“I know you didn’t just come here for a beer.”
I nod. I’d practiced how to say this on the way here, arranging and rearranging my words, but they still sound stiff. “This was a long time ago, but you and my mom never really hit it off.… I guess I’ve been wondering why you didn’t like her.”
Ethan reaches for my beer and takes a sip, twisting the glass around so his lips are in the exact spot mine touched a minute ago. It feels oddly intimate.
Instead of an answer, he replies with a question.
“Did she mess up another relationship for you?”
My surprise quickly recedes as anger rushes in. My mother had nothing to do with Ethan getting drunk and failing to show up for our special anniversary dinner. She was right about him all along. He’s still a boy, not a man.
“My mother didn’t—”
He interrupts me. “Ever wonder how convenient it was that your mom happened to have a Russian customer who gave her a bottle of Beluga Gold the same day as our anniversary?”
I’m taken aback. It’s true that in all the years my mother has worked as a waitress, the only gifts customers have given her are tips. But Ethan’s suggestion is ludicrous.
“What are you saying? Are you implying my mother bought the vodka herself so you’d get drunk and I’d break up with you?”
As riled up as I am, I know this to be true: Ethan doesn’t hold grudges. He’s not petty. And he no longer wants to be in a relationship with me. He must have some other motivation for disparaging my mother. Perhaps it’s a simple matter of not wanting to take responsibility for his own role in our destruction.
Coming here was a mistake. I should be at home with my mom, spending one of the limited evenings we have left together.
“She didn’t pour the vodka down your throat, Ethan.”
I stand up and begin to walk away.
“No,” Ethan calls after me. “But she poured me my first drink that night.”
I spin around. He is staring at me levelly. There’s no malice in his gaze. But I do see pity, and it convinces me of the truth of his words.
What he says next shocks me to my core.
“And I think she might have drugged me.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
RUTH
Unhealthy patterns echo down family lines. They’re bequeathed from generation to generation, like blue-chip stocks or hair color. But there is a silver lining. If we’re aware of them, we can edit the script that feels embedded in our genes.
When I left home, I vowed to never repeat my mother’s mistakes. I wouldn’t deliberately hurt my child. I would protect Catherine with my life.
I knew I wouldn’t have a lot of money or a nice house. I’d never graduate from high school or go to Rome.
But I would always have my daughter.
In many ways, my life has unfolded as I envisioned it when I fled nearly a quarter century ago with nothing but a few hundred bucks, a stolen watch, and a duffle bag. My father may have lost all the pride he had in me, but I think he would be pleased with how Catherine turned out: a college-educated nurse with his beautiful golden-brown skin and near obsession with ketchup.
He would love her so much.
Maybe he would still love me a little bit, too.
Catherine is my reason for pushing back against the darkness that has snaked through the line of females in my family, the ugly legacy that has caused so much pain and destruction. She is my fresh start.
I’ve succeeded in not repeating my mother’s mistakes. But I’ve made new ones that are all my own. Terrible ones that have caused my daughter unnecessary pain.
I settle deeper into the pillows propped on my bed with a sigh. My lower back aches tonight from carrying too many heavy trays, so I added Epsom salts to the hot water when I took my bath. It would be a gift if I could empty my mind and relax, but that’s impossible.
I kept seeing James today.
He was one car over at a stoplight this morning. He sat in booth seven this afternoon. He was the shadow in my bedroom that disappeared when I flicked on the light.
He’s drawing closer. I can sense it. Soon I’ll see a car parked outside my apartment building late at night, its driver watching over me. And then I’ll open the door and there he’ll be. He’ll pull me tightly against him, his strong arms wrapping around me.
He’s here with me now, too. The truth is, James has never left me.
I reach for my old notebook again. I need to write down as much of my story as I can, while I still can.
James surprised me by showing up at school one day right after the final bell sounded. I was walking toward the bleachers that encircled the field where Poms practice was held when a cluster of students ahead of me parted and there he was, as if conjured by my thoughts.
I squealed and jumped into his arms. We kissed—a long, deep kiss. Someone hooted, but I didn’t care who was watching. The saying “in love” made sense for the first time in my life. Love wasn’t just something I felt, like hunger or fatigue. I’d plunged deeply into it. It coursed through every one of my cells.
I lost track of time. I often did when I was with James. We existed in our own universe. Our surroundings never mattered. James lived in a dreary room he’d rented from a widow who needed the income. He’d sneak me in there sometimes, the two of us dissolving into laughter as we tiptoed up the stairs—luckily, the old woman was hard of hearing—and even though stains pocked the walls and the house smelled like dog pee, I didn’t care about anything but James. He was tender and sexy and strong, and despite being estranged from his family and having to make his own way in the world, he never once complained.
On that Wednesday afternoon, I finally detached myself from James and started to walk toward the field. He kept ahold of my hand and yanked me back in for one last, lingering kiss.
I protested that I’d see him in three hours since we were going out that night.
James said it was too long to wait.
I laughed. I did that a lot when I was with James. I always felt slightly tipsy around him.
By the time I finally got down to the field, practice had begun. I tossed my backpack and water bottle onto the bleachers—I’d learned to keep my stuff far away from the sidelines—and ran to join the others. The song “Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It” by Will Smith was playing from Coach’s tape deck, and the eleven other girls were in formation.
But Coach held up his palm to me and told me to take a seat.
At first I thought they were creating a new routine, one that left me out. I wouldn’t put it past Coach or Brittany.
Then Coach told me I was being benched because I’d been late three times in the past two weeks.
I started to protest, then fell silent. I didn’t think it was true, but James had been surprising me at the end of the school day fairly often lately. But I was only five minutes late, if that. And this was the first I’d heard of Coach tallying up my tardiness—or anyone’s, for that matter.
Instead of going to sit on the bleachers, I remained on the sidelines a few feet down from him. Coach was trying to separate me from the team. I couldn’t let him.
I expected him to motion me to go in during the first break. But he just told the girls to do it again, this time with more energy.
After another ten minutes, I approached Coach and asked if I could go in.