We pitched a fortune at my PR firm to ward off the tarnish to my image. The money came straight from my account, but for some reason, who paid for what wasn’t a viable argument. My straight-laced father has never stepped out of line in his life, and as he’s expressed stridently on multiple occasions, he can’t comprehend why I live my life the way I do.
I assumed his message would involve some account information I needed, or a contract I forgot to sign that he’s overnighting. So I don’t expect this: “Reid,” he sighs heavily, “I’m calling to let you know that your mother has decided to check into a rehab program.” He doesn’t say again but it hangs there, unsaid, nevertheless. “Exclusive facility, by the ocean, not too far from home. She’ll get good care. Ninety day program. She hopes to be back home for the holidays, possibly before you’re done filming.”
He goes silent for several seconds, and I’m not sure if that’s the end. Then he adds, “She’ll be able to take phone calls in a couple of weeks. I’ll let you know the number, in case you… have time to call her. Just don’t… say anything upsetting.” He has a lot of nerve saying that. I’m usually not the one who upsets her. “If you have any questions, call me. Otherwise… well. Call if you need anything.”
Awesome.
I should have seen her rock-bottom coming. Even though I was seldom around, she had a drink in her hand every time I was. With the exception of when I was really young, and for short, varying periods of time after any rehab experience, this is how I picture her: Mom, drink in hand. It’s her prop, part of her costume. Sometimes I wonder if her despondency stems from trying to be something she isn’t—someone constantly sober, without the ability to dull the knife-thrusts of reality. Maybe Mom-with-a-drink-in-her-hand is who she really is, and thinking that it’s immoral or makes her a bad person is what causes the crisis.
Or maybe I’m a classic enabler, as one of her therapists yelled in a fit of untherapist-like vocal exasperation.
Or maybe I look in the mirror every day and am scared as shit that I’ll see either of my parents looking back at me.
*** *** ***
Emma
“Thanks again for the coffee.” Graham and I are walking along 6th street. He’s shortened his stride to match mine, like he does when we run. “That was nice. Otherwise, I’d still be hiding under my pillows, feeling like I just ate a dirty t-shirt.”
He smiles. “A dirty t-shirt? That’s… disgustingly descriptive.”
“Disgustingly fitting, unfortunately.”
He’s walking with his hands in his pockets, and he bumps my arm lightly with his elbow. “So you think I’m nice, huh? Maybe I’m actually a complete jerk with ulterior motives.”
I tap my lip with a finger, peering at him. “You’d have to be a nefarious individual with seriously evil intentions, to bring me coffee and be a jerk at heart.”
He looks down at me, eyebrows raised. Out here in the sunlight his eyes, while still dark, seem more deep caramel, less onyx. His hair has a reddish tint in the sunlight, too, something completely invisible inside. It’s like being outdoors turns his color dial a notch or two lighter.
“Good deducing. And use of the word nefarious,” he says. “Especially with the hangover and all.”
The day is warm already. I assumed as much, and dressed in shorts and the pink t-shirt I’d left on the bed last night in favor of the black tank. I grabbed my red canvas Chucks instead of flip-flops, since I had no idea just how much walking Graham had in mind. Good thing, too, because we’ve walked about a hundred blocks by now.
“How much farther?” The good news is I may actually feel like having brunch at some point in the near future. The bad news is I don’t know if we’re planning on walking to the next county first.
“I take it you’re a suburbs sort of girl. I grew up in New York City—lots of walking. This feels like nothing.” This guy is a freaking master at dodging questions.
“Yes, I’m a lazy suburbian girl… who, lest we forget, is suffering from a killer hangover because I don’t weigh a hundred pounds more.”
“Seventy. And I hate to tell you, but—” He takes my shoulders and turns me, guiding me up a pathway to the front door of the restaurant, located in a renovated old house. “We’re here.”
I give him a haughty look. “In that case, I’m glad I don’t have to kick your ass, since I’m too pooped from walking a thousand miles for that type of exertion.” He smiles and shakes his head, pulling the door open for me.
Twenty minutes later, I’m eating the fluffiest blueberry muffin ever made and mumbling an apology. “Sorry about the cranky.”
He forks a bite of omelet, dabs it into the pool of salsa he poured on one side of his plate, and sticks it in his mouth. Chewing, he appears puzzled. “What cranky?” He lines up another bite. “Oh, you mean when you looked like you were about to stage a mutiny for having to walk a couple of blocks?”
“A couple? It was at least fifteen!”
“Actually, ten.”
“Nuh-uh.” I was certain it was closer to twenty.
“Yep. Ten exactly.”
God, I’m in worse shape than I thought. “Huh.”
“That’s five,” he says, before I even have time to hear myself and cringe.
“Know-it-all.”
He laughs. “Would you rather be in your room, buried under your pillows?”
“No.” I sound like a sullen toddler. Sipping my chicory-flavored coffee, I relax, and the house seems to sigh with me, the refinished wood floors creaking as a waiter walks by with a full tray over his head. “This place is great.”