Another Piece of My Heart (8 page)

Andi and Ethan, furious at each other, stand side by side with acres between them, but as Drew speaks, they both find themselves softening, remembering why they married, why they love each other. When Isabel starts to softly say her vow, Andi slips her hand into Ethan’s.

“I’m sorry.” She reaches up and whispers into his ear.

“That’s okay,” he whispers back. “I’m sorry, too,” and he gives her a sad but loving smile.

“I do love you, you know,” she says, squeezing his hand.

“I love you, too.” He squeezes back.

*   *   *

The music strikes up again after the wedding, and Andi leaves Ethan talking to friends as she wanders around the property. She is concerned about Emily, as much as she doesn’t want to admit it, and wants to, if not talk to her, at least see that she’s okay.

She crosses over the fields to the one with the sculptures in it and stands for a long time, mesmerized by the sun slowly setting behind the trees, lighting up the majestic creations.

There are voices coming from the barn. Laughter, which sounds like it might be Emily’s. Andi carefully picks her way around the objects that are scattered around the barn—found metal, oil drums, bicycles, old farm equipment—and stops at a crack in the shiplap sides, through which she sees the source of the laughter.

There are two boys, one standing, one sitting. The standing one has a buzz cut, the seated one a long, dark ponytail, a beard, and piercing blue eyes. Even from a distance, Andi recognizes the sexual energy emanating from him.

He is in jeans and boots, an oversized shirt, leather bracelets on his wrist. She wouldn’t have expected him to be Emily’s type, but Emily cannot take her eyes off him. She is Emily at her best, smiling, laughing, teasing.

God, she is so beautiful when she smiles, when her face lights up,
Andi thinks.

“You should really come,” the bearded guy is saying as he reaches for his beer. “It’s totally awesome. Just filled with beautiful art and beautiful people.”

“You’re such a hippie,” the boy with the buzz cut says. “I’ve gotta carry on with that welding. I promised Ken I’d finish it today.”

“I think it’s so cool you’re artists’ assistants,” Emily says. “But when are you actually going to be artists?”

“Oh, man.” The bearded guy laughs, shaking his head. “We already are. I have a ton of stuff I work on at home, but working with Ken is the most unbelievable experience. That’s what I meant about Burning Man. I’d never get to meet the people I did, or have the experience I had if I weren’t there as Ken’s assistant. It doesn’t mean I’m not already an artist, though. If you have a creative soul”—he touches his heart with a nod and a serious expression—“it doesn’t matter what you do, that will always come out.”

Emily nods sagely. “Yeah. I get that,” she says. “I’m supposed to be going to college in a year, but I don’t know. I’m thinking I might learn more at the University of Life.” She laughs.

“Oh, yeah, baby.” Bearded Guy laughs. “I hear you. So what are you doing this year?”

Emily shrugs. “I’m supposed to be traveling and working, but I haven’t really done much about it.”

“You should come hang with us,” Bearded Guy says. “Starting with Burning Man.”

“You’re really trying to convince me to come?” Emily says, her doubtfulness giving away her youth.

“Well, yeah. You’re cool. It would be fun to have you.”

“Cool?” Emily gives him a long, slow look. “I thought I was hot…”

Andi, watching from outside, catches her breath. This is an Emily she hasn’t seen before, an Emily who is fully cognizant of her sexuality, who knows exactly how to use it.

“Well, that goes without saying,” the bearded guy says slowly, and as Andi watches, he leans forward and kisses Emily.

Andi jumps back as if burnt, hesitates for a moment, then walks quickly back to the party.

*   *   *

“Where’ve you been?” Ethan says, extending an arm to draw her close.

“I went for a walk. I found Emily.”

His face grows serious. “How is she?”

“She’s…” No, she won’t tell him. “She’s great. She’s found some people her own age, and she seems to be having fun.”

“Really?” Ethan’s face lights up. “Where is she? I’ll go check in on her.”

“No. Don’t. She didn’t see me. She’s doing her thing, and she’s fine. Let’s just enjoy the party.”

Ethan nods. “Sounds like a plan.”

Nine

Andi puts down her book and listens hard. Next to her, Ethan is sound asleep, his breath escaping in a stream of air with an occasional snore.

They didn’t get home from the wedding until almost one in the morning, but Andi can’t sleep without reading at least a few pages. Ethan has always been asleep within seconds of his head touching the pillow, but without a book to quiet her mind and still her racing thoughts, Andi would be awake for hours.

She picks up the book again, then hears noise. Slipping out of bed, she pads quietly to the door, opening it to hear the unmistakable sounds of retching.

Emily.

They had not seen Emily all evening, and when she had finally appeared, after Andi had called her name in the general vicinity of the barn, she had been disheveled and, Andi was certain, drunk.

“You okay?” Ethan had asked, concerned, after Emily had lain down on the backseat of the car.

“Just really tired,” she mumbled, closing her eyes.

“She’s drunk,” Andi mouthed to Ethan, who gave her a look of disdain.

“Do you always have to be so negative?” he mouthed.

Andi just shrugged and spent the entire car ride home looking out the window. She imagines that Ethan must have roused Emily and gotten her to bed, while Andi walked straight into the house and upstairs, shutting the bathroom door to brush her teeth and get ready for bed. Alone.

Now, though, Emily is sick. Andi walks down the hallway, sniffing the faintest smell of pot, growing stronger as she approaches Emily’s room. The bathroom door is open, and Emily is squatting, with her arms draped around the toilet seat, retching into the bowl.

“Are you okay?” A wave of sympathy sweeps over Andi as Emily turns around and looks at her, shaking her head, her face a pale shade of grey, her eyes red-rimmed. Andi rubs her back and, with her other hand, gathers Emily’s hair out of her face, holding it out of the way.

“What happened, sweetie?” Andi says, reaching over for some tissues to wipe Emily’s mouth.

Emily finishes and collapses next to the toilet, closing her eyes. “I feel sick,” she moans.

“I know, baby,” Andi says, getting up and wetting a washcloth, pressing the compress on Emily’s forehead. “How’s that? Is that better?”

Emily nods.

“Oh, Em. I think you’re sick because you mixed alcohol and drugs. Your body’s rejecting it.”

“Didn’t,” Emily mumbles.

“I can smell the pot,” Andi says, not unkindly.

“Gonna be sick again.” Emily reaches blindly for the pot and retches again, leaning her head on the seat in between. Andi rewets the washcloth, and holds it on the back of Emily’s neck until she’s done.

“Do you want to try and get to bed?” Andi asks gently, helping Emily up. “I’ll get you a bowl to keep by the bed. Here, let me help.” And, with an arm around Emily’s waist to steady her weaving, she walks her back into her bedroom.

Emily sinks into bed, and looks up at Andi, the color slowly returning to her face.

“Can you not tell Dad?” she manages to get out. “Please?”

“I won’t tell him.” Andi doesn’t know why she agrees, but Ethan doesn’t need to know. She sits down on the bed, next to Emily, and strokes the hair out of her eyes, holding the compress down before standing up to get a bowl.

“Where are you going?” Emily’s eyes flash open in a panic.

“I’m just going to get a bowl,” Andi says. “I’ll be right back.”

As Andi places the bowl next to the bed, Emily looks as if she might have fallen asleep, and Andi quietly turns to leave when a small voice says, “Don’t go.”

Andi turns around and goes back to the bed.

“Can you stay with me? I’m scared.”

“Oh, Em.” Andi’s heart bursts open. “Of course.” And when Andi sits down, Emily slips a clammy hand into Andi’s and turns her head, closing her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“It’s okay,” Andi says. “These things happen.”

“No, I mean I’m sorry for being so mean to you.”

Andi wants to say something. Is trying to say something. But the lump in her throat is so big, it won’t let any words emerge, and she silently strokes Emily’s forehead, the dislike, irritation, and yes, sometimes hate she so often feels for her stepdaughter having disappeared like a puff of smoke.

*   *   *

Andi knows that when the girls are at their mother’s house, they are lucky if there is any cereal in the pantry for breakfast. Sophia tells Andi how she gets herself up, dresses, packs her backpack, and makes her own snack. If there’s food at home for breakfast, they help themselves, and if, as so often happens, Brooke has not managed the grocery shopping, Sophia counts off the hours until snack time, whereupon her teacher will dispense crackers for the kids who forgot a snack.

Sophia has even confessed to sometimes “borrowing” food from her father’s, hiding it in her bedroom at her mother’s, doling out crackers, or cookies, for both of them to take to school, or munch on when Brooke is too drunk to think about dinner, and there isn’t any food in the house anyway.

It breaks Andi’s heart. Often, Andi will drop a snack off at school on the days the girls are with their mom. She knows that Brooke sleeps late, usually hungover, rousing herself occasionally to plant a hazy good-bye kiss on Sophia.

She just doesn’t know quite how bad it is.

When the girls are with their dad, Andi makes sure she is up, well before Sophia, and has breakfast all ready. Waffles, pancakes, bacon, strawberries, French toast. She makes different breakfasts every day, always something hot. Sometimes oatmeal, fruit salad, scrambled eggs, with orange juice and a beautifully set table.

Sophia loves it. Emily usually sleeps through it, although in her junior year she always grabbed something when she thought Andi wasn’t looking, stuffing it into her bag for later.

Children need a good breakfast
. Andi’s mother’s words echo in her head as she cracks the eggs in the bowl, pausing to pour herself some fresh coffee, checking to see she still has fifteen minutes to herself before she wakes Emily.

These children, in particular, need a good breakfast. Children who are so neglected when they are at their mother’s, who, if they’re lucky, manage to get enough money to go down to the deli and get their own dinner.

And look at how appreciative Sophia is! See how she comments on the delicious smells as she walks into the room, look how her eyes light up when Andi places French toast and bacon in front of her.

If their own mother won’t do it for them, Andi will. And she will do it better than anyone else.

*   *   *

Andi and Brooke do not have a relationship. She has heard the entire story from Ethan, and lately, from Sophia, who would never directly criticize her mother; but Andi can hear Sophia on the phone, hears the sharp barbs Brooke constantly shoots at her daughters, and the upset in Sophia’s voice.

On some level, the girls know that their mother is an alcoholic. A couple of years ago, when they were having friends for dinner, Sophia, who had been about to turn eleven, had wandered into the kitchen just in time to hear Ethan ask one of their friends what they would like to drink.

“She’ll have wine.” Sophia had grinned. “All grown-ups drink wine all the time!” Her voice was a singsong of innocence. “It’s like”—she paused, thinking—“it’s like the grown-up version of juice!” She was delighted with her explanation and didn’t see the look that passed between Andi and Ethan.

“No,” Ethan quickly said. “That’s not quite true.”

“It is!” Sophia had giggled. “Mommy drinks wine
all
the time!”

Later that night, Andi left their guests to go and tuck Sophia in. “Not all grown-ups drink wine all the time,” she said. “I know sometimes it seems like that, and some grown-ups drink more than others, but many don’t drink at all. Look at me. I hardly drink wine at all. It gives me headaches.”

Sophia thought for a while. “So what do you drink?”

“My favorite is cranberry juice and seltzer,” she said, thinking vodka martinis were probably not what was called for here.

“I love those!” Sophia said. “And ginger ale and cranberry juice!”

“Yum! You have to understand that all grown-ups are different, and some drink wine, but many don’t.”

Andi didn’t know how else to explain to Sophia, sweet innocent Sophia, that there is another path; not all adults are like her mother; not all adults drink wine like water, and please God let Sophia choose the other fork.

*   *   *

Andi has met Brooke less than a handful of times, and then, mostly, by mistake.

Long before they met, she read the e-mails Brooke would send, accusing Ethan of being a terrible father, blaming him for her financial woes, telling him she would take him back to court to get full custody.

Or Brooke would phone the house, leaving slurred, drunken messages on their voice mail, telling the girls they had to do something, reminding them to hand in some homework,

It felt, always, as if she was staking her claim. She refused to accept Andi as an equal:
she
was the mother of the girls, and she wasn’t about to let Andi forget it.

“Tell your father’s wife,” Brooke would say disdainfully to the girls, never referring to Andi as their stepmother.

The first time they met was in Whole Foods. They were on their way back from a hike, and ran in, dividing and conquering as soon as they got through the doors—Andi to the fresh produce, and Ethan to the dairy section.

Arms full of vegetables, she came across Ethan, talking to a woman whose face was hidden by a mop of thick, curly blond hair.

“Hey.” Andi walked over. “I wondered where you’d gotten to.”

Ethan looked stunned.

“Oh, I…”

“Hi.” Andi put him out of her misery, extending a hand to the woman, smiling and realizing, as she looked into her eyes, exactly who she was, for she looked like Sophia. Only sexy. And older, of course. “I’m Andi,” she said more tentatively.