Identical (28 page)

Parents anyway.

They’re cardboard

cutouts. I mean, aren’t

parents supposed

to care about their

kids? Care
for
their

kids? Not abuse

them or use them or

lose track of them.

And aren’t they

supposed to care for

each other? Not use

each other or lose

the love that was

once central to each

other’s existence.

Not toss each other

aside because life

threw a curveball

their way, even if it

was a major curve

ball. No wonder

I’m a little paranoid

about giving away my

love. What if I go

ahead, give it, and he

decides to re-gift it?

Isn’t really sleeping with Hannah.

Maybe it’s a harmless flirtation.

(Harmless? Daddy?)

Maybe they were just having

an innocent conversation.

(Innocent? Daddy?)

Maybe Daddy was just trying to

be helpful with some legal advice.

(Helpful? Daddy?)

Maybe he was just trying to offer

a selfless act of kindness.

(Selfless? Daddy?)

And just why am I offering

him such an easy out?

(Easy? You?)

Am I overly generous,

or just totally ignorant?

(Ignorant? You?)

Am I being loyal, or am

I, in fact, a little jealous?

(Enough said.)

With Hannah wiped him out. Okay,

that and his usual Wild Turkey dinner,

plus OxyContin dessert. He’s snoozing

in front of the TV set, and the TV is off.

Kinda creepy, but oh so very Daddy.

Guess I’ll make myself something

to eat. Something substantial.

I’m starving. Too bad the pantry

looks like a raiding party came

through. Manuela usually handles

grocery store duty, but she had

an asthma attack and wound up

in the hospital. Wonder if Hannah

took care of her in the ER. Wonder

if Hannah will do the shopping

this week. Wonder if I can make

spaghetti with tomato soup and

ramen noodles. Sounds disgusting,

but beggars cannot be choosers. Oh,

wait. Two boxes of mac and cheese.

At least it’s the kind with the cheese

in a can, not the stuff with fluorescent

orange chem cheese powder. I make

both boxes, because two is always

better than one. That’s my motto.

I polish off every bite of both

boxes. Enough, according to

the label, to feed a family of

four. Twice. Not a very hungry

family, if you ask me.

Double the pleasure. Now I

feel the need for liquid fun.

Tucked away in a low cabinet

is my parents’ liquor stash.

Can’t touch the Turkey.

The smell gags me and anyway,

Daddy would notice it missing.

The Chopin vodka, stashed in

the freezer, is a different

song, and I’m so ready

to drink that slushy tune.

I’ll never sleep without it.

Too many conflicts, volleying

inside my head, bouncing

off the interior of my skull.

I don’t really like the taste

of vodka, but they say you

can’t smell it on the breath.

Not sure if that’s true, or

if it matters. Even if Daddy

did wake up, he couldn’t smell

the vodka for the Turkey.

I poke my head into the living

room. Daddy hasn’t so much

as twitched, at least that’s my guess.

The rest of the house is quiet

as death. Think I’m safe.

I fill a juice glass half full

of fermented potato juice, try

not to think about such ingredients

as I down the clear, hot-and-cold

liquid. Cold, as in not-quite frozen.

Hot, as in its burn down the throat.

Frozen smolder, a popular combo.

Phew! Chopin is definitely

not cabernet. Still, while I feel

it on my tongue, I don’t feel it

in my brain. Probably the mega

macaroni meal. This time

I fill the four-ounce glass

almost to the brim, think

about adding some water

to the bottle before I put it away,

decide against it. I doubt

anyone will miss it, and I might

want an encore performance.

Clutching the glass like

a baby holds a bottle,

I pad softly down the hall,

to my room. I try sipping

the vodka, but gulping

it is easier, and very quickly,

the glass is empty again.

Shouldn’t I feel inebriated?

Ha. Funny word. Inebri…

ineb…whoa. Wouldn’t

want to have to spell it!

I-n-i…er, inebre…okay,

so maybe the Chopin

is singing a little ditty

after all. I’m usually

a really good speller.

A little fuzzy at the edges,

and warm behind my eyes.

Fuzzy and warm. That makes

me think of Ian. I glance

at the clock. Not quite nine.

I think I can get away with

a quick phone call. One ring,

two ringies…three ringy

dingies…C’mon, Ian. Pick up.

Finally,
Hello? Kaeleigh?

What’s wrong?
He waits

patiently for me to explain

just why I’m actually calling

him. This is something rare.

“Nu…nothing. I just wanted

t-to say…uh…” What
did

I want to say again? Oh, yeah.

I remember. “Uh…um…”

I can’t finish it, and his

patience comes unraveled.

Have you been drinking?

I could lie, but he’d know

I was lying. “Uh, maybe

a little…” Ball’s in his court.

He rallies.
I don’t get it,

Kaeleigh. Why tonight?

Wasn’t today good for you?

I think back. Good. Good.

Sorta good. Not so good.

Better now. Or is it really?

Don’t say any of that! “It

was wonderful. That’s

why I called. To tell you…”

Grow a pair, Kaeleigh. Tell

him. He needs to hear it

right now. “I lu…love you.”

Pregnant pause. About nine

months pregnant.
I love you, too.

But love doesn’t make me drink.

I wonder, trying my damnedest

not to giggle. My entire core

knows laughing will make

him turn his back forever.

So why do I really need to laugh?

(Oh girl, too many reasons to

mention!) “S-so-sorry, Prince

P-p-p-perfect. I guess th-that means…”

Brother! Why won’t my mouth

work? Straighten up and say it.

“Guess that means you never

found out your dad is s-scr…”

I swallow any sort of apology.

“Screwing your neighbor.”

There. Said it. React, okay?

Pregnant pause becomes three

weeks overdue. Four weeks.

Time for a C-section.
What?

Oh, Kaeleigh, I’m so sorry.

Are you sure…?

Spoken like a true guy. Even

if I’m not sure, I say, “Of course

I’m damn well sure. Do you think

I drink for the fun of it?”

The confession. The out-and-out

meanness. That I called at all,

considering the state I’m in.

“I’m s-sh-sorry, Ian. I just didn’t

know who I could t-t-talk to,

except for you. I’ll go now, ’kay?”

Wait. Are you sure you’re okay?

Do you want me to pick you

up in the morning?

I’m not okay at all, but I never

will be. The thought pierces

me. How can he ever love me?

I struggle to talk without slurring.

“I…I’m okay. No, don’t pick me

up. I’ll sh-see you at school.”

Love is about helping each other

through dark times, Kaeleigh.

Try to remember that, okay?

Getting drunk tonight won’t make

tomorrow better. But letting me

love you will. It’s all up to you.

He says
he loves me
and he’d never lie
to me, not on purpose.
But would he love me if
he knew my secrets? I go
from Chopin giggles to
a Chopin breakdown,
steeped in Chopin
teardrops.

Not emotional pain,

things beyond my

ability to control. But

physical pain is most

definitely within my

limited realm of power.