Other Broken Things (19 page)

She nods. “That's right. And for you, you'll always need to be careful of that. Of becoming wrapped up in something to bypass your feelings.”

“I'm full of feelings right now.”

“Yes. But they're all about Joe. Or about you and Joe. The rest of it, all the things you should be addressing in your Fourth and Fifth Step, have now been cast aside for this thing. That's why they tell you not to get involved with someone until after a year of sobriety. Not because you aren't capable of a relationship with another person, but because you haven't established a solid relationship with yourself.”

I shake my head. “This sounds a lot like therapy.”

“Well . . .”

She tosses her cigarette out the window and I glance back at it. Joe would be pissed she didn't keep the butt.

“I don't want to lose him,” I say.

“Me neither. So let's go see if we can find him.”

We spend the next two hours scouring all the bars in town, then driving to his place to see if he's gone back home. He's nowhere, which means he's probably in the city and there'll be no finding him until he wants to be found.

I tell Kathy about my parents and the statutory rape thing. I looked it up at lunch and it turns out seventeen is the age of consent in Illinois. My dad's full of shit. She nods and tells me my family drama will pass. It's dismissive, but what else can I expect from her? She's not a guru. She's an alkie with her own shit, trying to give me a little of her wisdom. But our stories aren't the same. No matter what she says about me and Joe and becoming addicted to another person, I know different. We're right for each other. I just need to talk everyone else into it—including Joe.

Joe is MIA
for a week. Mom gives me my phone back on Wednesday, but he still won't pick up. Still won't answer my texts. I talk to Kathy every day. She's startled I'm not drinking, I think. I sort of am too. It's a battle every night. When everyone is sleeping and I know I could head to the CVS or Walgreens and get a pint. But I go down to the basement and work out instead. I'm already up to twenty minutes on the punching bag, four-minute drills with only thirty seconds of rest in between.

On Sunday I work the pancake breakfast with Kara by myself. We're slammed and even her usual peppiness is overshadowed by worry for Joe. Everyone asks where he is. I tell a partial truth—we can't find him, have you seen him?—but no one has seen him. He's part of this community, and everyone is worried.

Dad doesn't say one word to me all week. Neither does anyone at school except Camille. She talks to me like an acquaintance and I know she wants me to somehow recommit to her, but I can't. I don't think there's enough in me to give her anything worthy of a real friend right now. Brent nods in the hall, but he's waiting for me to come to him and I can't yet. With everyone else . . . well, I'm sort of a ghost. I'm not sure how this has happened, but it's like stripping me of my party girl identity has made me pretty much invisible. Except to Mrs. Hunt.

“Two of your assignments received zeros because they weren't uploaded correctly,” she says to me as I'm walking out after class on Monday. Her hair is tight against her head in a bun and she's wearing a pantsuit. She's like every Disney high school teen show cliché of a bad teacher.

“What? I did them right.”

“You did not. The instructions were very specific about margins and spacing and you disregarded them. If you checked your assignments online, you'd know you received zeros.”

“There was nothing about spacing on those assignments.”

Her mouth drops into a frown. “There was. The instructions were very clear. I'm sorry you didn't take the time to read them.”

The smug look on her face presses a button in me, and everything from the past week unleashes. An unstoppable wave of fury. My hands come up in fists.

“You. Fucking. Bitch. Are you kidding me? Your class is such bullshit. I did the assignments. I got extra time and I did them. Before any other assignment for any class. Because you were riding me so hard about it. Fuck you and your zeros.”

I want to punch her in the face. I want to claw her eyes out. Instead I drop my hands and spit at her feet. She smiles at me. And it's awful and I know what's coming but I don't fucking care.

“You just earned yourself a three-day suspension. You'll receive zeros for the assignments on those days too. And lucky you, you'll be in really good shape to fail my class and have to take it again in the summer.”

She points me to the door and leads me to the main office. Rage is bubbling over and my hands are clenched so hard I'm pretty sure I'm going to draw blood on my palm with my nails. I clamp my mouth shut and try to focus on my breathing. I've never been so angry in my life.

*  *  *

The entire time Mom is talking to the principal, I sit boiling in hate and say nothing. Mom pleads but apparently she's played all her sympathy cards and the principal is pissed. I receive a three-day suspension and have to write an apology letter to Mrs. Hunt.

On my way out of school, I see Brent. He eyes me and my puckered-mouth mom.

“Everything okay?” he says.

“Depends who you ask,” I answer, my voice still sharp and full of rage. Mom stiffens next to me.

“Did you . . . ?” Brent starts, taking a step closer, but Mom slips in front of me.

“This isn't a good time, Brent. Thank you for your concern. Natalie will see you later.” Then she grips my arm and drags me toward the exit. I don't even look back to see Brent's face.

We drive home in a silent car, and when we arrive, Mom takes my phone again.

“I'll try to keep this incident from your father,” she says in a tight voice.

I shrug. I don't give a shit. He can go fuck himself. I pace my room for hours. Kathy calls at dinnertime—the home phone since I don't have mine—but I don't want to talk to her. It's not just Mrs. Hunt, who I frankly don't give two shits about, it's everything. I miss Joe with an unexpected ache worse than anything I've ever felt. Worse even than when I gave up Jerry and the gym.

I don't even have the patience to go online. I'm sure it's shut down anyway. Finally I lie on top of my covers and fall into a restless sleep.

I'm woken by arguing.

“We can't keep coddling her,” Dad says. “She's seventeen. We've spoiled her and all this acting out needs to stop.”

“She's hurting,” Mom answers.

“Bullshit. She doesn't know what to do with herself. She's had it too easy for too long. She needs to start pulling her weight or leave.”

“What do you mean ‘pulling her weight'? She's our daughter, not a soldier. She needs our love.”

“She needs tough love. When she's done with this community service, she needs a job and some discipline. I have a colleague who has sent his kids to work for the Youth Conservation Corps every summer and says it has been an invaluable experience.”

Mom gasps so loud I can hear it through the walls. “You want to send her away? Even before college? That's a terrible idea. She's just getting sober. She needs us now more than ever. I don't even think she should go away to school next year.”

“I can't have her in this house another year, Sarah. We need some semblance of a life back. There are expectations at work. I can't keep dodging parties and bowing out of obligations because I'm worried about my daughter's choices.”

“That's a horrible thing to say,” Mom snaps. It's a voice I rarely hear from her. She's a pleaser and she generally can carefully maneuver Dad into agreeing with her. Or she rolls over and lets him have his way. But now she's all venom and spite. “She's your daughter, not an inconvenience that keeps you from cocktail parties. She needs us. She needs
you
.”

“Jesus Christ. What more do you want from me? I've broken my back for this family.”

“Fuck you, Tom. Fuck. You. Everything you've ever done is for yourself. Stop pretending you're a saint. You think Natalie or I care about your money? You were the only one who wanted it. Wanted this life. All I wanted was a family.”

Dad mumbles something, but it's too low for me to hear. Then a door slams and Mom starts crying. I should go to her. Should try to comfort her like she's always trying to comfort me. But there's nothing I can do. I'm a disappointment to her, a misshapen piece that doesn't fit quite right in the puzzle. It would be best for all of us if I found a way out.

*  *  *

In the morning, I don't even pretend I didn't hear anything from last night. I grab a cup of coffee and sit across from Mom at the kitchen table.

“You okay?” I ask.

She nods. “Yeah. It'll be fine.”

“You were pretty loud.”

“I was pretty mad.”

I laugh at this and Mom joins me for a second. “You going to be okay?”

“Did you lash out at Mrs. Hunt because of Joe?”

I take a gulp of coffee. “I don't know. Sort of. She's a bitch.”

Mom shakes her head. “You spit on her, Natalie.”

“Well, technically, I spit at her feet. If it wasn't going to matter either way, I should've thought to spit in her face.”

“No. You would've been expelled. You never used to be this angry.”

I lift a shoulder. “I was a fighter before. You don't get angry when you box. You have a place to put it all.”

There's a long pause and I think maybe the conversation is done, but when I stand, Mom puts her hand on my wrist and tugs me back down.

“Do you hate us?” she asks.

“For what?”

“Keeping you from boxing.”

“You didn't want it for me. It was my choice to give it up.”

“But we pressured you. If I had known . . . Well, it doesn't matter. Hindsight is twenty-twenty.”

“It's not terrible to be angry sometimes,” I say, and I'm speaking for her as much as me.

“I know. But not about things you can't control.”

I snort. “Mom. Look at you. Working the program.”

She smiles, but it's a little sad. “Your father won't go after Joe. But you can't be with him. Not permanently. Not if you want to live in this house.”

I don't want to argue about this. She's wrong, but she wouldn't understand my logic. She has no idea what it's like to need something so desperately. “I have to see him, though. To make sure he's okay.”

“Natalie. I can probably talk your father into the boxing. If you really want it, but this . . .”

Mom's not stupid. She knows I'm close enough to eighteen to be able to do whatever I want. And for all that she is, she doesn't want to lose me by pushing me away. So yeah, maybe I suck for taking advantage of her, but I don't give a shit. I need Joe.

“Mom. Please. I have to see him.”

She stares at me, then slowly nods. “Okay. Go see him. But that's it. Find a way to say good-bye.”

There's no way in hell I'm doing that. But at least she's offering enough of a green light for me to formulate a plan. “I'm going to get dressed. He'll be home now.”

I have no idea if this is true, but he's got to be home sometime. And I've got a three-day vacation on my hands.

“I'll drive you over,” Mom says.

“No. Mom. I won't do anything. I just need to talk to him. You need to trust me.”

It's a huge fucking ask. I know it is. I've hardly proven myself trustworthy. But still, it's Joe, and I have to see him. Alone.

“Be home by three o'clock. No exceptions. I don't want to regret this.”

Relief spills over me, and out of nowhere I lean forward and hug my mom. She hugs back, too tight, too long, but it's like she's putting everything into that hug. And it feels like something real has passed between us, and for the first time in a really long time, I think our relationship will be okay.

The only thing
I can think to do is set up camp on Joe's front steps. I sit there for two hours, smoking cigarettes and thinking what I want to say. Mom made me wear extra layers and my long down coat, and I'm glad for it now. It's fucking freezing. Two and a half hours in and I'm considering going out to hunt bars, when his truck pulls up. Fucking finally.

Joe steps out and looks like he's aged a hundred years since I last saw him. But he's sober, thank God. He stops when he sees me, then plows forward toward his front door.

“Not today, Natalie,” he says.

“I just want to talk,” I whisper. I slide in behind him as he fumbles his key, shoving it too hard into the lock.

“No,” he says. But he doesn't stop me from following when he pushes the door open and goes in. “I'm exhausted. I can't do this right now.”

“Let me . . .” I don't say any more. Just take the keys from his hand and put them on the table before guiding him to his room. He drops prone onto his bed and I pull his boots off. He smells like a mix of body odor and cigarettes and I hold my breath as I'm pulling his shirt and pants off and wrapping his comforter around him.

“You look wrecked. Where have you been?”

“Staying at my sponsor's, drying out.”

“How many days were you out?”

He shrugs. “Three or four. Don't know. Blackout drunk, remember?”

I touch his hair, but he draws back, tugging the comforter up. “You're sober now, though.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want some water? Or . . .”

“Don't need your help. Just need sleep,” he mumbles, but then he lets me press a glass of water from his side table into his hand. As soon as he finishes the glass he shuts his eyes and I have nothing to do but wait.

I consider calling Mom when it becomes clear I won't be home by three, but I know her worry will add more guilt onto my shoulders and I can only deal with one thing at a time. I text Kathy instead.