house, alternately clinging to me, then spinning in circles, arms spread wide in the middle of the living room.

“Hey, champ,” I say, “knock it off, would you? You’ll break something.”

“No I won’t!” he exclaims. “Look at me! I’m Spida-Man!” He leaps onto the couch and pretends it’s a trampoline. Even after a
busy day of playing, his energy levels are insane; not hyperactive, exactly. More kinetic. He’s pretty much been in constant motion since he learned how to walk. This has been somewhat disconcerting for me to deal with as a woman who views exercise as punishment for her private, passionate love affair with ice cream.

“Wow,” Jess observes. “Too much sugar?”

“Too much Alice, more like it. She completely clamps down on him so he freaks out when he gets away.”

“I do
not
!” Charlie screeches, the slender cords in his neck standing out like rope. He jumps across my sister’s couch, feet together, cushion to cushion. “Don’t call me a freak!”

“I didn’t call you a freak, I said you freak
out
. Big difference. Now, get down.” I try to keep my tone calm, but there is an itch in my chest, a tightening that feels all too familiar.

“No!” He jumps again, once, for emphasis, then looks at me defiantly.

“It’s really okay,” Jess says. “The boys do it all the time.”

“No, it’s not okay.” I stand up, step toward him, and grab my child around his skinny bicep, maybe a little harder than I should have. “I told you to get down. Now.”

“Owww!” he squeals. “Don’t!”

I yank him a bit to get him to land on his butt, which he does.

“Cadee,” Jess says, her voice quiet. “It’s okay.”

I look at her, my eyes flashing. The adrenaline is already pumping. Another withdrawal symptom—extreme irritability. It takes nothing—nothing at all—to set me off.
I want a drink
is the first thought in my head. My blood is heating, bursting into tiny, stress-induced flames beneath my skin. I can no longer douse them with wine. My child is my trigger. “Identify them,” Andi encourages us in group. “Avoid them if you can.” What the hell is wrong with me? Who reacts like this to their own child? I let go of my son’s arm, sit down next to him on the couch.

“Sorry, monkey,” I whisper.

He sits still, arms crossed over his chest, bottom lip pushed out
but no tears. I try to run my hand down his arm, but he jerks away. “Don’t!” he says, more quietly than the time before.

“Okay.” I rest my hands, cupped together gently, palms up, in my lap.

“Why don’t you go downstairs with the boys?” Jess suggests in a happy voice.

Charlie glances at me, tentative, sidelong. He is not ready to forgive me. I don’t blame him. I’m nowhere near being able to forgive myself.

I nod. “Aunt Jess is right. Go play, have fun.” He walks slowly, head hanging, down the hall and down the basement stairs. The ache in my heart is a palpable thing. I wish for a way to have it surgically removed.

“He’ll be fine,” Jess says. Her expression is blank, but her eyes can’t mask her concern.

I shake my head. “What if I can’t fix this? What if I’ve scarred him for life?”

She sighs. “All of us are scarred, Cadee. We’ve all got our wounds. No one escapes their childhood unscathed.”

I take in a jagged breath. “I feel like I’ve totally failed him. No wonder he’s freaking out. It’s not Alice. It’s me. It’s my fault. Kids need to know what to expect. They need stability and routine to feel safe and I’ve obliterated all of that for him. When I think about what I’ve done—”

“Stop it.” Jess cuts me off. Her voice is firm. “You can’t do this to yourself. Yes, you screwed up. Yes, Charlie has gone through some shit you wish he didn’t have to go through. But wallowing around in your guilt about it is going to get you nowhere. So knock it off.”

When I don’t respond, she walks over and puts her arms around me. She holds me close, her palm pressed against the back of my head, her mouth next to my ear. “You are a good mother.”

“No,” I say. “I’m not.” This is the tape that plays in my head:
I’m shit. I’m selfish and useless and I got drunk in front of my son. I’m nothing
but a piece of shit.
It’s the sound track that sets the rhythm of my days.

“Yes, you are. Remember when Charlie wouldn’t nurse right away in the hospital? Remember how your milk wasn’t coming in?”

I sniff, then nod into her shoulder.

“And what did you do that I’m sure to this
day
the nurses at Swedish still talk about? You started massaging your boobs to get those milk ducts going. You rubbed your boobs so hard they were black and blue. I thought you were a rock star mom. You were absolutely determined Charlie would get what you thought was best for him. Right?”

I nod again.

“And what about the time when he had bronchitis and you didn’t sleep for eight days straight? Remember how you held him? How you sat in the bathroom running scalding hot water for hours and hours trying to help your baby boy breathe easy? You had tile marks on your ass for a week.”

A small, reluctant smile pushes out the corners of my mouth. She is still holding me.

“You’re a good mother, Cadee. Not perfect, but good.”

I shake my head, but don’t say anything more. She doesn’t understand. She has no idea just how deep this sense of disgrace goes. How could she?

She sighs. “Okay, then. I’ll set up the guest room.”

I pull back from her and start to protest, but she stops me by holding up her hand. “No arguments. You’re spending the night. Derek won’t be home until late and I need the company.”

“I should take him home,” I say meekly. “He needs to be in his own bed.”

“Cadence.” This is all she says. Her tone is enough to tell me the debate has ended. We won’t talk about it outright. She won’t say she is worried about the flare-up of my anger, my inability to manage it without taking a drink. She doesn’t have to speak. My sister knows me well enough to hear my thoughts, to know I need help, even when I can’t come close to admitting it to myself.