The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (110 page)

“There’s more at stake here than just her cleaning up her act. I wouldn’t put it past her to cut Mom off without a cent.”

They’d crested the hill and were approaching the turnoff for Highway 1. In the distance fog lay smudged along the horizon, like something haphazardly erased, a slice of glittering ocean visible below. There was a hint of coolness in the air as Anna rolled down her window, letting the breeze wash over her. If it’d been anything but family week, she’d have been excited at the prospect of five days in Malibu. Instead her stomach was in knots.

“I doubt she’d go that far,” Liz said. “It’s more fun keeping you on a tight leash.” Her voice was as hard and unforgiving as the sunlight backfiring off the hood of her sporty red Miata. “Why do you think she pays you just enough to get by?”

“Well, yes, but there’s Edna. Without her—” Anna broke off. Liz was right. Monica’s motives were self-serving even when Anna benefited in some way.

Liz shot her a glance. “It’s not your job to stick up for her.”

“I know. It’s just …” Anna sighed. “Well, she’s not
all
bad.”

“That’s our Anna, always looking for the good in everyone.” Liz’s voice was laced with sarcasm. She slowed as they neared the junction, flicking on her turn signal.

Anna wondered if they should’ve taken her car instead: There was a better chance of its breaking down, and then they’d have had a legitimate excuse to turn back. “You make it sound like there’s something wrong with that.”

“There isn’t.” Some of the tension went out of Liz’s face, and she reached over to pat Anna’s knee. “Sorry, I don’t mean to take it out on you. It’s just that it was a real bitch getting out the door. Dylan threw a major fit. And the girl who was supposed to fill in at the front desk didn’t show up—half the help at the spa is out sick with some flu that I’ll probably come down with next—and to top it off—” She broke off. “Never mind.”

Something was up—Liz had been acting weird all week, and Anna didn’t think it was strictly due to Monica. “Okay, who is he? Out with it.” Anna knew her sister too well. It didn’t take a crystal ball to guess that there was a new man in her life. “That new masseur, the one the ladies at the spa are all drooling over?” Liz had dated some since her divorce last year, but no one special. Was it serious this time?

“What makes you think I’m seeing someone?” Liz’s expression was elaborately nonchalant.

“Probably because I have no life of my own. I live vicariously through others.” Anna gave a rueful little laugh.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“What?”

“Put yourself down like that.”

Hadn’t Finch said the exact same thing? She winced, protesting weakly, “I was only kidding.”

“You know what Freud says: There are no jokes.” Liz pushed a button and the windows whirred up, sealing out the ocean breeze. She switched on the air conditioner. “You’re far too young to be talking like an old lady in a rocking chair.”

“You left out the part about how pretty I’d be if I lost weight.”

“Well, you
are
pretty.” Liz cast her a sidelong glance. “And speaking of weight, I can’t remember ever seeing you this thin. How much
have
you lost?”

Thin? Compared to what she used to weigh, maybe, but she wouldn’t be modeling for
Vogue
any time soon. Anna shrugged. “I don’t know. I stopped weighing myself last year, after a nice little old lady in Safeway asked me when I was due.”

“Ouch.” Liz winced in sympathy. “Well, whatever you’re doing, it’s working. You look great.”

Anna glowed, for a fleeting moment allowing herself to bask in Liz’s praise. “I’m down a couple of sizes.” She was wearing a pair of jeans that hadn’t seen the light of day since Pritikin, when she’d starved herself down to size twelve.

“It shows. Hey, I know. How about a day at the spa—my treat? You deserve a reward.” Liz flashed her a smile, her first genuine one of the day. “Believe me, you haven’t lived until you’ve had one of Enrico’s Peruvian hot rocks massages.”

“Hot rocks?”

“You don’t know the half of it.” Liz laughed. Enrico was the spa’s flavor of the moment. Was he also sharing her bed?

Anna remembered when they’d been teenagers together giggling over boys. The difference was that Liz had never lacked for male interest while Anna had spent her Saturday nights with girlfriends or watching TV.

“I appreciate the offer.” She realized how much she’d missed Liz. It was hard making time to get together; they were both so busy. And Monica didn’t exactly make it any easier. The last time the three of them had met for lunch, Liz had vowed never again.

All at once Anna became aware of how close they were to the silver Mazda in front of them, just inches from its bumper, and she found herself pressing down on an invisible brake. But she refrained from commenting because getting her sister to slow down was like trying to rein in a Santa Ana wind. Like Monica, she had a reckless streak.

She wondered again about Liz’s mystery man, which in turn led to thoughts of her own nonexistent love life. Anna had had her share of crushes through the years—most notably Father Reardon—but her only real boyfriend had been Gary Kingman, in college. All these years later her cheeks still burned at the memory. The words of love he’d whispered in her ear, the tenderness with which he’d soothed her afterward, only to discover days later that he’d—

“I just hope we’re not going to be opening a can of worms.” Liz’s voice broke into her thoughts.

Anna knew that hers wasn’t the only stomach in knots. It was clear from the literature Pathways had sent that alcoholism wasn’t the only issue they’d be dealing with, which would mean airing the Vincenzis’ dirty linen.

Anna wondered if this was such a good idea. What would she gain in the end? If she told how she really felt, she’d pay the price. It might not be right away, but Monica would casually announce one day that she was going to need her to work on Saturdays after all, or that she no longer felt it was
her
responsibility to pay their mother’s bills.

She recalled the ghastly scene at the hospital the other morning—the way Monica had glared at her. If looks could kill, Anna would be on her way to her own funeral now instead of family week. Even with Liz at her side and the counselor from Pathways, a woman with twenty years of sobriety, she’d felt like crawling under the bed. Yet she’d stuck to her guns, calmly explaining to Monica why she thought this was best for her.

“I see,” Monica said when she was finished, her expression dangerously flat. “Feel better now that you’ve gotten that off your chest?
I
certainly do. It makes such a difference when you know your loved ones care.” Her voice had all the warmth of battery acid.

Anna’s stomach twisted, but she forced herself to meet Monica’s gaze. “I’m not saying it to be mean. I … I
do
care about you.” She faltered, wondering if it was still true. “If you don’t stop drinking, I really will quit.”

“To hell with you. I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.” Vivid slashes of color stood out on Monica’s pale cheeks, and her eyes glittered with tears. “Who the fuck are you, anyway, telling
me
what to do?” Her gaze settled on Rita as if she were a large pile of manure that’d been dumped at the foot of her bed.

Rita went on smiling, seeming not the least bit ruffled. She’d clearly seen and heard it all before. “Liz?” she prompted. “Is there something you want to say?”

Liz cleared her throat, looking as if she’d rather be in the OR having her appendix out. “She’s right, Sis. I’ve noticed it, too. That time we all had lunch? You were drunk as a skunk. You kept knocking things over, then yelled at the waiter as if it were his fault. I’ve never been so embarrassed.”

“I don’t suppose it could’ve had anything to do with the fact that your ex probably slept with half the women there,” Monica lashed out. “Before you start telling me how fucked up
my
life is, try taking a look at your own. You couldn’t even hang on to your own husband.”

Liz went white as the sheet she looked as if she’d have liked to twist about Monica’s neck.

“Your sisters aren’t here to beat up on you,” Rita said.

Monica’s head whipped around to face her. “Is this how you get your kicks, picking on paraplegics when they’re down? What kind of sick puppy
are
you?”

Anna could hear a patient wailing down the hall. “Nurse! Nurse! Where the hell is everybody? Oh, God, it hurts. Oh. Oh. Oooooaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh …”

“No one can force you to do anything,” Rita went on in the same measured tone. “What your sisters are saying is that they have choices, too. One of which is not to stick around watching you drink yourself to death.”

Monica turned toward the wall. Then abruptly she burst into tears. “Oh, what’s the use? You’re ah-ah all against m-me,” she sobbed, her chest heaving. “I m-might just as well puh-put a gun to my head.” She lifted a tear-streaked face to Anna. “All right, I’ll go … but not because I think I have a problem. I’m only doing it for
you.
If this will make you happy …” She broke off, turning her face into the pillow in a performance worthy of an Oscar.

Happy? Anna wondered now how long it had been since she’d felt anything more than glimmers of contentment here and there. No, this wasn’t about being happy; it was about hanging on for dear life. If she didn’t go through with this, her own sanity would be at stake.

After a fitful night at the motel, they set off the following morning bright and early. Guided by the map that had been sent with the rest of the material, they found the turn-off and wound their way up a steep tree-lined drive. Minutes later they were stepping out onto a windswept rise where a cluster of low redwood buildings connected by paths looked out on a billion-dollar ocean view. It might have been a posh hideaway hotel if not for the discreet sign that read
INVITED GUESTS ONLY
. They joined the other family members, forty or so in all, who were straggling into the cafeteria, where they sipped coffee and nibbled on bagels before heading off, armed with booklets and badges, to the orientation lecture in LH2 next door.

The lecture hall, with its rows of folding chairs facing a standing blackboard and podium, was about half filled by the time they took their seats. The families seated in clusters, marked by empty chairs at either end, looked no happier to be there than Anna and Liz. Anna eyed the one she had mentally labeled the Country Mice: a patriarch with a long white beard and bib overalls and his Minnie Pearl look-alike wife and four strapping sons. Behind them sat Mr. and Mrs. Got-Rocks, both dressed to the nines, the wife glancing about apprehensively as if at fellow survivors of a shipwreck with whom she’d been stranded, while their teenage daughters looked as though being shipwrecked would be a preferable alternative. Next to Anna and Liz sat an Indian couple murmuring softly to each other, the woman’s sari a welcome splash of color in the sea of beige folding chairs. A family in back—a portly florid-faced older man conversing loudly in a Southern drawl, his wisp of a wife whose sassafras curls fluttered about her neck as she sat fanning herself with a booklet, and assorted motley members of their clan—might have been plucked from a Tennessee Williams play.

Anna glanced over at her sister. Liz was dressed for the mercurial Malibu weather—foggy one minute, sunny the next—in a pair of off-white chinos and an open-collared turquoise shirt, a cotton sweater draped over her shoulders. They exchanged a look, and Anna was reminded of the silly game they’d played as kids: Would you rather … be ugly with brains or beautiful but dumb, walk outside naked in broad daylight or fully clothed down a dark alley at night, marry an ugly rich man or a handsome pauper? If they were playing it now, the choice would be a root canal or this. Anna didn’t have to ask to know which one her sister would pick.

Liz had an aversion to digging up old bones. No, make that an allergy. Whenever the subject of their childhood came up, her face would grow blotchy and she’d start to itch. If seated, she’d repeatedly cross and uncross her legs while playing with her hair, which for Anna was as nerve-racking as sitting next to a fidgety six-year-old.

But at least they wouldn’t have Monica to cope with for the time being. This morning’s lecture would be followed by a group therapy session. They wouldn’t meet with patients until after lunch.

All heads turned toward the attractive thirtyish woman breezing in through the door. She had a friendly face and shiny dark hair that swung at her shoulders as she strode toward the podium. “Hi, everyone. I’m Dr. Meadows,” she said, leaning into the mike. “I want to thank you all for being here. I know many of you have traveled some distance and gone to great lengths to carve out the time. You’ve also shown tremendous courage. Whatever your differences, you all share a common experience—a family member whose addiction has strained your patience and at times even your love. Your being open to new possibilities and paths is the key to the journey you’ll be taking.” She cast her gaze about, smiling warmly.

Liz began to fidget as Dr. Meadows went on, stressing the need to break old patterns and form new ones. Addiction was a disease, she said, not a moral weakness. “Addicts don’t wake up in the morning thinking about how they’re going to hurt their families and wreck their lives,” though she was quick to add that it didn’t make a person any less accountable for his or her actions. It was up to family and friends to draw the line, “As long as you keep putting up with bad behavior and picking up after them, why should they admit they have a problem or do anything to change it?” She asked for examples of the ways family members unwittingly enable.

A male voice in back called out disgustedly, “Hauling her ass into bed every night.”

Dr. Meadows smiled knowingly.

A thin, dark-haired woman raised her hand. “Making excuses to his boss.”

“Buying her a new car when she smashes up the old one,” piped Mrs. Got-Rocks, shooting an accusatory look at her husband, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

The speaker nodded. “Okay, let’s talk about boundaries.”

“What are those?” someone joked, prompting a wave of laughter.