you’d be here for dinner or not. Did James go home?”
“Yeah,” I said, thinking,
Please don’t ask anything else,
and thinking, too,
Please, ask me what happened
.
“Okay. So, dinner?” she asked again.
I went to the table and sat down with a sigh. A half-full bottle of red wine sat in the spot across from her, as though it had found the seat available and decided to take my dad’s place. Looking at the dreamy look on my mother’s face, I thought that might not be far from the truth. I reached for it.
Other times, my hand would have been swatted away. Instead, Mom just watched with a half smile as I grabbed the bottle by its neck and brandished it, threatening to drink from it.
“That’s what you want?”
“Maybe I feel like drinking.” It was the truth. Not only that, but the thick scent of the wine had wakened my stomach. Its protesting clench, its strike against food, had subsided.
Mom giggled. I was pretty sure that I knew where the top half of the bottle’s liquid had disappeared to.
“Well?” I said, sloshing it at her.
She looked out the window for a second, toward the garden and the hidden incline where James and I disappeared a few hours earlier, and smiled again.
“You’re an adult, right? High school graduate? I think you deserve a drink.”
“What? Really?”
“Just get yourself a glass, would you? I don’t want you stumbling around the kitchen with your lips wrapped around that thing like some kind of hobo.” She giggled again.
“All right.” I tried to hide my surprise as I grabbed a long-stemmed goblet from the cabinet above the sink. No doubt my mother knew that this wasn’t my first drink, but to this point, she and my father had done a good job of pretending my innocence; all I’d had to do was nod, play along, and avoid vomiting in the rosebushes on the nights that I came home wasted.
I sat down again, filled the glass, and took a long sip while my mother grinned at me.
“Nice,” I said. “Do most hobos drink Pinot Noir?”
“Ha!” she said.
“What?”
“I thought you were going to say, ‘Do most hobos drink
pee
!’” She cackled through a mouthful of fried rice.
By the time I teetered off to bed, we’d been sipping for hours, laughing at nothing, until the past twenty-four hours felt like nothing but a hazy, bad dream. Two bottles of wine were empty—drained but for the deep red silt that ringed the depression in their heavy bottoms—my father had come home, and although I didn’t feel particularly adult, at least I could sleep. My head thudded heavily on the pillow and I swallowed hard, trying to combat my body’s insistence that the room had begun to spin. I was dead asleep within moments, oblivious to the heat or the noise of the katydids. I didn’t hear the voices that carried from the kitchen, my mother’s tone raised and shrill.
* * *
And now, I was fine.
Almost.
I had zombie moments; I sat for hours, staring at my college packing list, too paralyzed to even touch my sock drawer. At night, I would stare unfocused at the cordless phone—waiting for his inevitable call, but yelping when the chirruping ring shattered the silence. I had begun to move at half pace, trying to keep steady, trying to keep moving at all.
If things had been normal, someone might have seen my raw eyes and slack expression and asked me whether everything was okay.
But nobody did—not my friends, not my family, not the head chef at the restaurant outside of which I sat and stared at my own pallid reflection. I was temporary. I had a sell-by date, good only until the end of the summer. My dark moods, my nervousness, my paralysis in the face of the future—they were all understandable. If I seemed to be fading, they thought, it was only natural. I was on my way out, moving on, already gone.
The dead girl on the side of the road had yet to be identified; with the question of who she was and how she came to be there still hanging in the air, the
“Yeah,” I said, thinking,
Please don’t ask anything else,
and thinking, too,
Please, ask me what happened
.
“Okay. So, dinner?” she asked again.
I went to the table and sat down with a sigh. A half-full bottle of red wine sat in the spot across from her, as though it had found the seat available and decided to take my dad’s place. Looking at the dreamy look on my mother’s face, I thought that might not be far from the truth. I reached for it.
Other times, my hand would have been swatted away. Instead, Mom just watched with a half smile as I grabbed the bottle by its neck and brandished it, threatening to drink from it.
“That’s what you want?”
“Maybe I feel like drinking.” It was the truth. Not only that, but the thick scent of the wine had wakened my stomach. Its protesting clench, its strike against food, had subsided.
Mom giggled. I was pretty sure that I knew where the top half of the bottle’s liquid had disappeared to.
“Well?” I said, sloshing it at her.
She looked out the window for a second, toward the garden and the hidden incline where James and I disappeared a few hours earlier, and smiled again.
“You’re an adult, right? High school graduate? I think you deserve a drink.”
“What? Really?”
“Just get yourself a glass, would you? I don’t want you stumbling around the kitchen with your lips wrapped around that thing like some kind of hobo.” She giggled again.
“All right.” I tried to hide my surprise as I grabbed a long-stemmed goblet from the cabinet above the sink. No doubt my mother knew that this wasn’t my first drink, but to this point, she and my father had done a good job of pretending my innocence; all I’d had to do was nod, play along, and avoid vomiting in the rosebushes on the nights that I came home wasted.
I sat down again, filled the glass, and took a long sip while my mother grinned at me.
“Nice,” I said. “Do most hobos drink Pinot Noir?”
“Ha!” she said.
“What?”
“I thought you were going to say, ‘Do most hobos drink
pee
!’” She cackled through a mouthful of fried rice.
By the time I teetered off to bed, we’d been sipping for hours, laughing at nothing, until the past twenty-four hours felt like nothing but a hazy, bad dream. Two bottles of wine were empty—drained but for the deep red silt that ringed the depression in their heavy bottoms—my father had come home, and although I didn’t feel particularly adult, at least I could sleep. My head thudded heavily on the pillow and I swallowed hard, trying to combat my body’s insistence that the room had begun to spin. I was dead asleep within moments, oblivious to the heat or the noise of the katydids. I didn’t hear the voices that carried from the kitchen, my mother’s tone raised and shrill.
* * *
And now, I was fine.
Almost.
I had zombie moments; I sat for hours, staring at my college packing list, too paralyzed to even touch my sock drawer. At night, I would stare unfocused at the cordless phone—waiting for his inevitable call, but yelping when the chirruping ring shattered the silence. I had begun to move at half pace, trying to keep steady, trying to keep moving at all.
If things had been normal, someone might have seen my raw eyes and slack expression and asked me whether everything was okay.
But nobody did—not my friends, not my family, not the head chef at the restaurant outside of which I sat and stared at my own pallid reflection. I was temporary. I had a sell-by date, good only until the end of the summer. My dark moods, my nervousness, my paralysis in the face of the future—they were all understandable. If I seemed to be fading, they thought, it was only natural. I was on my way out, moving on, already gone.
The dead girl on the side of the road had yet to be identified; with the question of who she was and how she came to be there still hanging in the air, the
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