Rescue - By Anita Shreve Page 0,57
Her skin is green. Just looking at her nauseates him. “You listen to me,” he says to his daughter. “This I will not tolerate. There’s nothing alcoholic about you, so don’t goddamn use that as an excuse. You did this to yourself. I don’t know what game you’re playing here, but you’d better knock it off.” When Webster lets her go, she slumps back onto the couch. She turns her head away.
When Rowan was twelve, Webster told her that her mother had been an alcoholic and that was why she had to go away and get help. He never dreamed that his daughter would see this as her legacy. He’s pretty much told Rowan everything that’s fit for an adolescent girl’s ears about Sheila and him, but he’s withheld one important fact. He hasn’t told her that it was he who sent her mother away. He should have done it years ago.
Webster rakes his scalp with his fingernails. Shit. There’s nothing he can say to his daughter now. For all he knows, she might not even remember this conversation.
She isn’t so sick that she needs to go to the emergency room. He’ll just have to wait until she’s slept it off. She’s already on her side, so that’s OK. He’ll wake her up every half hour for another two hours. He hopes she’ll have a pounding headache.
He falls into a chair across from her. Sleep will be impossible now. As his eyes adjust more and more to the gloom, he can see that there are two stains on the carpet. He heaves himself out of the chair and finds a bucket and a rag from the kitchen. He should have Rowan clean it up in the morning, but he doesn’t know if he can tolerate the smell. The more he scrubs and rinses, the more infuriated he becomes. If his blood pressure keeps rising, he’ll have a heart attack. He thinks of getting out his cuff. He can’t remember the last time he was so angry with his daughter. Maybe never.
She can’t remember the drive home. And Tommy? He’ll ream that kid out the first chance he gets. Tommy her boyfriend? Jesus Christ. Who would sit by and watch his girlfriend get shitfaced unless he had ulterior motives? Webster shakes his head. He can’t go there.
When Webster is done with the cleaning, he washes his hands, makes himself a cup of coffee, and sits again in the chair opposite the couch. Being angry with someone he loves brings on a sick feeling inside his chest. Too close to the bone. Memories he doesn’t want rise up to meet him. Sheila drunk with the baby in her arms. Sheila at Rowan’s birthday party. The image of Sheila weaving on Route 222. He will not, will not, let that become Rowan.
When he wakes, there are streaks of light around the shades. Something else, too, a knocking at the door. What time is it? He checks his watch. Almost eight a.m.
When he peers through the glass of the kitchen door, he opens it fast and closes it again behind him. He’s so rough with his movements that Gina takes two quick steps backward. Tommy stands to one side.
“I’d like to know what you have to say for yourselves,” Webster barks at the pair. For an instant, Webster remembers the Tommy he once liked. Six three, maybe six four. A dark hairline going straight across a high forehead, full lips, a nice smile. The first time he met the boy, Tommy came to the door to pick Rowan up, his car not much better than hers. Rowan, employing manners she’d never needed before, came to get Webster to introduce them. She warned Webster ahead of time, and because he was surprised and pleased for Rowan that she had a date, he didn’t ask a lot of questions. “Be home by midnight?”
Rowan didn’t answer, but Tommy did. “Will do.”
Webster liked the kid straight up. Shy, but giving it his all. Honest face. Dark eyes that didn’t slide away when they met Webster’s. Good handshake. Not trying to prove anything. And the way he looked at Rowan. She’d said something funny—what was it?—and the kid laughed and gazed at her in a way that told Webster everything he needed to know. That’s all you could hope for, really.
But now? Webster feels betrayed.
“It wasn’t Tommy’s fault,” Gina says.
“Then you explain to me,” Webster says, pointing back and forth to each, “how a girl can get so drunk,