Other Broken Things (4 page)

I get home
and go right to bed. Sleep through dinner. Wake up so dehydrated my skin feels like it's going to crack off. It's five o'clock in the frickin' morning and even though I feel like complete crap, all I can think about is how a quick swig of vodka would do me a world of good right now.

I drag myself out of bed, and because no one's up yet, I drop down and do a hundred sit-ups and push-ups. I'm completely winded by the time I'm done, but at least I did them. So some of the me from long ago is still in there somewhere. I consider heading downstairs to our workout room, having a go at the punching bag, but I can't. The idea of it is too defeating, and opening the door to that means stirring up a whole mess of other crap I don't want to deal with. Instead I stand under the shower way too long, moving my hands over my ribs, my hips, my stomach. I keep my mind intentionally blank, refusing to think of all the things my body's been through.

Then I straighten my hair, which takes forever, and pick out clothes that hide my newly increasing ass. Maybe chemo patient skinny wasn't so bad. I stare at the homework I didn't do last night and decide I'm still not in any kind of shape to pull that off. I'll have to go to the nurse during American history. Instead I boot up my computer and block Brent from all social media. I've got to move forward if I'm going to make it through these next six months, not get waylaid by a bunch of “we should talk” pleas from that handsy fucker.

By the time I head down for breakfast, I'm at least at 50 percent, which all things considered is a goddamn miracle. Mom is at the stove, making chocolate chip pancakes. Our kitchen is massive, with stainless steel appliances and marble countertops. It opens into both the living room and the dining room, the perfect hub for a house built to host banker dickheads and their insipid wives.

We used to have parties for Dad's work clients all the time. I had my first drink when I was eleven at one of their parties. Usually the holiday season means different “couple” friends at our house every Saturday, Dad telling boring work stories and Mom flitting about making sure everyone's glasses and plates are filled. Then we have the big neighborhood party on the day before Christmas Eve.

When I got out of rehab, Mom told me she and Dad canceled all this season's hosting obligations, including the big neighborhood one. I still don't know if it was for my benefit or if they were worried I was too much of a loose cannon around their friends. And of course, Mom didn't explain.

“You must be starving,” she says now. I try not to notice the Mrs. Claus stitched on her sweatshirt, but it's impossible. Mrs. Claus has a ruffled skirt sewed on that when you lift it up shows her mistletoe-covered bloomers. Mom is sadly oblivious to how hilarious it is that Mrs. Claus is requesting kisses underneath her skirt.

“Yeah. I could eat,” I answer.

“I guess you really were exhausted?” It's a question. As if she thinks I'm going to come clean about something. Though the truth is I'm pretty sure she wouldn't want me coming clean about shit if it meant really talking.

“I told you I was.”

I grab the milk from the fridge and pour a big glass of it. It's cool and delicious when it hits my throat. That's a weird thing about being sober: food and drink actually taste really incredible. I've put on at least five pounds since I quit drinking, and that's even with crappy rehab food. I can't imagine what kind of havoc the gluttony of Mom's holiday season is going to wreak on my body. Push-ups and sit-ups have little chance against chocolate pumpkin loaf and sugar cookies.

I swallow the rest of the milk along with my guilt about not spending any time at the gym. Not that that's even an option for me, but still. If I shut my eyes, I can smell it: the tape on my hands, the sweat, the blood. I shake the thoughts from my head and drop into a seat at the breakfast table.

She slides a plate in front of me. “You have an appointment with Dr. Warner today.”

I'd completely forgotten, and relief washes through me. I'm not going to even have to fake sick for Mrs. Hunt. For as much as therapy is a huge pain in my ass, Dr. Warner only sees patients between nine and noon, so I miss school. He's a prestigious psychiatrist who teaches at the hospital university in the afternoon. I don't have the first clue why he even wanted to take on my little problem, but my parents have money and I'm guessing that accounts for a lot.

“Dad already gone?”

“Of course,” Mom says, plucking dried poinsettia leaves off the centerpiece.

Dad works at the Board of Trade. He's gone most days by five. He's super disciplined about his whole life. Church on Sunday. Gym every day after work. He runs marathons still. And is überefficient. I'm sure a fuckup like me for a kid is a raging disappointment. He hasn't said as much, but it's not like he's driving me to AA meetings or reading the
Big Book
either.

“There's a women's meeting at St. Paul's tomorrow night.” I can't believe I said that. The last thing I want to do is go to another meeting. At the same time, my damn card only has one signature on it so far, and I'm not super psyched about the idea of getting extra community service just because I can't manage to sit through a few hundred “if you want what we have . . .” lectures.

“Women only?” Mom's eyebrows are practically at her hairline. She's no idiot. She doesn't know who, but she knows at least part of the source of my problems is because of a dude. Fricking Brent.

“Yeah. Maybe I'll find a sponsor there.”

She beams like I've informed her there really is a Santa Claus. My poor mom somehow has taken this whole thing on her shoulders, and I do feel a bit bad about it. I've told her in a million ways that I'm fine, but the accident and the DUI and the hospital were a pretty big deal to her. She pretends they weren't, but you can't really fake not being anxious. At least, not that well.

“That would be great,” she says. “Finish your breakfast and I'll take you to Dr. Warner's.”

I'm pushing it, but I can't help blurting out, “Maybe I could drive myself. Test out the new Breathalyzer.”

Shit. Tylenol wouldn't show up on that, would it? Momentary panic is replaced by the annoyed voice in my head telling me I'm being a freak and I need to man up already.

“Well,” Mom says, fussing with her already perfect hair, “I need to do some errands downtown anyway. And I thought I'd kill two birds with one stone. And Dr. Warner may want to talk to me afterward.”

Ah. She wants to make sure I don't sabotage the piss test. The things she doesn't say are almost louder than what she does. Mom's about as subtle as Mrs. Claus with mistletoe on her ass.

*  *  *

The piss test is clean. Apparently codeine doesn't show up on the test, or else they weren't screening for it. File that one away under clandestine ways to get high. Dr. Warner is stodgy and methodical, and doesn't seem to mind that I eat all the butterscotch candies on his desk as he talks to me. I'm pretty sure he thinks the whole therapy thing is bunk because he keeps trying to push antianxiety meds on me. I originally suggested Xanax—which can be popped like Tic Tacs if you want a mellow buzz—but Warner was absolutely against it because they're super addictive. Heh. Go figure.

Mom talks to him for five minutes afterward and puts her foot down about the whole medication idea. She thinks kids are overmedicated and should be able to make their lives stress-free on their own with fruitcakes and caroling or some shit. Dr. Warner tries the patronizing
little lady
thing on her, but Mom doesn't fall for it. She's gotten that crap from Dad for years and she can smell an amateur mansplainer like Warner a mile away.

So no meds. Another appointment made for two weeks from today. And Mom's assurance that I'll keep going to AA meetings. I leave his posh office, which looks more like a law firm than a psychiatrist's office, and smile to myself over the idea of Mrs. Hunt getting her panties all twisted up when she sees my empty desk.

*  *  *

I make it to school in time for lunch. I grab a plate of fries and a bunch of ketchup packs and scan the cafeteria. I could sit with Amy and Amanda, but I'd rather have teeth pulled than watch them sip from their water bottles and slur-whisper about how wasted they are. I've got to get new friends.

Brent raises his hand and pats the seat next to him, but I roll my eyes and head for the smoker table instead, same place I've been sitting for the past few days. They're all burnouts, but at least they don't really say anything. Stoners can be pleasantly quiet and I sort of wish I'd picked that as my drug of choice instead of vodka.

“What's up?” they say when I sit down.

“Nothing,” I answer, and that's pretty much all that's required of me for the rest of the meal. It's even better than an “I'm just going to listen” meeting.

The cafeteria monitor watches me like a hawk the whole time, but I don't care. I finish my fries and then fish out my history notebook, half-assing an assignment for Mrs. Hunt. I'm dying for a cigarette, but I don't think I can sneak out of school when I just got back. Instead I pull out a full pack of Big Red and chew piece after piece until the bell rings. Amy and Amanda stumble past me toward the exit and don't say anything.

On my way out of the caf, I bump into Camille. My best friend from junior high. A lifetime ago. We lost touch a few months into high school, me spending all my time at the gym and her hitting the honors track pretty hard.

“Heard you were in rehab?” she says. Not mean, more curious.

“Yep,” I answer, shouldering my bag.

“You're sober, then?” Her beautiful, tan face is makeup-free and serious. Camille has always been a serious girl. When we were in fourth grade, she told me she wanted to be a corporate lawyer. She wasn't even fucking around or making it up. She'd researched it.

“Totally sober,” I answer, swallowing down the guilt over the Tylenol. Camille doesn't know shit about me anymore.

“Are you going to go back to boxing?” She tucks her black hair behind both ears. She wears her backpack on both shoulders so her hands are always free. It's a weird thing, and maybe only someone who's used to fighting would notice, but she's done it forever. Not for quick blocking protection, though; she does it so she can talk with her hands.

“No.”

Her hands come out now in a big gesture, fingers twirling around each other. “Well, it's not my business, but you were better then.”

Anger whips up my spine, making me throw my shoulders back. I'm done with this conversation. “Thanks for the feedback, Camille, but you're right. It's not your business. Later.”

The day drags on and more than once I pull out my phone and Joe's card, but then tuck both away again. One honest conversation hardly makes us besties. But the mundaneness of school pelts at me, and keeping my head down and doing my work takes an obscene amount of energy.

I take off after my last class and realize I have nowhere to be and nothing to do. Once upon a time I had friends like Camille who were normal. But I got caught up in stuff. Stopped returning calls, stopped going out with them, became friends with guys at the gym. Only to lose all of them too. Then it was just me and Amy and Amanda and Brent and the casual acquaintances who lost to me at beer pong on the weekends.

I pause outside of school and look at my phone. Three thirty. My drinking friends are undoubtedly five miles past buzzed and well on their way to hammered. Which leaves . . . basically no one.

For a second the loneliness of the day and the shittiness of my circumstances hit me like an unexpected left hook, winding me and making me drop to the curb by the bus stop, my legs sprawled out and the cold ground seeping through my pants. This time I don't think too hard, but pull out my phone and Joe's card and thumb in his number.

“What are you doing?” I say before he even gets a hello out.

“Working. What are you doing?”

“Not a goddamn thing. It's weird. I'm not sure what to do with myself.” God. Was that too honest? I hate that my voice sounds needy. I do not want to need this guy.

“Well, Natalie, you could go to a meeting.”

I laugh. “Fuck that. Meetings aren't the answer to loneliness.”

“Loneliness? Are you . . . ?”

“I'm not going to a meeting, Joe.”

“Meetings help with loneliness.”

“Oh, Joe, is that where you've met all your BFFs? I can only imagine the rocking time you all have together, chips, cards, and Diet Cokes on a Friday night.”

“I could do a lot worse. So could you.”

I'm about to say there's nothing worse, when I see Amanda and Amy stumble into the parking lot. They head toward the gym across the street and I already know what the next hour is going to look like for them. The gym has a pool and it's easy to sneak up to the spectator seating and finish off a flask while giggling at all the guys in Speedos. I was the one who first brought them there.

“Natalie?”

“Yeah, I'm here.”

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I just called you because I'm bored and you don't appear to do much.”

He laughs. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Four o'clock meeting on a Wednesday? Do you work banker hours, Joe?”

“Depends on the day. And you appear to have quite a bit of free time too. Didn't you just get out of rehab? Surely you have some schoolwork to catch up on.”

“Only if you can come over and play tutor.” The loneliness of a few minutes ago is fading with the idea of messing with Joe.

“Pass. Thanks for the offer, though.”

Jesus. This guy. It's like he is incapable of flirting. Or maybe too old for it. “Are you sure, Joe? I think I can rustle up Catholic schoolgirl knee-highs and a white button-down.”