“Yes, I’ll see you there.”
Trisha and I watch her walk out the same door Marin left through only moments ago. We are both silent, the only two left in the room. She starts to clear the table. I help her, both of us quietly working. It is not like Trisha; normally she is the one who fills the silence. After one of Dad’s episodes, it was her job to change the conversation. To return all of us to the time right before the violence. She became an expert at it. With a smile, she would seamlessly restart the interrupted conversation. While Mom comforted Dad, or left to deal with her own cuts, Trisha would nurse us with an alternate reality.
“You’ll have to get on Eric’s case,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. I fill the sink with the dishes. “A dinner without wine is unacceptable.”
“You’re right.” Trisha wipes her hands on the dish towel. “Let’s make up for it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Come on.” She grabs her purse and keys off the end table and walks out the front door. When I don’t move, she sticks her head back in, crooking her arm for me to follow her. “Let’s go!”
University Avenue is Stanford students’ main thoroughfare for bars and off-campus dining. It also hosts the elite venture capitalist crowd of Palo Alto when they want to unwind. The combination of money and brilliance offers a distinctive crowd in every establishment. Trisha routes us to one off the main street. It is small but that doesn’t stop people from crowding the corners and spilling into the courtyard in the back. Men and women dressed in casual business clothes drink alongside students sporting Stanford gear, carrying backpacks. I follow Trisha to the counter, where we find two empty stools.
“What can I get you?” The bartender looks barely old enough to be serving us. As he waits for our orders, he waves to some friends who’ve just entered.
“Two glasses of your most expensive red.” Trisha pulls out her credit card and slides it toward him. “Start us a tab, please.”
“Are we planning on getting drunk?” I ask.
“Why not?”
I watch her as we wait for our drinks. When they are finally served, Trisha toasts me with her full glass. Without waiting for me, she takes a deep swallow. She winces, the wine burning her throat.
“Because you don’t do that.” I take a sip of mine. It’s a dry Cabernet. I prefer a Pinot but don’t say anything. “You never touch your drink at home.”
Drinking to oblivion was not something any of us sisters chose to do. When you have no control as a child, there is no reason to cede it as an adult. Trisha is worse than I am. She avoids alcohol completely. She swears the smell nauseates her.
When we were kids, Dad would sometimes leave the house when he was truly angry. He would return hours later with a brown bag, supposedly with a bottle of liquor inside. The irony was that he never drank, so the threat was meant to scare us more than anything. As if to say he could get more violent with alcohol in him than without. I always believed it was the memory of those nights that turned Trisha off drinking.
“Then let tonight be the night that changes.” She finishes the glass while mine remains full. She motions to the bartender for another. Glancing around, she sees everyone, as if for the first time. “Busy night.” Trisha lingers on a couple holding one another. The man’s arm is around the woman’s waist. He bends low to hear what she says over the roar of the crowd, offering her a smile in response. Trisha turns back toward the bar, facing the rows of bottles and the mirror on the wall. Her reflection stares back at us, offering no revelations. She fingers her wedding ring, the large solitaire glittering under the glare of the overhead lights.
“Should you let Eric know we’re out?” When he wasn’t at the dinner, I assumed he was still working. When Trisha continues to stare at her ring, I ask softly, “Trisha, where’s Eric?”