Other Broken Things (10 page)

I nod. “I do care. But there is other stuff going on right now and sometimes we just have to make the best choice we can at the moment. I'm sorry. I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

I wave, then bolt from her and slam into my car, exhaling into the Breathalyzer so I can get the engine started. Brent and the girls are already down the block, but he's driving slow so it doesn't take much time to catch up to him. I don't even think he realizes I'm following them. At one of the stop signs, he pauses for way too long and I almost get out of the car to see what's going on. But then he jerks forward, weaving a tiny bit.

My phone rings. Joe.

“You're not at the meeting,” he says by way of introduction.

“I'm following drunk friends home.”

“What?”

I sigh. “Not like that. I'm following them home because they're drunk and they wouldn't let me drive them and I just want to make sure they get home okay.”

“You should call the cops, Natalie.”

“No way.”

“What do you hope to accomplish by following them? Do you think you're going to stop an accident? How? By driving your car in the middle of it?”

Well, okay, good point. Maybe I didn't think this through. “I can't call the cops. They're my friends and I'm not a narc.”

He huffs. “Friends. Yeah. You probably need to upgrade who you're spending time with.”

“What? To ex-cons and STD carriers? Stop being so judgmental.”

“Stop being so naive.”

“Fuck off, Joe. I'm not dumping my friends because they didn't end up in rehab with me.”

He laughs. It's sort of dark and bitter, and I hate that I'm having this conversation as I follow Brent home. “That's not why you dump your friends. You dump your friends because they're enablers. Because they keep you sick. But most of the time, you don't even need to dump them. They'll dump you as soon as they realize you won't party with them anymore. I've been there.”

“Well, maybe I have a higher caliber of friend than you do. Maybe everything that happens to me isn't
exactly
how it happened to you. Maybe you haven't ‘been there' when it comes to
my
friends.”

I'm clenching the steering wheel so hard with my left hand I can feel my knuckles turning white beneath my winter gloves. Joe can be such a paternalistic dick. I don't even know why I'm listening to him.

“You know what? We're done. I don't need this crap—” I start.

“Natalie,” he says, and it's a plea. Stark and honest and very Joe. “I'm sorry. You're right. Your friends might be different. I should only be telling you about my experience, not assuming you're having the same one. But Jesus, you're following drunk people home at three o'clock in the afternoon. You have to know that you deserve better friends than this.”

I let out a long sigh. “Why? Why do I deserve better than this? What do I have to offer anyone, really? You want me to put myself in my higher power's hands, but why would He want me? I'm a fucking mess. I deserve shit friends because I
am
a shit friend. I've been a shit friend for a long time. Why would anyone worth anything want to stick with me? If I'm not drinking and entertaining people, I've got nothing to offer anyone.”

Sweet Jesus, I just said that out loud. It's like Kathy and her crusty badgering are getting to me and I'm blurting out things I never would have. Or maybe it's being frazzled by following the A's home. Either way, I want to swallow it back, rewind the last few minutes and not even talk to Joe at all.

“Is that what you think?” His voice is so soft I almost don't hear it. “You think people don't want anything to do with you because you have no value? You think God doesn't?”

It's a punch to the gut, because it's exactly what I think. What I've thought for a while. If there even is a God, why the hell would He want me on His side? I'm the reason He flooded the earth before Noah's ark. I'm the human equivalent of a need for a do-over. The one on the team who you can't wait to be subbed out so they don't ruin your chances for a win.

By now I've pulled over to the side of the road and I'm crying hard. Too many things are pressing against my brain and I have to fight hard to keep the worst of them locked away. Brent's car is parked in Amanda's driveway and they've all gone in. I'm not sure how much I've said to Joe, but I said enough out loud that he's hushing me and asking me where I am.

Finally I sniff and say, “I'm fine. I'm heading home. I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Come to the meeting. I'll meet you there. We'll go in late. Just come.”

I'm too tired and too wrung out, but I agree to go because if I don't, I won't be able to get Joe off the phone. He's that guy. That friend. And as I watch my other friends dance and spin in the living room of Amanda's house, drinking out of a bottle in front of her large bay window, I say a little prayer to a maybe-God to be worthy of a better friend. Because I'm pretty sure my old ones aren't going to work out.

Christmas Eve
brings an end to Elfie's hiding, with his final resting place being the base of the tree next to gobs of presents I'm sure none of us really need. It's incredibly quiet in the house this year, and I feel like both my parents are moping because they didn't have a party. I tell them a hundred times they could still invite the neighbors over, but Mom holds her ground and instead we have a somber meal on formal china.

Mom cajoles us both into going to church, which I'm actually okay about. I'm on the Third Step with Kathy and we've been talking a lot about things we have no control over and giving those things up to the universe. Church seems as good a place as any to let go of a bunch of crap I can't do a damn thing about. Which Kathy says is pretty much the same as putting my faith in a higher power.

Christmas Eve service at church is a pageant with a bunch of overtired kids, who all signed up to be angels or animals, so there's only one magus and no shepherds. Mary and Joseph are usually played by the couple who had a baby most recently, so most of the service is hard to hear because of a screaming Baby Jesus. It's pretty hilarious and completely disorganized. Which is one of the things I always liked about our church. Before I stopped going because I was too hungover to knuckle through it.

Our church is really mission based, so they're always mixing everyone up, pushing diversity and integration and all of us being children of God. There's one big service: kids, old people, homeless guys, my parents. Together in one place. Tonight I catch sight of a couple of guys from AA who nod and smile at me. Dad glares at them when they give me a thumbs-up.

“Chill,” I mumble. “They're from my meetings.”

“Wonderful,” he says. “Maybe you should invite them to the house afterward. That would cap off the evening pretty well.”

“Don't be sarcastic in church, Tom,” Mom says, which makes me snort.

At the end of the service, one of the girls from the high school youth choir sings “O Holy Night.” I've seen her at school before, but she runs with a way cleaner crowd than me. Not that I'm running with any crowd right now. Her name is April, I think. Her voice sounds like an angel's and even Dad shuts up with the snarky comments after she sings.

On the way home I get a text from Joe.

Make it through the day?

I smile.

Yeah. You?

I should've asked him his plans. It occurs to me now that he might be alone and the thought of that makes me ache a little.

Kathy and I burned lasagna and went out for Chinese.

My stomach tightens and I pretend I don't feel jealous, but it's no use. And I'm at the point now where I can't lie to Joe about it.

I wish I could've been with you guys. Dinner was filet mignon served with a side of angry father and placating mother.

My phone pings back right away.

Sounds delicious. SFC is open all day tomorrow. 24 hours because there are lots of people who are orphans at Christmas and it's one of the hardest times to stay sober.

I look at Mom and Dad in the front seat. Not talking to each other. Neither smiling. Dad looking at stocks on his phone while he's driving as if the market is still open. Mom holding on to her seat belt as if she's anticipating imminent death.

You going?

Not sure. Are you booked all day?

Hardly. Belgian waffles in the morning, then presents, usually done by 11 a.m.

O'Hare Oasis is open too, if you want to have some biscuits before stopping by SFC.

Noon?

It's a plan.

I can't stop the grin from spreading on my face. I should feel bad that I'm bailing on Mom, but I honestly don't. Two Christmases ago I went to the gym after opening presents and sparred with Josh because I didn't want to deal with Mom's
A Christmas Story
marathon. Then I came home to a lecture from Dad and a mandate to stop boxing. Which I ultimately complied with. Last Christmas I was loaded by eleven a.m. from spiked eggnog and a few snorts of Ritalin. All things considered, my attendance this year shouldn't be required, really.

“I'm going to SFC tomorrow after we do presents,” I say, leaning forward a bit so I rest my hand on Mom's shoulder.

“What? No. Natalie. We're spending the day together as a family.”

I shake my head. “We did that today. We've had plenty of quality time. And SFC is open all day because a lot of people have a tough time on holidays.”

I'm totally playing the pity card, but I don't want to make a big deal of this.

Mom turns back to me. “Well, is it open for everyone? Because maybe we could bring over some food and—”

I wave my hand. “No. Mom. No. It's only for the alkies.”

This probably isn't true. And I'm pretty sure no one would turn my mom away at the door if she were holding a roasted ham and a bunch of her cookies, but I don't want her to be part of this. Part of me and Joe and our day.

Her head drops for a second and she lets out a little sigh. I feel like a huge asshole, but I just can't deal with them for another day.

“If that's what you want, Natalie. I'll drive you over.”

“Nonsense, Sarah,” Dad interjects. “That's why I fixed up her car. She can drive herself, and you and I can join Steven and his wife for their Christmas cocktail party. I'm sure I can call tonight and let him know we've had a change of plans.”

Dad's so enthused about this I'm a little sick. I almost want to tell him to forget it just so he has to suffer with my company. But the carrot of Joe is too big to resist. “See, Mom? You and Dad have plans. It's going to be fine. I'll go to SFC, do a meeting, they'll probably have a speaker or something, then I'll come home. No big deal.”

Mom's shoulders slump. “Okay.”

*  *  *

Joe's already at Popeyes when I slide into the seat across from him on Christmas. A box in red candy-cane wrapping paper and a green bow is sitting on the table.

“Shit. We're exchanging gifts? I don't have anything for you. You didn't say.”

He smiles. “It's not necessary. And I don't need anything. But this, you need. Well, you actually don't need it. But . . . just open it.”

I'm curious and I have no patience and I hate surprises, so I rip it open like a little kid and he laughs.

“Joe,” I say with a big grin. “You bought me a carton of cigarettes. You are a Christmas miracle.”

“This is the part where I tell you that you probably shouldn't smoke. You're young and it's a nasty habit.”

“And yet here I sit with this spectacular gift and it's perfect. And saves you from having to give up half your supply.”

He gives me a partial grin and my stomach whoops, and yeah, that needs to stop happening. I look at the cigarettes and swallow down all the things I could say but definitely should not.

“Oh wait,” I say at last. “I do have a gift for you.”

I dig through my bag and pull out a pen. “Close your eyes,” I tell Joe. He closes them and I dig out Elfie. I write the letters
KILL
on his little plastic fingers, holding in my laughter as I do it. “Okay, you can open them.”

Joe looks at Elfie and blinks. I hold up the plastic hand with
KILL
on it and he laughs. “It's perfect.”

“Yeah. Elfie's just like you. Seemingly all chipper and put together, but he totally has a dark side.”

“You think I have a dark side?”

I nod and take Joe's hand. Which maybe I shouldn't have done because I don't really want to give it back now. And I'm pushing, but I can't help myself. I trace the letters on his knuckles and he doesn't pull away and I look at his face, and I know he's right there with me.

“So. How'd you end up with this tattoo?”

He shakes his head and pulls his hand back. “Funny story, actually. After I got out of prison and hooked up again with some of my old friends, we got wasted one night and they started talking trash about how I was the only ex-con they knew without ink. So I'm not totally clear on the details, but we found one of those all-night tattoo parlors and the next thing I knew, I woke up with this.”

“Could've been worse,” I say.

“Yeah? How's that?”

I shrug. “You could've ended up with ‘Property of Cook County Corrections' inked on your ass.”

“You're such a classy girl.”

I wink. “I try. Now go buy me some biscuits before I really start to talk dirty and you aren't able to stand up.”

He bolts from his seat and I choke on laughter. He turns back and smiles at me and now I know: he's in just as bad as I am. Crap. Crap crap crap crap crap.