Clearer in the Night (15 page)

“Well, I’m not. It’s your turn. Tell me you’re fucked up, and you’re sorry, and you’re going to get help.”

I took a deep breath. “I’m fucked up, and I’m sorry, and I’m trying to figure out how to get help.”

“Are you just saying that?”

“No.” I thought of Mom, sitting alone in this house, surrounded by trash. My disgust for her, and what she was doing to herself. “No, I’m really not. I don’t know where to go from here, Shan, but you’re right. Things have to change.”

“Oh.” These long pauses were getting awkward and frustrating. “So. That was…unexpectedly easy.”

Saying it aloud was like a weight falling off my shoulders. “I really am sorry I scared you.”

“The worst part, Cait, seriously, was not hearing from you for the past few days. I had no idea what was going on, and then you were clearly here, but you just left me that damn note.”

“I thought the note would be reassuring.”

“Sure, if the last time I saw you wasn’t in a hospital bed with tubes coming out of everywhere.”

Fair point. “So how can I make it up to you?”

I knew we were better, then, because she heaved a huge sigh. “I just don’t know if it’s possible, Caitlyn. You’re asking for so much.”

“I know, and I don’t deserve it. But still, to honor our friendship of so many years. Surely, you can manage something?”

I could see her, throwing her hand to her forehead as she considered. Shan might have been a psych major, but she should have minored in drama instead of math. “Coffee. Tonight. Followed by hours of bad movies. It’s the only way.”

I started to say yes. And then remembered. “Tonight—uh, actually—”

“Caitlyn Alice Murphy, if you tell me that you’re going out dancing, I swear that I will end you. I will actually destroy your very existence. Possibly with a chainsaw. Or…something. It’s not a well thought-out plan, yet, I grant you, but I—”

“Shan,” I cut her off, and she let me. “I have a date.”

Another of those echoing silences. If I focused, I could hear her sorting through the odds. If I was lying, or pulling her leg, or if she had fallen asleep. “A date,” she said, finally.

“Yes.”

“Do you know his last name?”

“Yes.”

“Have you had sex with him?”

“No.”

“Do I know him?”

“You’ve seen him, Shan, but you haven’t been introduced.”

Another pause. “It’s that guy you were dance-floor screwing before you disappeared, isn’t it? Cait, he could be some sort of, I don’t know, stalker or something. What do you actually know about him?”

“I know that he makes me want to be someone that I haven’t been in a really long time. Can that be enough for right now?”

“No. What are you doing on your date?”

“Dinner. I don’t know where yet.”

“What time? When will you be home?”

“Shannon, you’re not my mother.”

“No, and that’s made obvious by the fact that I give a shit what you do. I know a thing or two about how to be careful in new relationships, right?”

I sighed. “Yes.”

“So tell me where you’re going, and when you’ll be home, and when you’re going to tell me that you’re home safe, or I will raise holy hell. And you make sure he knows that I know, and I’m expecting to hear from you, okay?”

“You’re not going to stop harassing me until I agree, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

“Fine. As soon as we set up plans, I’ll let you know. At this point, all I know is that he’s picking me up at 7. Okay? Inquisition over?”

“For now. I expect a text by 7:30. Got it?”

“Yes, Mom.”

I felt her roll her eyes as she hung up on me. And as stupid as it sounded, it felt good to know that someone was paying attention. The feeling of ants crawling over my skin had faded as we talked. I stretched out on the couch for real this time, and settled in with my book. I had a couple of hours before I needed to get ready, and I didn’t want to be a jittery mess on my first official date in years.

I was in my room, sorting through the clothes I’d brought from my apartment, when Mom got home. “Hello?” she called from the front hallway.

“Up here,” I called back. I heard her come up the stairs, and kept sorting. I had two pairs of good jeans, a longish skirt, and a way too short skirt. I had a couple of different tops, sweaters, bras. My clothes had basically been work clothes or club clothes or pajamas. Finding something that was going to work for a dinner date was turning out to be challenging. The weather today had been warm, but not oppressively humid, which meant it would probably cool off tonight. Layers was probably going to be a good idea. But beyond that, I was utterly clueless.

She appeared in the doorway, surveyed the piles, and grinned. “Big date?”

“The biggest.” The first. But she didn’t know that, and explaining would have been awkward as hell at this point.

“Where are you going?”

“Dinner. He said we’d go to my favorite place, but I’m honestly not sure where I want to go.”

“That doesn’t help.” She tapped her wedding ring against the doorjamb, a nervous habit she’d never managed to lose. “Do you want some help?” She didn’t meet my eyes, and her knuckles, where they wrapped around my doorknob, were white.

“Definitely,” I said, because I was at a loss, and besides, why not? It’s wasn’t like things could get worse between us.

She looked up, suddenly as gleeful as a little kid, before she tamped it down. “Really?” She stepped into the room before I could change my mind. She lifted up both the skirts and threw them aside with a wrinkled nose, then surveyed the jeans. “Do you have any idea where you want to go?”

I shrugged. “Someplace casual. There’s an Indian restaurant that I really like, downtown. Maybe there.”

She nodded. “What do you have for makeup?”

“Nothing, really—” I hadn’t thought to grab it. I only wore it when I went out dancing, and that wasn’t part of the plan, after all.

“That’s fine, you can use mine. Our coloring is similar enough.” It wasn’t. I’d taken after Dad, and Sophie had resembled Mom, but sure. Why not. “These.” She picked up a pair of dark wash jeans that weren’t as skinny as current fashion, but still fit my ass very nicely. “I’ll grab you a shell out of my closet, none of those tank tops are presentable in decent company, and then you can use that purple wrap-around sweater if you need it. Casual, but very nice. Sound good?”

“Mom?”

“Hm?” She was picking up the purple sweater and holding it up, close to my eyes.

“Did you and Sophie ever do this?”

I watched her face shut down with a heavy slam. “No. As far as I know, she never had a boyfriend before she—was gone.”

“Died, Mom. They died.”

The look in her eyes—it was like I’d just strangled her puppy in front of her. “I’m going to go find you a shell that matches this sweater. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

I watched her go, and wondered why I decided to ruin every good thing that I ever got.

Wes was scrupulously on time; the doorbell rang at three minutes after seven. I opened the door, slipped my purse strap over my head, and tried to squeeze out the door before he could think to come in. “Hi,” I said. “Ready?”

He could fall back and make room, or he could actively push me back into the house. He stepped back, but his brows furrowed. “Aren’t I supposed to say hello to your mother, or something?”

“I don’t see why,” I said, pulling the door shut behind me. But fingers stopped it from closing, and Mom suddenly filled the doorway, reeking and sloppy. She’d dropped a cream colored, rough silk top just inside my door, and then gone downstairs. God knew what she’d taken or drunk after that, but by the time I got downstairs from fixing my make-up—it took a couple tries to get a look that was natural, and not screw-me-on-the-dance-floor—her head was lolling on her neck, and her eyes were unfocused. I was actually impressed that she’d managed to get herself upright all the way from the living room, where she’d been watching
Toddlers and Tiaras
, to the front door. Wes looked from her to me with an expression that was exactly why I’d never let anyone into my house when she was home, ever. Pity mixed with disgust. What a great start to the night.

“Wesley,” Mom said, and she wasn’t slurring, exactly, but her voice sounded mushy, her diction imprecise. God, I should have just let him come inside. Then I wouldn’t be worried about her collapsing in the doorway and ruining the entire night.

“Hi, Sue,” he said, all polite gentleman, his expression neutral again. “Nice to see you again.”

She smiled, too big, too broad. “You too,” she said. “You’re going to take care of my girl tonight.”

I squirmed, but kept my teeth closed over the whiny ‘Mom’ that wanted to escape. The pressure from Wes’s hand increased, and the internal pressure increased accordingly. I could smell his aftershave, a strong, herbal, heady mix of sandalwood and lemon. This was going to be the last time I saw him. He’d never want to get involved in this. I’d been right all along. Staying out of this sort of situation was the right move. Why had I allowed myself to forget that? “I will,” he said. “When should I have her home?”

She laughed too hard. “Oh, she’s a big girl, I’m sure she can decide that on her own. It’s not like it’s a school night. It’s not like my daughter went to school for something useful, not like her mother. So you get her home whenever she wants to get home. Just make sure that she’s okay. Okay?”

“Okay, Mom, good night,” I said. I turned, breathing in his scent, and pushed hard on his chest. There was a moment where he was immovable as a mountain, and then he gave way, and let me back him up off our stoop and down the steps. He didn’t look behind himself or stumble, just kept laughing at me, while Mom waved at us from the doorway like a Navy wife watching her husband’s ship pull off to sea.

“Parents are something else,” he said, quietly enough that I was surprised I heard him. His tone was a little bit tired, a little bit sad.

In the soft summer light, I hadn’t gotten a clear idea of how old he was. He could have been twenty or forty, but I was suddenly sure that he was emotionally much farther away than I was from the awkward teenage years, when your parents are humiliating just because they exist. “You’re probably right,” I said, because sometimes trying to explain isn’t worth the breath it takes. And then I saw his car, sitting next to my little secondhand subcompact. The big burly SUV looked like a monster next to my teeny foreign job.

“There’s this thing,” I said. “The energy crisis. You might have heard of it? Foreign oil? Global warming? No?” Okay, maybe I was more stressed than I’d realized from Mom’s little display. At least he wasn’t pitying me, even if he was looking at me like I’d grown a second head.