Best Kept Secret (30 page)

“I know. It’s just—”

“Just what?”
Tell me. Please, just tell me why you think I’ll fail.
“Do you think I’m like your mother? That I’m crazy?”

Her sigh is ragged. “I don’t think you’re crazy, Cadence.”

“You’ve told me my whole life I’m like her.”

“I said you
looked
like her.”

“You said I was her carbon copy! You said she was crazy, then you told me I was just like her. I was a kid. Did it even cross your mind what conclusions I’d come to about that?”
I will not cry,
I chant internally.
I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry.

“My mother wasn’t crazy.”

“What?” I ask.

“She wasn’t crazy!” There is the hitch of tears behind her words. “That’s just what they called alcoholics when I was growing up. That’s what my dad called her. It’s what I was used to calling it. I didn’t know how to talk to you girls about it, so I just called her what I’d always called her. It wasn’t until my father left that I really saw what was wrong with her. That it was the drinking that brought on her crazy behavior. She climbed into bed and drank for days and days. She wouldn’t shower. She screamed at me. I’d try to cook for her. I’d try to make her the kinds of things she liked to eat so she would stop drinking, and she would throw the plate of food at me as I walked out the door. Later, she said she was sorry. She made me climb under her covers with her and then she cried. She cried and she told me how much she hated me. She said she wished I was never born.” Her breath heaves.

Trying to process what this all means, my thoughts spin to the point of feeling dizzy. “God, Mom. Why didn’t you
tell
us any of this?”

“You were too young. It’s not exactly the kind of knowledge little girls need. When you got old enough, there wasn’t a reason to tell you.”

“Until now, maybe? You didn’t think when all of this happened with me that that might have been a perfect opportunity to say something? Maybe at the family session at Promises? That would have been a perfect place to bring it up.”

“Of course I did. I just . . .” She trails off and I have to prompt her.

“Just what?”

She sighs. “I’ve never talked about it to anyone. I certainly wasn’t going to say anything in front of all those strangers in that group. I didn’t even know how to say it to
you
.”

“Are you afraid I’ll end up like her?”

“If you keep drinking, you
will
end up like her. And when I meet with him in July, if I tell Mr. Hines you should have Charlie, and you start drinking again . . . well, then it would be my fault.” Her voice is tired, wrung dry.

“What would be your fault?” I whispered.

“It would be my fault if Charlie grew up the same way I did. Scared of his own mother. Terrified to do or say just one tiny wrong thing for fear of it setting you off. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you hurt him the way she hurt me.”

“But I’m not her,” I say quietly. “Mom. I don’t ask you for much. I never have. You taught me that. I’m so capable. Why would I ever need help? But I need your help here.” The words feel heavy and foreign, falling at strange angles throughout my mouth as I deliver them.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t know what else to say.”

“Sorry for what? Are you going to tell Mr. Hines I shouldn’t have Charlie?” My lungs feel like they’re about to collapse from the pressure surrounding them.

“I don’t know what I’m going to tell him,” she says. “Not yet. I just wanted you to know why.”

*   *   *

I call Jess the next morning, wanting to tell her about our grandmother but knowing it’s something I probably shouldn’t do over the phone. I half expect her to already know anyway, since Jess is usually our mother’s first confidante. Though I am the oldest I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve known something that significantly affects our lives before she does.

“Marley, get away from your brother with that crayon!” she says instead of hello. I hear the boys screeching in the background. “God, I’m sorry,” she breathes into the phone. “The little shits.”

“Uh-oh, bad day?” I smile as I say this, even though I know full well it’s not nice to feel happy that my sister has bad mommy moments, too. I can’t help it, though, I do. It makes me feel less defective.

“Not bad, really. Just busy. I’m trying to get three offers put together and faxed to the appropriate agents and Marley decided to get artistic on the septic addendum. Now he’s trying to color his brother’s brain periwinkle blue. Through his nasal passage.”

I laugh. “Tell him Aunt Cadee said to go with burnt sienna.”

“Uh . . . no,” she says. “So what’s up?”

“Can you come over for dinner tonight?” I ask her.

“That depends,” she says. “What are you going to make me?”

I smile, knowing exactly how to lure her. “Green chili enchiladas with gobs of jack cheese and sour cream?”

“Sold! I’ll get Derek to hang out with the boys and be there at seven.”

I fill my day by going to the grocery store for all the ingredients I need to make my sister’s favorite meal, deciding at the last minute to grill some corn on the cob for a roasted corn salad with red bell peppers and cilantro-lime dressing. I love how easy it is to get lost in my thoughts while I work in the kitchen. Following the steps in a recipe and ending up with exactly what I expect is a huge comfort. Right now, I’ll take predictability wherever I can find it.

Jess shows up at about 7:15 wearing black leggings and a long, red T-shirt. She inhales deeply. “Oh my God, I could smell this all the way down the street.” She walks in the front door, pulls her shirt up, and uses a hooked thumb to extend the elastic waist of her pants. “I dressed appropriately.”

I laugh, taking the fancy bottle of citrus sparkling water she brought to go with our dinner. We sit down and after serving her a spoonful of each dish, she moans appreciatively as she eats. “Oh, man,” she groans. “You are the best cook.”

I smile, and my whole body fills with pleasure at her compliment. “Thank you.”

We eat in silence for a few minutes, until I set down my fork and rest my hands in my lap. “So,” I begin, “I have something I want to talk to you about.”

Jess sets her fork down, too, and gives me an apprehensive look. “Uh-oh. This isn’t just a sisterly bonding meal? There’s an agenda?”

I release a short laugh. “Not exactly. But I do need to tell you about a talk I had with Mom.” I repeat what our mother told me about our grandmother being an alcoholic.

“Wow.” Jess breathes the word out heavily, dropping back against her chair as she keeps her eyes on me. “Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? She
hated
talking about her mom with us. All those stories about taking her to the psych ward and how horrible it was checking her in—” She stops suddenly and drops her gaze to her plate. “I’m sorry. That was rude. I didn’t mean—”

I wave off her apology. “Don’t worry about it. I
was
in the psych ward. And I belonged there.” I give her a wry smile. “For a little while, at least.” I roll over a few phrases in my mind, unsure of the proper etiquette for thanking my sister for delivering me to the loony bin. I’m pretty sure Hallmark doesn’t have a card for this occasion.

Jess looks relieved. “Yeah, can you imagine what it was like for our grandmother back then? Having a drinking problem and instead
of getting to go to treatment like you did, everyone telling her she was a nut job?”

I pause for a moment, considering what my sister has said, and she starts to look worried again. I reach over and squeeze her forearm. “I’ve just never thought of it that way. That treatment is something I ‘get’ to do as opposed to ‘having’ to.”

She nods, looking pensive. “Man, our poor grandmother.” She pauses. “Our poor
mother
. It has to bring up a lot of crap for her. She probably has no idea how to deal with your situation.”

“That’s something we have in common then.”

She reaches her arm around my shoulders and pulls me to her for a hug. I let her hold me for a minute, resting my head on her chest. “So, you haven’t asked how
my
conversation with Mr. Hines went,” she says.

I jackknife upright. “What? You talked with him? When? You didn’t tell me you had a meeting with him. Scott didn’t tell me he was planning on talking with you.”

She holds up her hands in a gesture of surrender. “Whoa there, Nelly. I didn’t know. Your lawyer didn’t know. The man just called me this afternoon, out of the blue.”

“What did you say to him, Jessica?”

She drops her hands back to her lap. “What do you think I told him? I said you are the most amazing person I’ve ever known. I told him you are creative and smart. I said you are loving and generous. I told him I would not be the person I am today without you as my sister.”

My throat begins to close and my eyes mist. I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out, so I close it again.

“You’re welcome.” Jess touches my cheek with her warm hand. “I meant it. I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.” A couple of tears slip out and she wipes them away with the edge of her thumb.

“But that’s not what you really want to know, right? You want to know what I told him about whether you should have Charlie back.”

I nod, unable to speak again.

“Well, I’ve thought about it a lot. How could I not, right? I saw how ugly it was that night I came to get you.” She looks at me with glassy eyes. “I barely recognized you. There was this . . . I don’t know,
vacancy
in you. Like you had already stepped away from your body. It scared the hell out of me.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“I know,” she says, using the bend of her wrist to wipe away her own tears. “It just seemed like you were fine one minute and the next time I looked, you were way over the edge.”

“That’s how it felt, too.
Exactly
how it felt.”

She takes a deep breath. “The good news is, I see all these changes in you already. You seem to be calmer than you were even a week ago. I’m not sure what it is exactly. But I told Mr. Hines you’ve always been a role model for me and you’re a role model for me now.”

“Really?”

“I know, frightening, isn’t it?” She winks at me.

I give her a halfhearted smack. “Jess.”

“I also told him you’re the parent Charlie should live with.”

A sob grips my chest and I curl back up against my sister. “Thank you,” I whisper. “Thank you so much. And not just for saying that to Mr. Hines. Thank you for everything. For being there for me that night. For helping me.”

“Eh. What else are little sisters for?” She kisses the top of my head.

I look up at her. “I’m the big sister. I should be
your
hero.”

“Be your own,” she says, and the thought flits through my mind that it might be possible for me to do just that.

N
adine sits across from
me at a meeting the morning after my dinner with Jess. Her flame orange tresses are spiked in a wild, porcupine mess and her vermillion lips stand out as a striking but friendly gash carved against her pale, powdered face. Her skin has the softly wrinkled quality of a slightly overripe apricot. Sparkling green eyes regard me from behind her glasses as she talks about the peace she finds in AA.

“I’ve got ANTs,” she says with a grin. “Assorted negative thoughts. They crawl through my brain causing trouble, but what I hear in these rooms manages to squash them, so I don’t have to reach for a drink to drown them out. Little bastards keep coming back, though, so here I am. You all are my exterminators. That’s all I’ve got. Thanks.”

As she picks up the knitting project she had set in her lap while she was speaking, the other people in the room give a collective chuckle, including me. This is such an accurate image of how my own head feels most the time: my brain as an ANT farm.

I came because I knew Nadine would be here. I need to get a sponsor. Someone to help guide me through how to do the work. I have heard about it constantly during the meetings, these “steps” I need to take. I have no clue how to begin. I have a bizarre suspicion this mouthy, brilliant-haired, ANT-ridden recovering alcoholic might just be the person to walk me through.

After the meeting ends and I’m waiting to talk with Nadine, Vince approaches me. A petite woman who appears to be about my age, with dirty blond hair and shaking hands, walks next to him. She wears baggy blue jeans and a heavily pilled, oversize green sweater.

“Cadence,” Vince says, “I’d like you to meet Trina. This is her first meeting.”

“Hi,” I say, keeping an eye on Nadine to make sure she doesn’t slip out before I get a chance to talk with her. Asking her to become my sponsor is not the kind of conversation I want to have over the phone.

“Nice to meet you,” Trina says in a tiny voice. She doesn’t lift her gaze from the floor.

“How’ve you been?” Vince asks me.

“Okay,” I said. “I guess. Hanging in there.”

“Just taking the next indicated step, huh?”

I nod, though I’m not exactly sure what he means. Another reason I need to get a sponsor. There are moments I feel like I need a translator for some of what gets said at meetings.

“I thought you might be able to give Trina your number,” Vince says. “Being that she’s new and all.”

“Oh,” I say, pulling my chin back into my chest a little. “Okay. Sure.” I rummage through my purse and manage to find an old grocery receipt. I check it to make sure it’s not one with a wine purchase listed, then scribble my name on the back with my phone number and e-mail address.

“Thank you,” Trina practically whispers as she shoves the paper in the front pocket of her jeans. “I have to get going.” She gives us a short wave and speeds out the doors.

Vince laughs. “See? You two have something in common already.”

I smile at him. “Cute.”

“Who, me?” he says. “Why, thank you.” He gives me a quick, unexpected hug, and my nose is suddenly pressed into his neck. Along with a natural, slightly wood-smoke male muskiness, his skin has a
clean soap-and-water scent. My stomach lurches a bit as I realize just how long it’s been since I’ve felt a man’s touch.