Whether from the grief of losing her mother, or guilt of never living up her to own expectations of being the perfect daughter, Mom tried rehab for the second time a few months after Grandmother died. I returned from being on location—the movie where I met Brooke—to find her gone. Dad was happy. He thought she would kick her addiction and all would be well with the world and the Alexander family.
Clearly that was a stretch.
I don’t remember when she began drinking again that time, just that I had already started by then. I felt better that she was, too, for some irrational reason.
Brook and I had broken up—exploded, more like, after multiple allegations that she was cheating on me surfaced. When she told me she was pregnant, I told her, “What’s it to me? Sounds like your problem.” I was utterly convinced it wasn’t mine. I’m not sure now, not that it matters anymore.
Mom knows I drink. Somehow, though, she managed to be stunned when I went out with John on my nineteenth birthday—a couple of weeks ago—and got so loaded that I’m not exactly sure what we did after some point. That’s the first and only time I’ve ever actually blacked out. I woke up in agony at John’s place, my hand swollen double and throbbing with no idea why.
According to him, we and some other guys pulled an SUV under a fire escape, climbed to the top of a building, screwed around (particularly horrifying considering I was drunk enough not to remember any of this) and then attempted to descend without falling. I failed right at the end and fell on top of the SUV, but seemed fine, John said—offering as evidence the fact that I was laughing the whole time. I’d broken my left hand. The hand surgeon had to operate to remove stray bone fragments, set it correctly, and insert a metal rod in my thumb, which is a bitch. I go in to have the rod removed in a few weeks, and then I have to go—I kid you not—to hand therapy twice a week for I don’t know how long.
Days after that little mishap was the first time I came home to Mom with a drink in her hand. She’d even made it through the holidays this time, but she couldn’t make it past my thwarted fire escape stunt. Dad had been coming home a bit earlier sometimes, making it to dinner here and there, making weekend appearances. Once the relapse occurred, those changes came to a screeching halt.
Way to be supportive, Dad. Everything back to normal, whatever the f**k that is.
*** *** ***
Emma
While Dad orders coffee drinks, I fantasize about mittens and campfires and down-filled blankets. My fingers are numb from the unexpected cold that is April in NYC, and I crave the latte as much for the digit-thawing warmth of the cup as for the caffeine the double shot of espresso promises. New York will take some getting used to after a lifetime in California; very little resembles my suburban hometown—the local dialects, the crowds, the weather. I remind myself that different was sort of the original idea.
As I glance around looking for an open table, I see a tiny girl wearing a man’s jacket over a lime green leotard and tights with a pink tulle tutu. The jacket hangs past her knees, and her small arms are no match for the sleeve length. Protruding from the arm of the jacket as though she has no hand at all is a wooden stick with a glitter-covered star and streamers attached to the end of it. She skips around her table twice, sits down, and is up again five seconds later, skipping in the opposite direction, her short hair bouncing up and down with every step.
My eyes move to the man whose jacket she’s wearing. I blink, because the man is Graham. He tips his chin back, and the girl turns to look at me. They have the same dark eyes, same shape of mouth, but her hair is straight and strawberry blond, where his is wavy and dark, though I remember that in the sun it would be reddish. I remember, too, that Graham has two older sisters. This must be a niece.
I haven’t seen him since last month, but I’ve thought about him often since then. I smile, thinking what are the odds? I feel an uncharacteristic shyness with him, this guy I ran with nearly every morning while I was in Austin, shared aspects of my life that only Emily had been privy to before him. And then it was over.
I’m struck then by the fact that I still don’t know why he ever kissed me, or why he pulled away from me after. I assume he withdrew because of a relationship with Brooke, because of my very public kiss with Reid. Yet we became friends, apart from the two of them. Apart from that kiss in my room.
“Here’s your latte,” Dad says. He’s balancing a slice of cheesecake on top of his coffee, taking advantage of being several thousand miles from Chloe’s latest nutritional regimen. Spying the vacant table next to Graham, he makes a beeline for it.
“Hey,” Graham says when we sit.
“Hi. Dad, you remember Graham Douglas?” Graham’s niece stops circling the table and presses her face into his side.
“Mr. Pierce,” Graham says, reaching to shake Dad’s hand while circling his opposite arm around the girl, who is now appraising me openly.
“Graham, of course.” Dad stirs sugar into his coffee. Sugar. Chloe would have a cow. “According to Emma, you were the most talented actor in the School Pride cast. And she doesn’t impress easily.”
“That’s interesting,” Graham says with a smile. “I thought she was the most talented.” I could track the flush that spreads across my face.
Dad smiles at the girl as she spins the wand streamers in a blur of color. “And who do we have here?”
“This is Cara.”
My father leans his elbows on his knees. “Are you a princess, Cara?”
“I’m a fairy godmother. See?” She shucks off Graham’s jacket to reveal flattened wings. “Oh, no! My wings are effed up!” People at nearby tables turn and I bite my lip.