Lucy loves it, and I like the extra time with her during the day. “They’ve been patient with Lucy. Understanding, too. Something she needs.”
A flash of hurt and guilt strikes Mom’s face and that hurts me. Why did I have to say the last part? I let out a frustrated breath as I realize I might have said it on purpose—to hurt her. Because I am still angry and forgiveness is a fickle beast.
“Have Sylvia and Miguel told you that I’ve stopped drinking?” she asks.
I nod. They told me that she hasn’t touched alcohol with any of her friends. Sylvia said Mom’s story about her drinking varies with whom she’s talking to, but she’s shot straighter with Hannah than with anyone else. Any inconsistency in her stories bothers me. Also, not knowing what she’s doing in her free time is a hot-button topic.
“Can I be honest with you on something?” she asks.
I nod again, not really sure if she’s capable of such a thing.
“Not drinking hasn’t been nearly as easy as I thought it would be. Because that’s what I thought for a long time—that if I wanted to, I could stop. I just didn’t want to. But not drinking, especially with you and Lucy gone … it’s been hard.”
“Are you still drinking?”
“No,” she says too quickly.
Anger tightens my muscles and I glare at her.
Mom immediately glances away and her face draws down. “It’s not easy. I try … but it’s not easy.”
“I get it.”
“I don’t think you do,” she says with bite. “You don’t understand how I just feel so … so…”
“Thirsty,” I finish for her. I look over at her and when she finally meets my eyes, I say, “I get it.”
Her eyebrows draw together. “How?”
I look down at the text I wrote to Dad about heading back to Louisville, then figure I’ll just send him another telling him I’ll be an hour or two later, that I decided to head to a meeting before hitting the road. “Want to go somewhere with me?”
“Where?”
“A meeting I like to go to. There’s this guy there, Knox. He has a way of explaining things to me about how I feel in ways I can’t do yet.”
Mom wraps her arms around herself, making herself smaller. “What type of meeting?”
She still doesn’t quite see it—herself as an alcoholic—as someone who needs help. I get that, too. “The type of meeting where they’re okay if you come a hundred times and call each one your first visit because they understand that you belong there way before you do. A place that gives you the space you need or the support you need if that’s what you choose. It’s a place that doesn’t judge. I like it there. I think you might, too.”
Mom’s eyes flit around me. “I don’t understand how you know about these things.”
“If you come with me, I’ll tell you.”
Mom glances down at the oversized sweatshirt and sweats, and I shake my head. “Just come as you are, Mom. In fact, it’s the best way to go.”
She stands and pulls down the sweatshirt, a sign she’s unsure again, but she does take the step that I want in the right direction. “Okay. I’ll go.”
VERONICA
It’s late summer. Above me, there are a million stars in the sky. Below my bare feet is cool sand. Beyond is the dark ocean. The waves roll along and then crash on the beach. A constant, repetitive noise that’s music to my ears.
There’s a breeze tonight. Not enough to whip the sand into a frenzy and sting my sensitive skin. Just the perfect type that when I hold out my arms, turn my face up to the wind and close my eyes, I feel like I’m flying.
There’s hair on my head now. Not a lot. Just enough that I can feel the breeze lift the baby-fine tendrils. My hair doesn’t seem to be growing back the same as before and the doctor said that’s normal. It’s not my typical blond, but a tad bit darker, more golden, and so far, my hair is flatiron straight. It’s not long enough to determine whether or not it will curl, but there’s something deep within me that says it won’t.
I’m changed, and somehow it feels appropriate for my outside appearance to reflect what has happened on the inside. I started my cancer treatment one person and I’m leaving it another. Some parts better, a few worse. But that’s change—finding beauty in the imperfections.