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Mr. Blume just showed up to scoop up Maggie and Zeke.

I think Maggie wanted to cry. But she wouldn’t let herself. She folded her arms and glared at her father.

I think she has a right to be angry with him.

Zeke flung himself at his father. Mr. Blume looked … shocked?

Mr. Blume thanked me. He thanked Sunny.

Maggie kept her arms folded. Only as they were leaving did she unfold them.

Zeke took one of his father’s hands.

Maggie took Zeke’s other hand.

What are they going to find at home?

7:02

What? What?

She gave you this blank, cold, unfriendly look.

You thought it meant for you to say, “No, thank you, Mr. Winslow. I’d like to have dinner with you but I’ve promised Ted I’ll be home tonight.”

But as Sunny, you, and Mr. Winslow are leaving the store, Sunny whispers, “You should have come with us, you know,” before following her father out the door.

She doesn’t look back.

9:15
Heartburn and Heart Pain

This could be the title for a country music song.

Taco takeout indigestion.

And stupid, stupid, stupid Ducky.

Asking Ted’s advice?

AGAIN?

WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?

First he says, “Maggie’s a babe! She’s the one giving you problems? Let me tell you, she’s worth it — even if she does travel with a little brother.”

You tell him she’s a friend, not a babe.

“She’s cute,” he says.

“She’ll be thrilled you said so,” you retort.

He says, “Problems, Ducky?”

This should have been your cue to give up.

But you say Maggie isn’t the one giving you problems, and that you are still having problems with the other girl, the one you don’t like “that way.”

You’ve avoided mentioning Sunny’s name. No point in giving Ted too much information.

You don’t want to have to clean up the mess when his head explodes.

He chuckles. “Ducky the chick magnet,” he says.

And continues like that. You should have known he would say brilliant things like, “Give it spin

[sic]. Check out the menu. Drive to the hoop, man.”

You say, “Sunny is not a) a car; b) an entree; or c) a basketball.”

You storm out of the family room, leaving Ted puzzled but unafflicted.

This has taught you, Ducky, a lesson.

Asking advice is not going to help. The only thing that is going to help is dealing with it yourself.

Tomorrow.

Definitely tomorrow.

Aug. 29

The History of My Sunday, Part 1

So Maggie’s okay.

You are relieved that one thing in life is going better.

Maggie said that on the way home from the bookstore, her father told them what he had already planned. (You might have known that people in charge of big things like movies would GET

THINGS DONE. On the other hand, you can’t help but notice that Mr. Blume spent a lot of time and effort avoiding the whole situation — and leaving his kids to stew in it. Good going, Mr.

Blume.)

But you don’t say this to Maggie, brilliant Ducky that you are.

Mr. Blume says he’s already talked to the Betty Ford Center, a place where people with drug and drinking problems go to get better. They are waiting for him to bring Mrs. Blume in. But first there’s going to be an “intervention.” He and two of Mrs. B’s best friends are coming over to confront Mrs. B “in a firm, caring way” about her drinking.

Maggie and Zeke can opt out of this part.

The scene at the Blume house is not nice in a big way. (You’re not there, of course, but Maggie’s told you about it.) Mrs. Blume is drunk. The house is trashed, although Pilar has been there cleaning up. Mrs. B doesn’t even seem to have noticed that her own two kids were missing.

(Maggie had left a note for Pilar that, fortunately, survived Mrs. B’s rampage.)

Even Mr. Blume looks taken aback.

Maggie and Zeke head for the relative peace and quiet of their rooms as Mr. Blume tries to settle Mrs. Blume down.

He succeeds.

Things are quiet. Until the doorbell rings.

And rings again.

After awhile [sic], Maggie slips out onto the stair landing in time to hear Rachel, one of Mrs.

Blume’s two friends, say from the library, “Why would I make this up? You ARE an alcoholic.”

“You drink too. You were loaded at the New Year’s party.” Mrs. Blume’s voice is off the scale.

Maggie feels Zeke sit down next to her.

Rachel says, “We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you.”

“We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you,” Mrs. B spits back.

Mr. Blume says something Maggie can’t quite catch.

Her mother’s voice comes through loud and clear, though. She says,” I don’t need help! I’m fine. You know what your problem is? You’ve got too much time on your hands. Take up a hobby. Knitting. Go knit yourself a life.”

Maggie is on her feet before she knows it. With Zeke right behind her she goes down the stairs and into the family room.

“Mom, you’re a drunk!” Maggie shouts, bursting in.

Mr. B holds up his hand as if to stop Maggie. She remembers what he said about an

intervention: caring, firm.

Not nasty. Not angry.

Maggie reins herself in.

“I love you, Mom. We all do. But you are killing yourself. Just like I was killing myself when I wasn’t eating. It’s a disease and you’re going to die if you don’t start fighting back.”

“Don’t drink, Mama,” Zeke says. “Don’t die.”

Mrs. B says, “I’m not sick. I feel fine.”

Maggie just looks at her mother. Her eyes are filling with tears but she doesn’t turn away.

“It’s not true!” Mrs. B shouts. “I can quit anytime I want. I just don’t want to.”

Mrs. B’s other friend, Corrine, puts her hand on Mrs. B’s arm. “Listen to your children,” she says softly. “Listen to the people who love you most in the world.”

Mrs. B falters. “It’s not true,” she says. And then she says, “I’m sorry.” She keeps apologizing.

And promising she’ll do better.

Mr. B says, “Yes, good. You’re going to Betty Ford.”

Mrs. B stops apologizing and says, “No! I’m not that bad. The Betty Ford Center is for people who have real problems.”

No one says anything. They all just look at Mrs. Blume.

Her face collapses. She wails, “Nooo.”

Maggie wants to go to her, tell her it’s all right.

Except that it isn’t. And Maggie isn’t going to pretend it is anymore.

It’s Mr. B who says it’s over. That it’s gone too far. It’s gone on too long. Everyone has tried to cope, but they can’t anymore. Mrs. B needs help that they can’t give.

By now Mrs. B is really crying.

“Anyway,” Maggie concludes what she’s telling you brightly. “She’s left. Gone. On her way to Betty’s.”

When you ask her how she feels, Maggie says, “Fine.”

You don’t say anything.

Maggie says, “Okay. Fine, a little. Scared, a lot. Hopeful and afraid to hope. It could all go wrong. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to hope. But maybe … maybe just facing the fact that Mom is an alcoholic will make a difference for all of us.”

Aug. 29

History of Ducky’s Sunday, Part II

You hang out around the house until midafternoon.

You watch some pretty dumb movies.

You waste time on the Web.

You clean the kitchen.

You give up and go to Sunny’s house. But she’s not at home.

No one is. While you are standing halfway down the front walk, thinking about leaving a note (bad idea), making a few phone calls (not appealing), or driving around aimlessly pretending you are searching for Sunny (appealing — a good, guilt-free way to waste time, except for the waste of fossil fuel), Dawn shouts your name from next door.

You accept her invitation to enter her casa and go to the mat with baby Gracie.

Gracie laughs at all your jokes. Fortunately, you don’t suspect her of having a hidden, terrifying agenda.

As if she has read your mind, Dawn observes the babies have it easy.

“They don’t worry about expectations,” she says. “They just put it out there. They’re happy?

They laugh. They’re hungry? They cry. No miscommunications. No hurt feelings. And they’re willing to forgive you if you make a mistake. So you think they’re crying because they want food and you discover they want to be changed. Change them — they’re happy, you’re happy.”

You say, “Yeah.”

Ducky the great communicator.

Dawn says, not unexpectedly, given the lead-in: “So, what about you and Sunny? Any chance?”

Just like that, she asks the question.

The two-letter negative is on the top of your tongue, but you lack the straightforwardness of a mere baby like Gracie.

You say, “Well, uh.”

You say, “Sunny’s great. I love her, but …”

You say,” I wish I could be different about this.”

You finally wind down your extended version of “N” followed by “O.”

Gracie staring at you. Dawn is studying you too.

You pretend Gracie is fascination personified. She agrees and laughs in delight.

Somewhere above you, Dawn says, “It’s too bad. But I do understand, Ducky, more than you think. And you know what? Sunny will too. Eventually.”

You hope that this is TRUE and that it will happen SOON.

Aug. 29

History of Ducky’s Sunday, Part III

P.M. approaching A.M.

You … no, I wish I could fall in love with Sunny.

I do, I do, I really, really do.

But I can’t.

Aug. 29

History of Ducky’s Sunday, Part IV

You wish you could go to sleep too, don’t you, Ducky?

Like Ted the Snore Machine in there.

But you can’t.

Not until you’ve talked to Sunny.

You get up and go into the kitchen. Maybe you’ll clean something else: the laundry room, the den.

You forgot you used up all the cleaning supplies on the kitchen.

Aug. 29

History of Ducky’s Sunday, Part V

So what are you going to say? If you go with the “just be friends” routine, it’s gonna sound like the lame lose-yourself it usually is.

How did “just” get to be attached to the word “friends” anyway?

You’ve lived a long time without a girlfriend and a pretty good while without anything like a family in residence.

But you could live, oh, ten minutes without friends.

Friends are your family of choice. You get to choose them. That’s what [sic] so cool about it.

And they choose you.

That’s true love, if you ask … you.

Aug. 29

History of Ducky’s Sunday, Part VI

That’s it. You’re going to sleep even if you have to lie in bed awake for the

RESTOFTHENIGHT.

Aug. 30

So you’ve told Sunny, in a particularly graceful and suave way, that you have to talk to her, as in: Scene: Bookstore, moments after opening. You emerge from the rest room and there’s Sunny.

D: Sunny!

S: Good morning, Ducky.

D: Sunny.

S: [A look]

D: Uh, can we talk?

Sunny: [long pause] Okay. After work.

You are not sure whether you are relieved for the time to think about it, or whether you just with it were over with already.

5:15

Late break. You are sucking back coffee because when you’re nervous, that helps your nerves, right?

You are sitting on a bench behind a tree, like some spy.

You can see Sunny inside the bookstore as you skulk.

She is laughing at something her father has said to a customer (you surmise). Or maybe it’s something the customer said. …

Stop this. Off the point.

The point is …

What is the point?

What if Sunny looks at you and says that? “Ducky, what’s the point?”

What if she says,” Let’s just be friends.”

And that means that she is no longer your friend because there are ways of saying it and other ways of saying it and you don’t like the possibility of the way you think she might say it.

You are losing it.

Definitely.

Two more customers just walked in.

Must leap from behind the tree and get back inside to work.

Later

Is this weird, to hang out in your car? To hang out in your car writing in your journal?

Or what?

At least you’re not hanging out on a bench. The grocery store parking lot is not so strange. After all, you could just be writing up a grocery list.

Of cleaning supplies.

This is what happened.

You hover around the register as Mr. W closes it out. He looks up, smiles. “Take off,” he says.

“See you at home, Sunny?”

“Yep,” she says. “For dinner.”

She takes your hand and leads you out of the store. You are a) grateful for the guidance; and b) PANICKED THAT SHE IS HOLDING YOUR HAND.

Your hand starts to sweat.

Also your neck.

You follow Sunny to your car. She says, “The beach.”

So you drive to the beach. Sunny doesn’t say anything. She fiddles with the sad excuse you call a car radio.

At the beach, you pull into a deserted end of the lot.

Sunny gets out.

She jumps up onto the hood of your car.

You do the same.

You both stare out at the ocean.

Farther up the beach is the surfers’ zone. Farther down is the family spot, where the waves are gentler.

Here it’s anything goes.

Someone, you think a young woman, is doing the slow moments of Tai Chi.

Two guys are sitting cross-legged, playing some kind of board game.

A man and a woman with six golden retrievers and a Jack Russell terrier are throwing about a hundred tennis balls into the surf for the dogs to retrieve.

You decide you identify with one of the tennis balls. Smashed in the waves. Gnashed in a dog’s teeth.

You take a deep breath to BEGIN to ruin what is left of your relationship with Sunny.

She beats you to it.

She says, “I hate this. I hate it, Ducky.”

“You do?” you croak.

BOOK: o 76d8dbacab476b0a
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