Before, After, and Somebody In Between (30 page)

I stare in horror at the one that’s supposed to be mine. “Where’s my old bed?”

“I sold it.”

“You sold my bed?”

“Well, I wasn’t gonna pay for storage. Anyhow, it was old. I didn’t know you’d be so upset about it.” She truly sounds amazed.

Zelda interrupts to say she’ll be back in the morning with the rest of my stuff. Not sure if she’s going deaf or playing stupid, I almost say, “Don’t bother!” but then change my mind. Let Momma think I’m here by my own free will, not because the Brinkmans kicked me out like a puppy who peed on their Persian rug.

When Zelda’s gone, Momma remarks, “Your hair looks nice. Reckon it must’ve cost a fortune.”

And I’m not gonna tell her how much, either. “Yours looks nice too, Momma.”

She pats her own head with a grin. “You want a Coke or something?”

“No thanks.”

She swings open the fridge as I peek under her arm. Not much there, but at least there’s no beer. “What happened to your glasses, sugar pie?”

“I got contacts, Momma.” Already they feel like grit in my eyes, and an invisible nail gun seems to be whamming my head. I wonder, what’re the chances of digging up any painkillers around here? Zilch, no doubt.

“Zelda tells me they’re real nice, them folks that took care of you. Maybe I’ll ask ‘em over to supper. Think they’d like that?”

Yeah, they’d be thrilled. Nikki’d get a real kick out of Momma’s Hamburger Helper. Still, I keep quiet because I’m noticing stuff now, like a man’s windbreaker on the back of a chair, and a bowling ball bag on the kitchen floor. Since when does Momma bowl?

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Momma jumps up and scrambles around for a Drug Mart bag. “Happy birthday, sugar pie. Sorry it’s a little late.”

A “little late” is right. Listlessly I open the bag—nice gift wrap, Momma—and find a manicure set with four different shades of polish.

“I know you bite your nails, but maybe this’ll give you some, um…”

“Incentive?”

“Yeah, incentive.”

She seems disappointed when I don’t shower her with thanks, but what does she expect? My birthday was two freaking months ago.

A key jangles in the door, and Momma springs up, chirpy as a bird, when a strange man strolls in. “Oh, there you are, honey. Martha, this here’s Larry.”

“How ya doin’, Martha?” Larry holds out a big, rough hand
for me to shake. He has curly gray hair and a neat matching beard, and a very nice smile except for a missing front tooth.

“No point in beating ‘round the bush. Larry and me, we been livin’ together since we got outta rehab. I just know you two are gonna—”

Omigod, it’s Wayne all over again. Is rehab the only place Momma can dig up a man? “Are you outta your skull?”

Instead of knocking my block off, Momma smiles helplessly at Larry. “Sorry, honey. I reckon she had a tough day.”

Larry stuffs his hands in his pockets, jingling his change. “You know, Lou Ann, I think I’ll go take a walk and let you two get reacquainted.” Momma protests, but he shushes her up and then winks at me like we share a secret. He is so damn lucky I don’t reach over and knock out another tooth with the nearest blunt object.

As soon as he’s out of the house, shades of the old Momma overtake the new. “Now don’t you go messin’ this up for me, hear? Larry got me through a lotta bad times, and he’s sweet as pie in case you ain’t noticed.”

“Even sweeter than Wayne?”

Man, that’s all it takes. “Look, you don’t want to stay here, then you can pick up that phone and tell that uppity bitch to come get you. I am not puttin’ up with this crap of yours again,” she shouts and then careens out after Larry.

Fine! Sweating and furious, my murderous headache growing worse, I plunder the house in search of something to take for it. Nothing, absolutely nothing, not even a crummy aspirin. Dread floods through me like a river of boiling lava as I crawl into my new bed, missing Taffy like crazy, and try hard not to think about the Brinkmans at all. But that’s impossible, and
before I know it I’m crying, and all crying does is make my head hurt even worse.

How did I ever imagine those people would adopt me? Gina Brinkman—what a sick, pathetic joke! Invite them for dinner? I’ll stick my head in the oven first.

49

Momma almost faints when Zelda shows up with my stuff the next day.

“Good Lord! You sure this is all Martha’s?”

No, Momma, she robbed ‘em at gunpoint.

“Are you going to help me bring it in?” Zelda asks me.

Talking to Zelda is like talking to a tree trunk. “I told you I don’t want it.”

Momma gives me a nudge. “That ain’t no way to talk. Now go help the lady.”

Lady, huh? Just yesterday Zelda was an “uppity bitch.” I schlep everything in, slamming stuff around as noisily as possible. Afterward, as soon as Zelda’s big butt disappears down the front stoop, I ask Momma pointedly, “Does she know what’s-his-face is living here, too?”

“His name is Larry. And it ain’t against the law, and it ain’t none of her business.”

Larry himself shows up with a newspaper and a box of blueberry muffins. I eat one in my room as I unpack my stuff, and after Momma cools off, she comes in to help.

“Larry and me, we go to AA meetings every night, and you know what? They got Alateen, too, a couple nights a week.”

I kick one of my twelve pairs of Brinkman shoes under the bed. “I’m not going to any meetings.”

“C’mon, it’ll be good for you. Kinda like a support group.”

“Who says I need support?”

Momma frowns, hands on her hips. “Quit arguing, will you? Because I say you’re going.” So I have nothing to do with this decision, either. Why didn’t she say that in the first place instead of dicking around?

I smooth the satiny lining of my winter coat as I hang it up in the musty closet. I love this coat, I adore this coat. I sniff the sleeve, smelling the Shalimar Claudia lent me for my Valentine’s Day dinner with Danny, my insides snagged by a rush of homesickness.

“Martha, Martha. Let’s not start off on the wrong foot. Now maybe I ain’t been the best mother, but I worked real hard to get to where I am now. I’ve been at my restaurant job for over a month, and I’m off the booze and off the pills. But I can’t do it by myself. I need you to help me—Martha? You listening?”

I drop the coat sleeve, the fragrance still in my nostrils. “Uh-huh.”

“So I want you to go to them meetings so you can understand some stuff. Just give your old Momma a chance now, okay?”

Fine, whatever. I’ll go sit with a bunch of creeps and listen to them whine. What else is there for me to do around here anyway?

Oh God, I want my cello…but no, that cello belonged to Gina, and now poor Martha is shit out of luck. How will I ever find out if I passed my audition? Not that it matters, now that I have nothing to play.

“Martha?” Momma tucks a curl behind my ear. It takes all of
my self-control not to flinch away from her touch. “Are you happy to be home?”

“Yes, Momma. I’m happy,” I recite dutifully, a perfect Step-ford daughter.

…

This is finals week, and Zelda’s fixed it so I can take my exams down at the Board of Education instead of forcing me to go back to Waverly. Ha, like I’d set one foot back into that school after ditching the spring concert. I pass the tests, though not exactly with flying colors, but hey, who cares? I’ll be bagging groceries in no time, or flipping burgers like Momma.

With no cello to play, I find myself plucking at rubber bands and composing tunes on any piece of paper at hand. And my journal? Forget it. I have no desire to pick apart these past few days of my life. Instead, I doodle on the cover till I notice what I’m writing—
Gina Brinkman, Gina Brinkman
—and gouge the name out so viciously, I snap the point off my pencil.

Who’s Gina Brinkman? A finger puppet.

Nobody.

…

The days limp by, each one forty hours long. I’m bored without a boom box, and no cable TV. I go out of my way to avoid the other kids in the neighborhood, whose main forms of entertainment seem to be smashing bottles in the street and dodging traffic on their skateboards.

I do take long, lo-o-ong walks to get out of that crappy house every day, and today I end up down at the West Side Market. Old white ladies in babushkas, dragging their shopping carts. Old black ladies in stretch pants, dragging their screaming grandbabies. A few yuppies thrown in, dragging wheeled attaché cases. Wall-to-wall stands piled with mountains of fruit and vegetables.
One whole pig corpse eyeballs my every move, and honest to God, I may never touch another pork chop. I buy a bag of grapes from a black-bearded, beer-bellied, non-English-speaking vendor in a turban, and gobble them on the way home through the noisy, sunny streets.

The first thing I see when I hit my back door is that same old cello case waiting in the kitchen. Electricity prickles the hairs on my arms. If this is a joke, it’s not funny.

“You had a visitor today.” Sourer than usual, Momma scowls at the cello like it’s her mortal enemy.

I unfold the note taped to the case.

My dear, dear Gina,

I know you don’t want to talk to me, and I understand. I only want to say how sorry I am. Even though you may not believe this, I want you to know that we miss you very much. You were an important part of our lives for a long time, so please try to forgive us, and don’t hesitate to call me at any time, for any reason.

Love, Richard Brinkman

There’s a P.S. at the bottom:
The cello is a gift. No one else plays it, and it’s completely insured. Take good care of it. I wish you all the best
.

The smell of the instrument is as familiar as Claudia’s perfume. I run my fingers along the strings in shocked disbelief. Why did he give it to me? Because he’s sorry he kicked me out? Because he’s sorry he broke his promise and told Nikki all my secrets?

“Um, did you talk to him?” I glance around, hating that he might have seen where I live.
How
I live.

Momma makes a noise with her sinuses. “He didn’t bring it.
He sent some delivery guy.” She shakes her head at the cello. “Well, if you ask me, that sure is one sorry-looking old instrument. You’d think folks that rich could afford to buy you something new.”

Duh, Momma. It’s very old, very special, and completely irreplaceable.

“You gonna call him up and say thanks?”

I should, I ought to, but what do I say? I said more than enough to him in Zelda’s car, all those terrible, hateful things. So what does he do? He turns around and gives me his cello.

Does that mean he forgives me? Or am I supposed to forgive him?

50

My first Alateen meeting is worse than I expected. People are crammed like pigs’ feet into the basement of a church so incredibly medieval, it’s not even air-conditioned. Kids in one room, adults in another, and slogans, slogans, everywhere I look: Let Go and Let God. One Day at a Time. Live and Let Live.

Bite me, I think.

I pop my wrists glumly and slouch in my folding chair while everyone else recites the serenity prayer: “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” Somebody blabs about the Twelve Steps, blabs another prayer, and then it’s time to introduce the newbies. No last names—we’re a-nony-mous, remember? Ha, I bet half these losers end up in my homeroom next year.

I sit there, duncelike, till somebody pokes me. “Martha,” I mumble, and “Hi, Martha!” bounces back at me from all sides. Mortified, I unfocus my eyes and half-listen to all the same poor-little-me stories: drunk moms, drunk dads, brothers, sisters, grandmas, grandpas. One kid’s dad used to beat him with a dog chain,
so his mom stuck him in a foster home—get this!—for his “own protection.” I bet some dim-bulb social worker had a hand in that one.

Afterward, I duck out without socializing. The night is muggy and hot, and I smack at the mosquitoes trying to kamikaze my face as I wait on the church steps till Momma and Larry come out.

“So what’d you think, Martha?” Larry asks in his annoyingly cheerful way.

What does he care? I came, didn’t I? Entirely ticked off by the idiocy of this evening, I simply stalk off without a word.

“Hold it!” Momma catches up, something she could never do in the old days. “Why you gotta be so rude? Larry’s gonna think you don’t like him or something.”

“I like him fine, Momma. Honest.”

“Oh, I’m so glad to hear it.” She nudges me, lowering her voice. “He’s a sweetheart, that’s for sure, and handsome, too. Don’t you think he’s handsome?”

I blink to keep my eyeballs from swiveling. “Well, except for that one tooth he doesn’t have…”

Momma gasps like I just socked her in the stomach. I’m sorry. I can’t help it. I am just so
mad
at her for making me come back, never mind that the Brinkmans would have thrown me out anyway.

And this, right here, shows you how rotten I really am. It’s not Momma’s fault she’s sick, and if I were any kind of a decent daughter, I’d be trying a lot harder to make things better between us. I’d be nicer, too, so she wouldn’t get so mad all the time, or so sad all the time, or whatever it is that makes her want to drink all the time.

A jagged streak of lightning carves a slice through the sky as Momma marches back to Larry, and I slink off by myself. Well,
at least when I get home, now my cello will be waiting. The one single thing that makes my life bearable.

…

The idea grows like the sponge in the bottom of the goldfish bowl Larry gave me, trying to buy my affection, no doubt. Now that I have a cello, why can’t I keep taking lessons? They’re already paid for—why give them up?

But when I spring this on Momma, I get: “Forget it. You got Alateen those nights.”

“Yeah, well. I’m done with all that.”