Best Kept Secret (24 page)

“Any worse about what you’ve
done,
you mean. Not ‘what happened.’ What you did.”

“Yes. What I’ve done.”

Martin is quiet a moment now. I allow myself to feel buoyed by a small flash of optimism.

“Treatment’s helping,” I say. “I’m starting to understand why it happened. I intend to make sure it never happens again.” My voice is shaky. I’m not sure how convincing I sound. Part of me feels that after what I’ve done, I’ve lost the right to defend myself.

“Intentions aren’t enough, Cadee. How do I know you won’t drink again? How do I know Charlie will be safe?” He sighs, the old Martin I know coming through, if only for a moment, the ghost of the man who once loved me. I know part of him only wants to do the right thing by our son. But I don’t understand how he could possibly think the best thing is for Charlie to be without me.

“It’s probably better to leave it to the lawyers,” he says. “I’m sorry I bothered you. Have a nice night.”

Yeah, right,
I think, as I hang up the phone.
No problem, I’m sure I’ll drift right off to sleep now. Sweet dreams to you, too. Bastard.

I flop over to lie on my side, punch my pillow, once, twice. I wriggle beneath the covers to find a comfortable position, unsuccessfully trying to blank my mind of any thought. I flip over one more time, wrestling around with the covers.

My relationship with Martin doesn’t matter anymore. I can’t fix it, I can’t change it. What matters is my son. I miss him violently; there is a Charlie-shaped hole inside me. Is there one shaped like me inside of him?

Nighttime is the worst. The quiet makes me feel like I’ve lost him completely, like he might never be coming back. I watch moonlight graze the tips of its long golden fingers over my bedroom walls. Swayed by a gentle breeze, the laurel outside my bedroom window taps on the glass in a soft, staccato beat. Trying to find relief, I gather the nearest pillow I can find to my heart, hold it close, rock it. In the dark I pretend it is my son, soft and warm, quiet and sweet, my child peacefully sleeping.

I
am about halfway through
my second cup of coffee on Monday morning when I decide to start wading through my old clippings. I’m contemplating whether it would be feasible to reslant any of the stories into new, unbelievably brilliant article ideas. The first few years I did freelance work, I’d written several pieces about what it was like having a colicky infant—all the different methodologies I tried to help Charlie sleep through the night. Going for drives, feeding him homeopathic antigas tablets, and finally, eliminating all dairy and wheat from my own diet in case Charlie might have been allergic and I was making him miserable with my breast milk. I wrote about how none of those methods worked—I simply had a child who was only happy when I was holding him. Tears begin to well in my throat as I think about what I would give to be holding him right now. Obviously, in my current state, I can’t write about parenting.

Sighing, I abandon my clippings, flip open my laptop, and start reading the headlines on a local news webpage, another technique I’ve used in the past for finding a seed to a story. A local man was arrested for flashing a group of teenage girls at a Tacoma high school. A profile piece, maybe?
The Man Behind the Trench Coat
. I roll my eyes to the ceiling at the absurdity of this thought. Scrolling down the page, I see a video clip about an organic produce delivery service. Five minutes later, I know more about cow manure compost
and how it relates to a successful heirloom tomato crop than I ever thought possible. Where’s the story idea in that?
The Road to Going Green Is Paved with Crap?
I sigh again. Honestly, this is pointless. How did I ever come up with good ideas before?

The phone rings, saving me. It’s my mother, inviting me to come visit her at her office. I haven’t spoken with her since the pancake breakfast at Jess’s house, but it’s as good an excuse as any to escape trying to write. Thirty minutes later, Keiko, my mother’s receptionist, lifts her eyes from her computer and comes out from behind her desk to let me in. She is a young, gorgeous Japanese girl, petite enough to make me feel like a lumberjack.

“Cadence!” she greets me, ushering me inside. She locks the door behind us, tucks her long, sleek black sheet of hair behind one ear. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I know. How’ve you been?”

“Pretty good. How about you?” Her face immediately morphs into a look that tells me my mother has already informed her exactly how I’ve been.
Lovely—just what I need, a twenty-year-old receptionist for a judge.

“Fine,” I say brightly. The easiest answer often turns out to be the biggest lie. I smile. “Is my mom around? She’s expecting me.”

“She’s in her office.” She steps back behind her desk, reaches for the phone. “Want me to let her know you’re here?”

“That’s okay. I’m pretty sure I can still find it.” I step down the hall past the wandering labyrinth of cubicles; Mom once told me she had the place designed so skittish patients would have a hard time making a last-minute run for it. I find her sitting at her desk and plop down in one of the buttery-smooth red leather chairs.

We sit in silence for a moment, my mother’s eyes on me, my eyes on the floor.

“How’s that grandson of mine?” she asks, her voice attempting joviality.

I look up. “I’m sure he’s fine.” I pause, the sudden wedge in my
throat making it impossible to speak. The truth is, I don’t know exactly how he is. I can’t wait to see him for dinner on Wednesday. “And Mark? How is he?”

“You mean Mike?” She looks a little shy, then smiles, and it strikes me how similar it is to my own.

“Right, Mike. Sorry.” Handlebar Mustache Mike, Jess had dubbed him. The new boyfriend. “How are things going with him?”

“Good. He’s very sweet. He’s teaching me how to dance.”

“That’s nice of him. Are you guys getting serious?” I ask this despite already knowing the answer is no.

“It’s too soon to tell. I like him, though. He makes me laugh.” She pauses, looks at the wall, then back at me. “So, honey. I have to ask you something.”

“Okay . . .” I cross my arms over my chest, wondering if all women automatically go on the defensive around the person who brought them into this world. But I realize this can’t be because it doesn’t happen to Jess. I attempt to rearrange my face to keep this from showing too much.

Her expression is hesitant, but she leans forward, folding her hands together on top of the paperwork on her desk. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About your . . . problem. With alcohol.”

“Join the club,” I say, my own reach for levity. This conversation is dangerous; I should have suited up with protective gear.

She gives me a faltering closed-mouth smile. “I can imagine.” She takes a deep breath in through her nose. “I’ve been wondering what I’m going to say when Mr. Hines asks me if I think you’re ready to take Charlie back.”

“Oh.” My insides begin to shake; I grip the arms of my chair to steady myself. “Did you come to any conclusion?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Do
you
think you’re ready to have him?” Her body is rigid as she speaks, welded into position, bracing herself for my response.

I cross my legs now, too, and proceed to uncontrollably wiggle
my airborne foot. “Of course I am. I’m his mother. He’s never been anywhere but with me.” As I say this, I hate the hesitance in my voice. I want Charlie back. I ache for him so deeply I can barely breathe. But that isn’t the question she asked. She wants to know if I am ready for it. I have not thought to ask myself that question. Scott hasn’t even asked me that. My mother asking it of me now raises a wild, panicky feeling inside me. I don’t know what to do with it. “He needs me.”

My mother’s features soften. “I have no doubt he needs you. That little boy loves you beyond belief, and I know you adore him. But I just . . .” she trails off.

“I’m not drinking anymore,” I say. “Treatment is helping.” I use the same phrase I used with Martin the night he called. This is not a case of me repeating something again and again, trying to make it true. It
is
true. I am better than I was two months ago. I’m a smart woman. I’ll handle it. Children should be with their mothers; that’s all there is to it.

“I’m sure treatment
is
helping.” She unlatches her fingers, drumming them on the papers beneath.

I give a short, sharp nod, acknowledging she is right. The bright beep of the intercom on her desk makes me blink. My mother pushes a button.

“Yes?”

“Your ten o’clock appointment is here, Sharon.”

“Thanks, Keiko. I’ll be right up.” She stands, gives me another dazzling smile. “Sorry. Can we talk later?”

I stand, as well. “I’ll have to call you. I’m not sure what my schedule is going to look like.” She stares at me, blinking, both of us knowing full well that my “schedule” consists of a fat lot of nothing.

“Sure. Just let me know.”

We both move to walk out of her office, me a couple of paces ahead of her. I love her, but I don’t know how to reach out to her. But then I don’t have to, because it is she who sends out a hand and grabs me by the arm, pulling me to a stop.

“What?” I say.

“If you need me—” she starts, but I cut her off.

“Okay. Thank you.” I cannot help but think,
Too little, too late.
I don’t believe her. She knows how to say the right thing, just not how to do it. My bitterness tastes like a mouthful of pennies.

“I just—” she begins helplessly, but doesn’t finish the thought.

“Mom. I know.” I hate the way I sound. I want to thank her, I want to be the kind of daughter who can crumple into the safety of her mother’s arms and fall apart. But I’m not. I’m the daughter she raised; the kind of daughter who pulls her arm away from her mother’s touch and plans to keep on walking until no one can touch her at all.

O
ver the next couple
of weeks, I rack my brain trying to come up with a good idea to pitch to Tara. Editors are always looking for the hook—there are very few truly original ideas, so my best shot is to find a new and interesting angle to bring to the table.
O
readers look for inspiring, self-help-oriented content, but I’m the last person on the planet to be giving out any kind of self-improvement advice. If
O
published something I wrote and a reader found out my current life circumstances, they might sue for misrepresentation. False advertising, at the very least. I was crazy to contact her in the first place; crazy to think I was ready to take on something so big.

Instead, I take on something small. On the Friday of the last weekend in April, I decide that not having Charlie with me is as good as any other time to do a deep clean of my house, so I head out to Target to pick up supplies.

I’ve never been an immaculate housekeeper, but when my drinking began taking up more of my day than being sober, my surroundings pretty much mimicked my inner struggle with chaos. I am loath to admit it, even to myself, but there actually came a point when I ran out of clean underwear and instead of doing laundry, I simply decided to stop wearing them altogether. With my alcohol-soaked brain, this seemed a perfectly reasonable act at the time; now, it
seems desperate and sad . . . defective, really. I mean, what kind of person
does
that?

While I was in-patient at Promises, Jess hired the cleaning service she and Derek use for the houses they put on the market to come and scour the surfaces of my home. They ended up needing three days to complete the job, and I will never be able to repay my sister for her kind gesture. I don’t even want to think about the mess they found, the wine stains they had to scrub out of my carpet, the thickness of scum built up in my bathtub. The gunk under the toilet rim was there long enough for me to consider giving it a nickname. Since coming home, cleaning brings me relief. Instead of finding solace in a bottle of wine, I attempt to find it in Comet cleanser.

After wolfing down a giant corndog and a diet soda from the concession stand for lunch, I wander the aisles, considering the numerous selections of countertop cleaning solutions. When my cell phone rings, I fumble for it, thinking it might be Jess, and pull my cart to the side of the aisle so I don’t block other shoppers from trying to get around me. “Hello?”

“Hi, Cadence. It’s Kristin. From group?”

“Oh, hi.” My response is guarded.

“I’m sorry it has taken me so long to call you,” she says. “I kept meaning to . . .”

“No worries,” I say. I’d seen her at group a couple of times and thought about how she hadn’t called, but it didn’t bother me. Not really. Isn’t that what most people do, say things like, “We should do lunch,” or “I’ll call you next week,” and then you never hear from them again? I’ve rarely taken this kind of thing personally before and I don’t see a reason to start now. I regard a picture of a genie on a bottle, promising me surface shine like no other, and wonder briefly if it’s really true what they say about bald men being more virile than those sporting a full head of hair, and how one thing could have anything to do with the other.

“How are you?” I ask.

“I’m okay.” She pauses. “Well, not really.” Another pause. This phone call is going to take forever if she continues to do this. “Why do we do that?”

“Do what?” I say, thinking she might be talking about her pausing habit.

“Say we’re okay when we’re not.”

I shrug, as though she can see me. “We’re conditioned that way, I guess.” The bottle with the genie convinces me to throw it in my cart. I start to move down the aisle, phone tucked between my shoulder and my ear. “Can you imagine what would happen if we started answering that question honestly? Like ‘How are you?’ ‘Well . . .
actually,
I’m a mess. I started drinking heavily, and now I’m fighting for custody of my son.’ People would run screaming down the streets.”