Becky furrows her eyebrows, trying to make sense out of the pieces I know don’t fit together. But I can’t tell her the truth, that I can’t stand the thought of running into Monica. Or worse, having Tommy run into her. Or, god forbid, CeCe.
“Going down to Destin just isn’t realistic,” I try to explain. “His doctors are all here, and we already paid for CeCe’s theater camp. She’s been looking forward to it all year.”
Becky sighs and nods in agreement. “How is the bean taking everything?”
“She doesn’t know yet.”
Becky coughs, choking midsip.
“I’m pretty sure she knows something is going on, but she has no idea what.”
“When are you going to tell her?”
I shrug. “I don’t want to think about that right now.”
“Finally, something I can help with.”
Now I’m the one to raise an eyebrow.
“The best way to avoid thinking about something is to drink about it instead. Adina!” she calls out. “Another round, por favor!”
Chapter Seven
CeCe
I open the front door to find Mom standing on the other side, trying to get her key in the lock. She glances up, looking like a mess in one of the shapeless shirts she usually wears just around the house. Her eyes look sad even though she’s laughing.
“What is wrong with you?” I ask. I could hear her banging around from the kitchen, where I was trying to memorize my lines. She’s been acting off all week—but just because something is clearly going wrong at work doesn’t mean we should have to suffer at home.
“You saved my life,” Mom slurs as she falls inside, throwing her arms around me. Her weight is heavy on my shoulders and she reeks of beer.
“Are you drunk?” I shrug her off me and she stumbles back, giggling as she balances herself against the wall.
“Maybe just a little?” she whispers loudly, as if she just noticed we’re standing outside Dad’s closed office door.
“You’re wasted.”
She shrugs and stumbles past me, heading toward the kitchen.
I follow a few steps behind, a little worried she might fall. If she does, I’ll have to break the one rule I’ve never broken and interrupt Dad when he’s counseling one of his online patients. But it’ll be her fault—she is not a small woman and I doubt I’d be able to pick her up on my own.
“Careful,” I say as she falls into her chair at the kitchen table.
What kind of mother comes home out-of-her-mind drunk before it’s even dark outside? I glance at the clock on the microwave—it’s 4:35. Thank god Dad will be out of his session soon. She’s his responsibility, not mine.
“I can do this; I’ll be fine on my own.” Mom’s slurring her words together so I don’t fully understand. “The two of us, we’ll be fine.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, sounding more like the parent than the child, which is totally screwed up.
She rests her head on her hands and hiccups. “Water.”
I get a glass from the cabinet and fill it with the cold filtered water from the fridge and set it down in front of her. She hiccups again. “Thank you,” she says before taking a sip. “You love me, don’t you?”
“Not when you’re like this.”
Mom closes her eyes and nods. I almost feel bad for a second that I may have hurt her feelings, but this is not how a mother is supposed to act.
“You didn’t drive home, did you?” I ask, fully assuming the role of parent.
“Uber,” she says, hiccuping again.
At least she was semismart about it.
Her glass is almost empty, so I fill it up again. When I turn back, her eyes are fluttering closed like she’s about to fall asleep—right there at the kitchen table where we eat dinner, where I do my homework, where I’m supposed to be memorizing lines for a play she clearly doesn’t care about.
“You should go to bed,” I tell her.
She mumbles in agreement, so I grab her arm and attempt to pull her up. She resists, but I’m younger, I’m stronger, and I’m sober.
I take a step back and steady myself, giving her arm a big yank. She finally stands up and drapes her arm around my shoulder. The two of us walk slow and steady like we’re tied together in a three-legged race. We’re rounding the corner of the living room toward the stairs when the door to Dad’s office flies open.