One weekend, after Chloe had taken it upon herself to sit me down and deliver the Sex Talk, I stammered through asking Grandma some follow-up questions. I wasn’t sure if she’d know the answers, but I figured she’d had my mom, so she must have had sex at least once in her life. When I repeated some of Chloe’s basic explanations, my grandmother’s usually-composed face turned a mottled purple, and I was afraid I’d just given her a heart attack. But she just took a deep breath and said, “This discussion calls for some cocoa, with plenty of tiny marshmallows.”
When I was fourteen, Grandma died of a brain aneurysm. She’d been diligent about good diet and exercise, cancer checks and heart disease prevention. I researched and found out that they’re virtually undetectable, especially if there are no symptoms like headaches or double vision. And even if they’d found it earlier, they might not have been able to do anything about it, nestled in her brain. She would have hated knowing there was a ticking time bomb in her head.
I begged my father and Chloe to allow Hector to come live with us. I swore to vacuum and use pet rollers every single day, promised to feed, water and scoop litter. All Chloe said was, “I’m allergic, Connor!” I’m convinced that the only thing about Hector that Chloe was allergic to was the thought of his fur attaching itself to her garish clothes and furniture.
“I’m sorry, Emma,” my father said as I stomped to my room. “We’ll find him a new home.” He sounded remorseful, but unwavering. In a conflict, Chloe’s desires always overrode mine.
Emily, livid in my defense, pleaded with her mother to take in my orphaned cat. Mrs. Watson wasn’t thrilled about Hector’s beautiful long white hair, but to our shock, she consented. Hector, no dummy, transferred his feline displays of adoration—infrequent lap sitting and frequent tail hugs—to Emily’s mom. My cat is ten now, a senior citizen in feline years.
***
“Only one bag?” My father eyes my duffel dubiously when I exit the airport. He’s used to Chloe, with whom there’s no such thing as skipping the baggage carousel.
“I’m only here for a couple days.” I toss it into the backseat and climb into his SUV.
“How’s the filming going?” he asks, pulling into traffic as I take a deep breath.
“Fine.” I’m trying to focus on seeing Emily, and her mother, and Hector. If they hadn’t been waiting for me in Sacramento, I’d have rather stayed in Austin for the weekend, even if I was completely alone there. I wouldn’t have come home to see Chloe, not in a million years. I wouldn’t have come home to see my father.
Opposing viewpoints war inside my mind. On one hand, I want to ask his advice about Reid and Graham, and college, and the fact that I’m going to be a legal adult soon. I want him to know that it scares the hell out of me because I have no plans for my life besides continuing what I’ve always done.
On the other hand, I don’t want to speak to him at all.
Every developmental psychology website I’ve searched says that the desire to separate is natural in adolescents. But what I’m feeling can’t be natural, and the freedom I have wasn’t gained normally. I grew up with no religious commandments, not much of a curfew, and no pressure to succeed academically. Grandma and Mrs. Watson loved me, but they couldn’t parent me. That authority was always with my father, and all he’s ever exerted it to do is urge me to become a star. I’m a seventeen-year-old who’s raised herself for a solid freaking decade. I’ve done a pretty good job of it, but that fact is so incredibly sad that it’s infuriating. Sitting here in the front seat of my father’s car, I realize that I am furious.
In an effort to fill the silence, he begins to talk about work, and the kitchen redesign Chloe initiated, and a problem with the sprinkler system that required the entire yard to be dug up and a new system to be installed.
I don’t respond.
And he doesn’t notice that I don’t.
Chapter 29
REID
We’re halfway to the rehab facility, and neither of us has said a word. Once we leave LA proper, the haze that domes the city almost 365 days a year abates. A bright blue sky seems painted above the landscape; the only clouds are wisps of smoke in the distance.
I have no idea what to expect from the therapy session, or from Mom. I have no faith in the process. Why should I? The process has failed her multiple times. She struggles to stay sober while I struggle to avoid it.
That’s not exactly true. While it’s true that I push my boundaries as often as possible, I have it under control when it needs to be. I like getting hammered sometimes, sure. I’m young. It’s fun. Why not? I’m not using alcohol to “numb the pain” or any stupid shit like that. I’m not using it when I’m working. Any number of Mom’s therapists would say I’m in denial. That I’m making excuses. I’d say I’m explaining. They’d say there’s a difference between explanations and excuses, and I’m doing one and calling it the other. Then I’d say I don’t f**king care which it is, I’m fine. And that’s the end of that.
John’s texting me—says there’s a party tonight we’ve got to make it to. He wants to know if I want to stay over at his apartment near campus. He starts classes Tuesday, not that he’s stressed about it. I doubt he’s even got an idea what his schedule is—his father required him to apply as a finance major. I can’t imagine how that’s going to end, but it’ll be explosive. John is riding the ragged edge of pretending to follow in his dad’s footsteps. I’m glad that at least I don’t have to do that. I’ve got my own path, and while Dad may not get it, he seems to support it. At the very least, he’s never tried to mold me into a younger version of himself: Mark Alexander, f**king brilliant attorney at law. Bonus—beautiful, alcoholic wife and talented, irresponsible son.