Secret for a Song (12 page)

I
decided to take a cab home because I could tell Zee was tired, even if she
wouldn’t admit it. I finally pretended to have to stop by WalMart to pick up
some late night snacks so she could leave without feeling guilty. Pierce rode
with her.

Drew
waited with me as I stood on the sidewalk outside, letting the snow dust my
head and shoulders.

“You
look good in snow,” he said.

I
laughed, my cheeks heating up as I tipped my head back to look at him. “Are you
drunk?”

He
stepped in closer, blocking out the streetlight that glowed orange in my eyes.
“Maybe just a little tipsy.” He smiled. “I really meant what I sang in there.”

“Which
part?” My words were just a breath, curling into the air.

He
brought his head down to mine, so our noses were almost touching. “I’ll tell
you a secret, I’ll sell you a secret for a song,” he sang softly; the same song
from the bar. “Someday I’ll tell you, and take you back home where you belong.”

I
wasn’t one of those girls who cried at every emotional thing they saw or heard;
I’d never been that way. That might’ve explained why, when the tears cascaded
down onto my cheeks, I felt with my fingers to see what the hell was going on
with my eyes.

“Hey,”
Drew said, catching one of the tears with a fingertip. “Are you okay?”

I
opened my mouth to say I was, but all that came out was a sort of sob-whine,
and more tears. Drew responded by putting his free hand around my waist and
covering my mouth with his.

I’d
like to say that in that moment, I kept my head. That I remembered that I was
lying to him, that my entire existence in his life was only because of a huge
untruth, and that I intended to extricate myself from him and the rest of the
group. I’d like to say that I stopped the kiss.

But
in that instance, the only thing I felt, the only thing that mattered, was how
hard I was falling for Andrew Dean.

I
was falling for this scared, lonely, broken, brave man who sang songs about
secrets, who lulled me into a whole new universe using nothing but his voice. I
wanted him, all of him, and I pretended that I belonged. It was the biggest lie
I’d told up to that point, and for someone whose entire life was carved out of
lies of different colors and shades and shapes, that was saying a lot.

When
a horn rang out in the stillness of the night, we broke apart.

“Someone
called a cab?” the driver said, smirking out of his window.

“Yes.”
I turned back around to look at Drew. “I have to go.”

He
put his finger on one of my eyebrows, just a feather-light touch. “Can I see
you again tomorrow?”

I
nodded because I couldn’t speak.

When
I got home, I had absolutely no recollection of the journey there. The cab ride
was spent in a sort of cotton candy time bubble, soft and sweet. I kept
replaying Drew singing the song to me, the way he’d held me closer, kissing me
in the snow.

I
paid the driver and walked into the house. The lights were on in the living
room and the kitchen. I was pretty sure I’d turned them off.

“Dad?”
I looked around, but I could already see that the place was empty. He was
probably still upstairs in his study. Why had he left all the lights blazing?
It was Mum’s pet peeve, the waste of power. I turned to the fridge to get
myself a bottle of water when I saw the note.

Saylor,

Had
to go to police station. Be back soon.

Dad

The
police station? I checked the time on my cell phone: a little past midnight.
Why the hell would my dad go there at this time of night? Even though he was a
criminal defense attorney, his clients were high profile enough that they
bypassed the whole “low-life sitting in a jail cell” phase and went straight to
the “meet with my four hundred dollar an hour attorney at a five-star
restaurant” one.

I
went upstairs, but the door to my parents’ room was open and the lights were
off. Mum wasn’t back from wherever she went either. I took my cell phone out
and texted her.

Dad
went to police station. Is everything okay?

I
waited, but there was no reply. After a full ten minutes, I texted my dad to
ask him the same question. Again, there was no answer. I felt my palms begin to
tingle. Something was very wrong. I had a creeping feeling along the skin of my
arms and legs, like I always did before I had to undergo a painful medical
procedure of some kind. I had this inherent sense of something unpleasant
coming, something undesirable that I lacked the power to stop.

I
considered texting Drew, just to talk to him, to let him reassure me, but I
didn’t want to unburden on him so soon. I felt bad texting Zee because she’d
looked exhausted at Sphinx. And to be honest, I didn’t know her that well.

Is
that the truth?
a
voice inside me said mockingly.
Isn’t the real reason that you don’t want to
use them? Because you know you’ve already done enough damage simply by being in
their lives.
But I really wasn’t in a mood to entertain the voice right
then. So I went into my room and pulled out my book on multiple sclerosis. I
had some reading to catch up on anyway.

Symptoms
a patient diagnosed with MS could expect:

Dizziness

Numbness

Tingling

Tremors,

Fatigue

Slurred
speech

Blurred
vision

I
didn’t think I’d have too many problems pretending—most of these occurred when
you fell in love. And if I wasn’t there yet, I knew I was perilously close.

I
heard the front door open and stood up to see what was going on.

“Jesus
Christ. It’s a fucking nightmare.” Dad, and he sounded more pissed than I’d
ever heard him sound.

“Well,
it’s not your nightmare.” Mum, her voice completely flat, like a sheet of
aluminum foil.

“Actually,
it is. You’ve
made
it my nightmare. Do you have any idea how this looks
for me?”

I
heard Mum coming up the stairs and I stepped back into my room, out of sight.
She shuffled by me, her clothes rumpled, her hair beginning to frizz. I’d never
seen her look so...downtrodden. I tasted the word on my tongue, like a bitter
pill that didn’t belong. My mother was cold, sleek, beautiful, marble. “Downtrodden”
wasn’t a word you’d ever use to describe her. Not usually.

I
heard Dad banging away, opening and closing drawers. He was probably pouring
himself a drink. He was a Jack Daniels guy when things got really bad or really
good. The last time was after he won a case that allowed him to buy his second
boat, The Kindred Spirit. He’d been crazy about it for a week afterward, and
then hadn’t ever talked about going out on it again. I didn’t know if he even
still had it.

I
came out of my room and turned left, meaning to go talk to Mum. Her bedroom
door was closed. I knocked softly and opened it.

The
lights were all off, but I knew she was in there because I could smell her tea
rose perfume. Only this time, it seemed to be soured by something tangy and
metallic. Fear?

In
the light from the hallway, I saw their enormous four-poster bed in the corner.
The all-white covers were virtually undisturbed except for a small lump on the
left side, where my mother lay, buried under the comforter.

“Mum?”
I stepped forward. It was cold in there; colder than in the other parts of the
house. “Mum, are you okay?”

There
was a long silence, and I thought she was going to ignore me. But then she
turned over. I could just make out her face in the dim light. She was on her
back now. “Yes. I’m fine.”

“What
happened? I got Dad’s note, that he was at the police station. I...I texted you
guys.” I didn’t want to sound needy. Nothing drove her away faster than the
stench of my neediness.

A
sigh. She sat up, turned on her bedside lamp, and took a sip of water from the
glass on her nightstand. “We were busy. I’m sorry we didn’t respond straight
away, but there are some things more important than you, darling.”

It
stung, as she’d known it would. “I know that, I just wanted to—”

“I
got charged with a DWI.” She said it like she was flinging stones at me. Her
words were quick and hard, her chin thrust out, her eyes holding mine.

I
waited for the punch line. “DWI. That’s not, um—”

She
sighed again and put the glass to her forehead, as if the pain of dealing with
a stupid daughter was too much to bear. “Driving While Impaired. Yes. It’s the
same thing as a DUI, just a different acronym.” She set the glass down, looked
at me, her eyes bright and cold. “Anything else you fancy asking dear Mum?”

I
wanted to ask a million other things. What was she thinking? Was this the first
time? Were they wrong? I mean surely, surely they had the wrong person. Mum, in
her cashmere and pearls, with a DWI. It didn’t add up. Drunk drivers were those
bastards who killed perfect families of four and ruined lives. They wore
wife-beaters and actually beat their wives. They were rednecks, uneducated and
poor. They weren’t lawyers’ wives who assembled dollhouses for fun and played
Bunco on Monday nights.

But
I just shook my head. “No.” The word came out a whisper, floated to the floor
like a feather. I took a step back, then another.

My
mother turned out the lamp, plunging us into darkness.

I
closed Mum’s door and made my way downstairs. I found Dad at the breakfast
nook, staring at Mum’s newest not-yet-assembled dollhouse and drinking. He
looked up as I walked in and offered me a wan smile.

“I
never got her hobby,” he said. “Fixing up dollhouses, painting them, and then
throwing them away. Why go through all the trouble?”

I
shook my head. “Is it true? About the DWI?”

He
took a long drink and then looked at me. “Yes,” he said simply.

It
felt like a punch to my stomach again. I swallowed past a lump in my throat.
“What...what are they going to do? Will she have to go to jail?”

“No.
It’s her first offense and she’s got a hell of a lawyer.” The smile that
flashed on his face fell off just as quickly. “They’re going to suspend her
license and she’ll have to take some classes. Show them she can handle her
drinking, that sort of thing.”

Handle
her drinking. Isn’t that what drunks said? I can handle my drinking. I can stop
when I want. It was like the worst, most clichéd joke in the book.

On
the counter, Dad’s phone buzzed. I was closer to it, so I looked at the screen.
It said Preston.

“Someone
named Preston,” I said, handing the phone over.

“Christ,”
Dad muttered. “The guy can’t take no for an answer.”

“Who
is it?” I remembered Mum and Dad arguing about a Noah Preston earlier.

“Some
liberal asshole lawyer who wants a meeting with me to discuss something or
another. Not going to happen.” He stood up, palming his highball glass. “I’ll
be in my study.”

I
wondered if he should be drinking if Mum wasn’t going to be allowed to anymore.
Shouldn’t he quit in a show of solidarity? But my parents were never solid
about anything. They were amorphous when it came to our family, floating around
the house to the corners where there was the most space, the most emptiness.

I
went back up to my room and slid out the book on multiple sclerosis. Playing
with the curling edge of one of my bandages, I began to read.

The
next morning my phone buzzed, rattling against my nightstand, and I jolted
awake. My heart seemed to know who it was before my brain caught up—it thrummed
like a hummingbird’s wings.

Good
morning. Sleep well?

Drew.
I smiled, even though my mind flashed with a picture of Mum in bed, telling me
she’d been arrested for driving drunk.

Yeah.
You?

Like
a baby. You kiss well.

I
could feel myself blush at the blatant flirting, even though I was alone.

Going
to Ptwscptt Psrk. Come queh me?

I
squinted at the misspelling.

A
minute later:
*Prescott Park. And *with. Sorry.

I
smiled and texted back:
Of course.

I
washed up and checked on the drained abscesses. The original packing that Dr.
Daniels had put in was still intact, and now it was blood-soaked. I didn’t know
how long I should leave it there for maximum impact/infection, so I hadn’t
dared take it off even though it had been three days.  I could feel the
beginnings of a fever in the pit of my bones. I didn’t want to risk another
vomiting incident, so I downed two ibuprofen, just to get it under control. I
could always let it run its course afterward, once we were done with the park.

When
I was dressed, I went to check on Mum. She was in her craft nook with her new dollhouse,
affixing gold-patterned wallpaper to one of the tiny walls. She glanced up as I
walked in.

I
got an orange from the fruit bowl and sat down beside her. “I’m going to Prescott
Park with a friend.”

“A
friend?” Her voice was cold. Was she just feigning interest so I wouldn’t whine
about her not caring?

“It’s
a boy. His name’s Drew.” I poked my thumbnail into the orange peel, filling my
lungs with the fragrance as I began to strip its skin.

Mum
turned over another piece of wallpaper and started to dab glue on the back. “I
see. And how do you plan to get there?”

Setting
pieces of peel on the table, I began to build up a small tower of them. I
ripped off a segment of the fruit, squeezing it too hard. Juice dripped into a
paper cut on my finger. “I’m taking the car,” I said, staring at her. “It’s not
like you can drive it anymore.”

She
stiffened, her hand going still. The glue began to dry. “You do not have
permission to drive my car.”

My
mother had always been passionate about me not driving. I’d never been able to
get a straight answer out of her about what she was afraid might happen, but I
suspected she thought I’d purposely wrap it around a tree just so I could
sustain major injuries. She was probably just concerned what that’d do to her
car.

I
laughed and popped a slice of orange into my mouth. Once I’d swallowed, I said,
“Oh, really? Why not? Because I might do something totally stupid and
irresponsible like drink and drive?”

Even
as I flayed her with my words, she sat there unmoving, refusing to look at me.

Leaving
my orange peel on her work desk, I walked to the mudroom and got on my jacket
and boots, and grabbed her car keys from the key hook.

“See
you later.” I opened the door to the garage and walked to her car, which sat
waiting like a silent, obedient horse.

Once
I was driving down the freshly-plowed highway, I texted Drew.

I’m
coming over now. Is that okay?

He
texted back less than thirty seconds later.

YES.

Smiling,
I looked around for something to drink. Mum usually kept a case of water bottles
in her car in the winter, since the weather pretty much ensured refrigeration.
I felt around in the backseat with my hand until I had the plastic bottle by
its neck. Setting it between my thighs, I twisted the cap. There was no
resistance to it, as if it hadn’t been sealed well. After a moment of
indecision, I realized I was too thirsty to really care.

I
spat the first disgusting mouthful all over the steering wheel. It wasn’t water
in the bottle, it was alcohol—probably vodka. At the first stoplight, I turned
right and pulled into the parking lot of a gas station. Going around to the
back seat of my car, I pulled up the carton of water bottles.

I
began to open them one at a time. None of them were sealed because she’d opened
every one, emptied out the water, and filled them back up with vodka. And I’d
been driving down the road with open containers of alcohol in my car. I
could’ve been arrested, just like her.

With
a small cry, I threw one of the bottles on the ground. The cap flew off and
alcohol gurgled out, making a small stream on the icy ground that sparkled in
the muted sunlight.
Fuck
her. Lying, selfish
bitch
. I heaved the
carton of bottles out of the car and, walking to the big dumpster, tossed the
lot in. Rearing back, I kicked the dumpster with everything I had, once, twice,
three times. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw some of the customers gassing
up their cars gawking at me. Without looking at any of them, I got back in the
car and began to drive again.

Once
I’d slid into Drew’s parking space, I ran to his apartment and knocked. I had
to stamp my feet as I waited because I hadn’t bothered getting my jacket on
before I got out. I just wanted to go, to keep moving, to not think.

Drew
opened the door and peered past me, at my mother’s silver BMW. “Whose car is
that?”

“Mine,”
I said, turning to look at it. “It’s mine now.”

Drew’s
eyebrows knit together at my tone. After only the slightest hesitation, he
said, “Sweet.” Grabbing his jacket, he strode out with me.

I
couldn’t bring myself to say anything on the drive to Prescott Park. My heart
slammed against my ribs and my breath felt short, like I’d been running. A
trickle of sweat ran down my back. All I could think about was the vodka in the
car. My mother, a fucking drunk. All those times I’d seen her sipping water in
the car, when
I’d been with her
, she’d been getting shit-faced? Didn’t
she think once about how I could’ve got hurt? That she could’ve been directly
responsible for my death?

When
Drew touched the back of my hand with his finger, I jumped.

“You
okay?” he asked, his eyes searching my face. “You’re a million miles away.”

“I’m
fine,” I said, turning to look at the road. “It’s snowing. I want to pay
attention so I don’t miss our turn.”

“Alright.
Well, I won’t bother you then.”

I
could hear the edge of hurt he was trying to round out, but I couldn’t bring
myself to tell him why I was so mad. Weirdly, I felt this deep, burning sense
of shame, like my lungs were made of lead, like
I’d
been the one drinking
and driving. How could I, an adult, have been around my drunk mother and not
known it? How stupid was I? How long had this even been going on?