Chasing Sunsets (18 page)

Patsy said good night to her mother—who sat knitting in her chair in the living room, the one she’d polished to a shine earlier in the day—and a quick, “Glad you’re home safe, Mr. Liddle,” to the man who chewed on his pipe and listened to
Abbott Mysteries
on the Philco console radio between him and his wife.

“Good night, Patsy,” her mother said.

“See to it that you check on the boys before turning in,” Mr. Liddle answered.

She did as she was told—the boys were both sleeping in their upstairs bedroom already, the one right across the hall from their parents’—and then returned downstairs to her own simple but comfortable room. She stripped out of the clothes she’d changed into for supper—they weren’t fancy but they weren’t ripe with the smell of field peas and lemon oil either—out of her under-things and into the pretty, thin cotton pink gown Mama had made for her.

It was some time later—she couldn’t be sure how long since she’d slipped between the cool sheets of her bed—that she heard the racket coming from upstairs. Her mother’s voice pleading. Mr. Liddle’s voice demanding. On instinct she slipped out of bed and into her mother’s cast-off slippers. Patsy was out the door and halfway up the stairs before she had time to think better of it.

“I’ve told you and told you,” Mr. Liddle shouted. “Haven’t I?” Patsy could hear the slap of flesh against flesh. “Haven’t I?”

“Please, Ira,” her mother whimpered. “The boys . . .”

Patsy took a few more steps up the stairs. She hardly breathed, but her eyes blinked rapidly. She’d never interfered in her mother’s fights with Mr. Liddle before, but this time sounded . . . different.

“A man has to know,” Patsy heard him say, as though spoken through clenched teeth, “that he can leave his home in proper order and come home to it the same way.”

“And you have.” Her mother’s voice shook.

Patsy heard something—someone—stumbling across the room followed by the sound of something else dropping to the floor.

The book! She’d left it on the bed, had failed to return it to the chest of drawers. He would know her mother would never be so forgetful. Bernice Liddle kept everything in perfect order for her husband.

“I expect that when I leave this house, you and you alone come into this room. Haven’t I made myself clear on that issue?”

Mama’s answer came in sobs. “But . . . if you knew . . . how hard today . . . has been for me . . .”

“Stop your nagging.” He swore the expletive Patsy’s best friend Mitzy once told her saying was the unpardonable sin, then said it again and a third time. “I don’t want that girl in my bedroom. And if I have to beat that into you, then so be it.”

Patsy heard the sound of his belt buckle coming undone, the swish of it leaving the loops, the first smack of it against her mother. She fled up the remainder of the stairs, pushed open the nearly closed bedroom door, and screamed, “Stop it! Stop it! If you’re going to hit someone, hit me! I left the stupid book on the bed!”

She reasoned later that it had been the shock of seeing her standing there and of hearing her shouting like a madwoman that stopped Mr. Liddle from hitting her mother that night. That it had been the sight of her nearly nude body silhouetted by the night’s bright moonlight bursting through the gauzy drapes and open windows which caused him to stop seeing her as “the girl” and start seeing her as she soon was to be. A woman, fully budded. No longer did the gray of his eyes hold steel ready to rip her to shreds. Instead, they held something more monstrous than that. Something she’d never witnessed before but knew to stay away from.

And—she knew—no longer did his hands itch to hit her but to embrace her. To stroke her. To touch her in a way that would leave her permanently burned.

So it was that a few weeks later her mother had packed her bags. Without so much as a day to say good-bye to her friends, Patsy found herself on a bus bound for a small town just outside of Charleston, South Carolina . . .

And the brother she’d always known of but had never gotten to hold.

“I can do it,” I said to Steven after he returned from getting Patsy’s prescription filled.

“I know you can,” he said. His voice was kind but firm. “But the point is, Kim, you don’t have to do it alone.”

We stood in the middle of Patsy’s doorway, me on one side of it, Steven on the other. Oreo’s body slinked around my legs. His purr sounded more like an old truck’s engine; no doubt he was hungry. I looked down at him, then back to Steven. “I’m not trying to do it alone.”

“Then let me come in and help you.” He extended the small white bag holding Patsy’s meds toward me. “I can at least feed the cat for you.”

I turned and walked toward the kitchen as he closed the door behind us. “I’ll go ahead and give her the first dose,” I said. I pulled a bottle of liquid medicine from the bag. “I guess the cat’s food is in the pantry.” I bobbed my head toward the narrow door at the opposite end of the room.

Steven stepped in the direction I’d given. “I’ll find it.”

I rattled around in the silverware drawer for a teaspoon. “His bowl is in the laundry room.” I looked at Steven, who peered at me from around the open pantry door. “I know this because I started a load of clothes while you were gone.”

“Ah,” he said.

I took the medicine along with a small glass of juice to Patsy, woke her using the same technique Dr. Willingham used, and gave her the first dose. She made a face at me, said, “Awful. You’d think they could come up with something that tasted like fried chicken or at the very least chocolate cake.”

I stifled a giggle before helping her to lie down again. “Do you need anything else?” I asked.

“Just sleep. Sleep is always the best medicine.”

I put the medicine bottle in the bathroom before returning to the living room, where Steven had stretched out on the sofa. His shoes were off; they sat side by side on the floor near the end of the sofa where his legs crossed at the ankles. “Make yourself at home,” I said. “Did you find the cat food?”

He shifted to upright. “Sorry,” he said. “Yes, I did. In the laundry room.” He waved me over to sit next to him and—in spite of thinking it not a good idea—I complied. He ran his fingertips along the side of my face, forcing me to look at him. “Hi.”

I smiled. “Hi.”

“You okay?”

I nodded. He leaned in for a kiss, sweet and quick. “I’m going to assume that our date is off for this evening.”

“You assume correctly, sir.” I leaned my face into his hand still resting against my cheek. “I can’t leave her.”

“Nor should you.” He straightened fully before saying, “I’ve already got this thing figured out though.”

“Oh, do you now?”

“Mmmhmm. I’m going to order us some pizza and we’ll eat right here.”

“Steven—”

“Because the way I see it,” he continued before I could argue a word, “you’re not leaving Patsy and I’m not leaving you. All gallantry aside, I’m hungry.” He leaned toward me. “Are you hungry?”

I nodded. “Yeah, a little.”

“Okay.” He slapped his hands against his knees before holding up the index fingers on both hands. “Cedar Key has two—count them, two—great pizza places.” He wiggled the fingers at me. “I’ll tell you a little about them and then you can choose.”

I ended up going with suggestion number one. Steven placed an order over the phone, hung up, and said, “It’ll be ready when I get there.” He gave me a swift kiss—the kind I used to imagine I’d get from him as he left for work each morning—mumbled, “See you in a minute,” and left.

I made another trip to Patsy’s bedroom to check on her—she continued to sleep and her fever already seemed to be breaking—then walked outside to the balcony to make the phone call I’d dreaded since earlier in the day.

My brother-in-law answered with, “Hey, Kimberly.”

“Oh, the joy of caller ID.” I pulled up my feet to rest them on the aqua-painted railing.

“That and I’ve half-expected your call.”

I wondered what he meant but decided against asking. Andre—a brilliant mind if there ever was one—was too astute for someone like me to challenge. “Are you able to talk right now?”

“It’s as good a time as any.”

“Are you at work?”

“No. I just pulled up to the library, to tell you the truth.”

The library. It didn’t seem like an Andre kind of thing to do on a Saturday. My stomach churned, half from hunger and the other half from concern. “Oh.” I took a deep breath and plunged right in. “I talked with Heather this morning . . . more or less . . . and I’m very worried about her, Andre.”

“Me too. I’m worried about her too.” He paused. “I love her, Kimberly. I don’t know what she’s told you, but I want that much said before we go any further with this conversation.”

I watched as a small flock of seagulls glided past me. They called to one another in screeches I was all too familiar with.

When I didn’t say anything, he asked, “How’s Cedar Key?”

“It’s good. It’s real good, actually.”

“Heather told me she was surprised you’d gone. She told me about what happened when you were kids there. About Steven.”

“Oh, did she now?”

He chuckled. “Anything to take the focus away from her and her problems.”

I took another breath. “Well, since you’ve now brought it up, do you mind telling me what’s going on with the two of you?”

“Did she indicate I’m having an affair?”

Right to the point. Wow. “She thinks you are.”

“I’m not.”

I closed my eyes at the revelation, praying he was telling me the truth. Charlie and I had been donned the perfect couple, but no more perfect than Andre and Heather.

“Can I be honest?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“You and Charlie . . . Do you know how often Heather held our marriage up to the mirror of yours?”

“What? No.”

“Yes. If Charlie so much as winked at you during a family dinner, I caught it when we got home. ‘Why don’t you ever wink at me like that?’ she’d ask. ‘Why don’t you love me like Charlie loves Kim?’ It got to the point where, if I saw Charlie do anything for you, to you, whatever . . . I knew I had to one-up him.” He coughed sarcasm. “I told Charlie one time, I said, ‘Charlie, I’ll pay you half my annual income if you’ll just
not
be so loving toward your wife in front of Heather.’”

I pressed my hand against my forehead. I was sweating profusely in the afternoon heat but couldn’t bring myself to go inside and disturb Patsy. “What did he say to that?”

“He just laughed. He actually said—and I don’t say this to hurt you or bring back negative emotions—that if I loved Heather a quarter as much as he loved you, I’d be just fine.”

I scoffed at the news. “Do tell.”

“He was joking, of course.”

“No kidding, Andre.” I dropped my feet from the railing and leaned over, fighting a wave of nausea that threatened to turn violent.

“I’m sorry. But if we are going to be honest here—”

“And you’re
not
having an affair?”

“Kim. I told you. No.”

I pictured Andre—if he was where he said he was—sitting in his black Navigator, the one with all the bells and whistles—outside the public library. Handsome hardly described him. The closer he got to forty, the more appealing he became. While my sister worried over every little laugh line and gray hair, Andre’s only served to change him from boyishly cute to dashing. If he were my husband, I’d worry too.

“Then Heather is just imagining all this?”

“It’s more than that, Kim. It’s . . .”

I stood and starting pacing the length of the balcony, hoping the action would bring enough of a breeze to cool me. “Andre, just say it, okay? If I’m going to help Heather, I need to know.”

“You already know, Boo. You just don’t want to say the words.”

I stopped pacing. The sun beat against my back in perfect rhythm with my heart. I forced myself to focus on something—anything—in front of me. The water had turned to gray. The scattering of islands in the Gulf were blurred by haze. Overhead, against the perfect blue of the sky, white wings fluttered as another flock of gulls headed toward the sunset. I blinked several times as I tried to force myself to find one thing . . . just one thing . . .

A
ping-ping
drew my attention to the oversized wind chimes hanging on the east side of Patsy’s balcony. They echoed back the sun’s light like a diamond under the display of Tiffany’s lamps. I stared at the glint, widening my eyes, and told myself to not be weary. I knew this . . . I knew . . .

“I know.”

“Then say it.”

“I . . .” I couldn’t.

“You want me to say it? Okay, I’ll say it, Kim. Heather is an alcoholic. She’s also addicted to prescription drugs. She’s an alcoholic and an addict.”

I sucked in my breath. “Andre . . .”

“And I’ll tell you where I’ve been lately. I’ve been going to Al-Anon meetings after work. Not to a cheap motel with some floozy, like she’s accused me of.”

“Al-Anon?”

“Yeah. Al-Anon. Because I need help too, Kim. I’ve enabled her and I need help as much as she does.”

“Enabled her? What do you mean? You’ve forced her to drink?”

“Don’t be silly. You’re too smart for that. Drinking is a coping skill she learned a long time ago. Long before we even met.”

“I don’t—”

“I’m the one, Kim, who has made sure she had whatever she needed from the pharmacy, which very well could cost me my job. But I’m not willing to sacrifice my
wife
. I won’t lie and I won’t enable her. Not anymore.” His voice was strong, as if he’d rehearsed the words a thousand times so as not to get them wrong and in the repeating had come to believe what he said. Before I could reply, he added, “I won’t treat this the way your dad did, Kim. I won’t lose my wife to this disease.”

The wind chimes moved, twirling round and round as though hurricane-force winds were upon the island. The screeching overhead reverberated in my inner ear. While the world turned upside down around me, I managed to find my chair. To sit. To remind myself to breathe. “What are you talking about?” I spoke through a clenched jaw.

“You know what I’m talking about. You’ve always known.”

“No.”

“Yes, Kimberly. Yes. Heather told me the way you used to play your mother. The way you used to get what you wanted by waiting until you knew she’d had enough to drink and you could mold the clay any way you wanted.”

My breath came in ragged jerks. “No, no, no.”

“Kim!”

I jumped, jolted back to the here and now and what my brother-in-law was saying to me. “Don’t you talk to me like that, Charlie Tucker.”

Andre groaned. “Oh, man. I’m not Charlie, Kim. I’m Andre. And I’m telling you the truth here.”

I ended the call. One second later, I called him back. As soon as he said hello, I declared, “My mother died of liver cancer.”

“Your mother died of cirrhosis of the liver. She was a functioning alcoholic, Kim. A
highly
functioning alcoholic, but an alcoholic nonetheless.”

I raked my hand through my hair. My fingertips came back drenched in sweat. “No.” I ended the call again.

And called him right back. “Andre, don’t—”

“Don’t what? Say it out loud? Determine that the cycle is going to stop here? I’ve got my own children to think about too.”

I pressed my hand against my chest; my heart hammered beneath it. In spite of the news I’d just received, all I could think was that Steven was coming back with pizza and Patsy lay in bed with a fever. “I can’t talk about this right now,” I said.

“If you want to help your sister—”

“Of course I want to help my sister!” I clamped my hand over my mouth and looked in the direction of Patsy’s bedroom. “Andre,” I continued, my voice softer, “I’m caring for an elderly woman right now. I’m at her home. I just can’t . . .”

“The timing is off then.” I heard him exhale. “But the subject has got to be faced. You can keep hanging up on me and calling me back and you can put it off indefinitely, but it’s not going to change the facts. Your sister is an alcoholic and a drug addict. She knows it. And she knows you know it but won’t address it.”

“Just this morning . . . I tried . . .” My words tumbled out like soiled clothes from a laundry hamper. “She only ended up yelling at me.”

“I know. Believe me, I know the sting of her alcohol-induced fury.”

Anger rose from inside me. I blew air from my lungs like a bull ready to stampede. “So what are you going to do about it, Andre?”

“I’m meeting someone here at the library. There are some archived articles he wants me to read. He’s going to help me get Heather into a crisis center.”

“And she’s okay with that?”

“No, she’s not okay with that,” he said as though I were an idiot. “She insists every night that she can beat this on her own. But every morning she’s pouring vodka into orange juice just to get by to lunch. At lunch she has a little something to tide her over, and at 5:00 it’s cocktail hour.”

I hiccupped to force my tears back.

“The kids and I have talked,” he continued. “They know they’ll be without their mother for the summer, and they’re okay with that.”

“But how will you manage? Heather takes care of them.”

“No, she doesn’t, Kimberly. She pretends to take care of them. They’ve been taking care of themselves for some time now. And it stops. Monday she either goes in on her own, or I’ll force the issue.”