Reclaimed (10 page)

The clock ticked loudly in the silence.

“Yes?” Dr. Benson finally asked.

“I think I had a memory.” Except I didn’t know if that’s what it had been at all.

“Tell me about it.”

I sat up, leaning back in my chair. Dr. Benson seemed so interested, so concerned. I looked out the window. “I guess it was more a feeling than an actual memory. Like déjà vu. Just a feeling of someone I might have known before.”

I tried to picture what had happened at the lake, but concentrating on the hazy image brought a stabbing pain in my head. I grimaced.

“Ian? What is it?”

I rubbed at the tension in my neck. “Headache.”

“They’re not getting any better.”

“No.” If anything, they were getting worse.

Dr. Benson scribbled something in his notes. “I’ll alter your meds a bit, see if that helps.” He finished writing and glanced at his watch. It must have been moving just as slowly as his clock. “Now last week you mentioned Luke had damaged the kitchen. How did that make you feel?”

Like I was watching someone drown and I couldn’t do a thing about it because I didn’t know how to swim.

“Tired, Doc,” I said instead. “It made me feel tired.”

Repete’s was packed on Thursday night. The kitchen was hot, and tiny little hairs escaped my ponytail and curled around my face. I burned myself trying to hurry to get pizzas out of the oven, and twice some kid dumped his drink in the middle of his table. By eight-thirty, I was ready to get off my feet.

“Hey!” I said, grinning as Mike Sanderson and Robert Bolds ambled up to the counter. They were both on the cross-country team.

“Where you been hiding?” Mike asked, sitting next to the register. I reached up and pushed him off the counter.

“Working,” I answered. It felt like that was all I was doing. I’d gotten an email from Becca early this morning; she’d just finished her stay in France and was heading to Italy for a couple of weeks. I had to work hard to keep from being resentful.

“I hear you,” Robert said. “I’ve been hauling hay for my dad. Sucks.”

They each ordered a large pizza. They were both tall and wiry, but they could put away some food. All of the cross-country team could. I’d won plenty of bets that way.

“I saw Coach last week,” Mike was saying. “He wants us to run the Miles by the Moon 5K in Centerville. It’s the weekend school starts.”

I tossed his order to the kitchen. “Cool.”

“You going to break eighteen?” Robert asked.

I shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out.”

I’d been trying to break eighteen minutes in the 5K for the past year, and I doubted I would do it at the Moon. August was too hot and humid, even if the race did start at eight o’clock at night.

Robert leaned in and lowered his voice. “You’ll do it this time.”

Maybe not this time, but soon. I nodded and handed him his plastic number.

“See you around,” he said, straightening up and giving me a sympathetic smile.

An hour later, I was bussing one of the tables when Chuck Scott, who tended bar next door, came in to talk with Pete. They looked over at me, their faces tight, and my stomach twisted itself into painful knots. I carried the dirty dishes to the back and tried to convince myself their conversation had nothing to do with me. I was wrong.

Pete met me in the kitchen. He took the bin full of dishes from me and dumped it in the sink. “Look, Chuck said your mom is over there.” He grimaced. He didn’t have to say another word.

My face ignited, my skin flushing cold then hot at the humiliation of my mother showing out in the bar. By morning, most of the town would know.

This had gone beyond a few drinks at home. It had started when Pops died, but it had gotten much worse in the last three months. I was trying to keep it quiet and under control. But everything I’d been doing to keep the drinking a secret crumbled the minute my mother got drunk in public. I took off my apron, dried my hands, and glanced at the table where Robert and Mike had been sitting. They were gone. Luckily, the restaurant was mostly empty. I didn’t want an audience.

Pete followed me into the dim bar, which was really just a small den at the end of a dark hallway connecting it with the restaurant. There were only about ten people in there, but that was enough to pack the place. There was a baseball game on the TV perched in the corner, but no one was watching it.

My mother was sitting in a small booth against the back wall, mascara running down her face. “Jenna!” she shouted, her fake smile plastered on. I flinched. I resented her for giving me a reason to be ashamed.

“Let’s go.” I leaned in and took hold of her arm, but she jerked away from me.

“I’m not ready to go yet,” she said.

I was tempted to turn my back and leave her there. But I couldn’t.

“You’re drunk,” I growled. “Let’s go.”

“I am not drunk,” she said. “I had a bad day. I just needed one drink.”

But it was obvious she’d had way more than one.

Pete came to my rescue. “Come on, Vivian. It’s late. Let Jenna take you home.”

“Pete Orcino,” Mom slurred, smiling. “You were in my homeroom.”

He smiled, his eyes warm and understanding. “You were the prettiest girl in there,” he said. He was talking to her like she was a child, trying to appease her. It worked.

She took his arm, standing and smiling up at him. “Well, aren’t you sweet? I was homecoming queen too, remember?”

Pete nodded as he led her outside, and I rolled my eyes. She was clinging to a past that no longer existed. She didn’t realize she’d stopped being the homecoming queen as soon as she’d gotten pregnant; now, most people remembered her as the girl who’d gotten knocked up.

I followed behind them, trying to keep my temper under control. Mom looked small next to Pete, who was tall and broad. She clung to his oversized forearm, and I was pretty sure that, if she let go, she’d fall over. I wasn’t sure what I felt more—humiliation or gratitude.

I unlocked the passenger door of the Bronco, and Pete picked Mom up and sat her in the seat. Her head lolled to the side. I prayed she wouldn’t pass out.

“I’ll get her car in the morning,” I told Pete.

He looked worried. “You be careful getting home.”

“I will.” I climbed in and cranked the engine. Mom sat up a little as I pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road.

“It’s Pops’s birthday,” she said. “He would’ve been sixty-four.”

I gripped the steering wheel. I’d forgotten. Completely.

Mops hadn’t said a word about it at work today. I hadn’t even noticed if she seemed sad. God, I was turning out to be just as selfish and self-absorbed as I blamed Mom for being. I should have remembered. I should’ve at least noticed if Mops was taking it hard. I felt very alone, despite the fact that Mom was drunk and crying next to me—or because of it.

I pulled into the driveway, parking in Mom’s spot instead of mine, and left Mom in the car with her head propped on the dash while I unlocked the door and turned on the lights.

I opened the passenger door and Mom slid out of her seat; I just barely had a chance to catch her before she fell. I wanted to throw her in a heap and leave her to sleep it off in the driveway. I wanted to trade her in for a sober mom with a smidge of self-control. Instead, I wrapped my arm around her waist and maneuvered her inside. We had a little trouble navigating the steps, and I was afraid we were both going to tumble backward, but then I managed to shift our momentum forward and into the house.

I took Mom straight to her room and sat her on the stool in front of her bathroom vanity, then ran warm water in the sink and washed her face.

“You could be so pretty,” Mom slurred, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, “if you tried a little.”

I gritted my teeth to keep from saying something hateful. I sure didn’t need her to point out my shortcomings—I stared at them every day. They ate away at my spine and whispered to me in the dark. They slunk in the shadows in between runs. They told me I wasn’t creative enough to ever write anything worth reading. They told me I was too small-town to survive anywhere else. The world acknowledged my shortcomings, but my mother shone a spotlight on them. And it was always brighter when she’d been drinking.
In vino veritas
.

Mom tried to hold still, but her body swayed slightly as I took the washcloth and gently removed her makeup. I wondered what I might uncover if I could just scrub hard enough. Her tears spilled over, and I washed those away too.

“I just miss him so much,” Mom said.

“I know,” I soothed, wiping the warm cloth underneath her eyes. “I do, too.”

Mom brushed her teeth while I grabbed a gown out of her drawer. I changed her, helped her to bed, and tucked her in, just like she had me, at least until I was eight. Except I had to make sure she was on her side in case she threw up. She mumbled something incoherent, then her breathing deepened. She was asleep within minutes.

I brought in a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin. I hoped she had a killer headache in the morning.

I dragged myself up the stairs to my room. I sat on the edge of my bed, slipped off my shoes, and dropped my head into my hands.

I wanted to feel sorry for myself and hate my mother, but both were too bitter for my taste. What I did know was that I’d spent the last two years making plans, and while other kids were enjoying their last summer of high school, while Becca was off playing in Europe, I was in Solitude with my head down and my hands busy. But none of that was going to matter if I couldn’t get my mom under control. Because of her piss-poor coping skills, it looked like I just might get stuck going to Middleton Community College and taking care of my drunken mother. And who was I to believe it could have been any other way?

I bit down on the inside of my cheek to keep myself from screaming. I wanted to throw something. I flopped over backward on the bed instead, searching for answers in the words on my ceiling. I found them.
Stuff your eyes with wonder
,
live as if you’d drop dead in ten seconds. See the world. It’s more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories
.

I needed out. I put on my running shoes, slipped down the stairs, and headed out into the dark. Within minutes, I was pounding out my frustration. I eased into a rhythm, the sound of the cicadas loud in my ears. My feet were soft on the path, and I reveled in the way my body moved. Science says bodies in motion will stay in motion. I was counting on it.

I spent all day Saturday out in the workshop, and it was late when I finally went inside. I didn’t know why I was having so much trouble sleeping, but I was up at night more and more often. Probably because I felt the most freedom then—Ian was usually asleep and Mom was at work. Nobody was watching me. Nobody was waiting for me to screw up or lose my temper. At night, I could be myself, which was sometimes both a relief and a burden. My family found it hard to live with me. My dad couldn’t even be in the same state. But they had no idea what hard was. It was even harder to have to live with myself. Destroying an innocent girl did that to a person.

I couldn’t believe the amount of damage I’d done to the kitchen. I wanted to be ashamed, but instead felt a sliver of satisfaction at getting Mom to drop the silent treatment, even if she had spoken less than ten words. At least she’d finally looked at me. And it wasn’t that I wanted to hurt her—I didn’t. I was just so damn tired of her stepping around me like I was some ugly family heirloom she didn’t want but wasn’t willing to throw out yet. Besides, she wouldn’t ever be able to punish me any worse than I’d already punished myself.

The bulb on the back stoop cast weak light through the kitchen window. I’d removed all the cabinet doors, and the shelves were bare, jutting out like the ribs of a carcass that had been picked clean. I ran my fingers along the dents my anger had left. At least I would be able to fix those. The ones I left everywhere else? Not so much.

I’d gotten into building when I was ten, at Boy Scout camp. That had been before they kicked me out for corrupting a pastor’s daughter. I grinned into the dark. That had been kind of interesting. After camp, I’d spent all my time out in the garage nailing together every board I could find. Most of my stuff had started out crooked or gapped, but eventually I got better. The summer Ian and I were twelve, I’d built us a tree house.

We were living in Colorado then, and that summer was the last time I remembered our family completely intact and happy. That was before Dad had figured out I wasn’t as talented as Ian, before my teachers realized we weren’t exactly the same. Before I quit trying to keep up. That summer, Ian and I were still inseparable. I’d let him design the tree house, since he was always drawing—at least when Dad wasn’t around. Dad didn’t really approve of his boys pursuing feminine hobbies like art. But he’d pretty much left us alone that summer, so Ian had drawn the tree house and I’d built it. By myself. With my own hands.

It had been slow at first, trying to get the boards fitted and level in the big oak tree in the backyard. But then it had started taking shape—the floor, the skeleton walls that finally filled in, a roof to keep out the rain. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and the last time I remembered my dad being proud of me. Ian and I had spent the rest of the summer in that tree, eyeing the teenage girls next door, staying out of the house. Mom had even let us sleep in it, once I’d convinced her we wouldn’t roll out in the middle of the night. The summer I was twelve had been perfect. Back when Ian and I were just
we
.

I walked into the laundry room, stripping off my sweaty shirt and throwing it in the hamper. There was a growth chart on the molding around the door. I’d passed it several times, but now one of the names had a face, one I hadn’t been able to get out of my head all week. I flipped on the light.

“Jenna” was written in red on the right side, along with her ages. I ran my fingers along her name. “Vivian” was written on the left side in black ink, also with hash marks and ages. “Billy” was written in faded blue, but his marks stopped at age five.