CHAPTER 29
REID
We’re halfway to the rehab facility, and neither of us has said a word. Once we leave LA proper, the haze that domes the city almost 365 days a year abates. A bright blue sky seems painted above the landscape; the only clouds are wisps of smoke in the distance.
I have no idea what to expect from the therapy session, or from Mom. I have no faith in the process. Why should I? The process has failed her multiple times. She struggles to stay sober while I struggle to avoid it.
That’s not exactly true. While it’s true that I push my boundaries as often as possible, I have it under control when it needs to be. I like getting hammered sometimes, sure. I’m young. It’s fun. Why not? I’m not using alcohol to “numb the pain” or any stupid shit like that. I’m not using it when I’m working. Any number of Mom’s therapists would say I’m in denial. That I’m making excuses. I’d say I’m explaining. They’d say there’s a difference between explanations and excuses, and I’m doing one and calling it the other. Then I’d say I don’t f*cking care which it is, I’m fine. And that’s the end of that.
John’s texting me—says there’s a party tonight we’ve got to make it to. He wants to know if I want to stay over at his apartment near campus. He starts classes Tuesday, not that he’s stressed about it. I doubt he’s even got an idea what his schedule is—his father required him to apply as a finance major. I can’t imagine how that’s going to end, but it’ll be explosive. John is riding the ragged edge of pretending to follow in his dad’s footsteps. I’m glad that at least I don’t have to do that. I’ve got my own path, and while Dad may not get it, he seems to support it. At the very least, he’s never tried to mold me into a younger version of himself: Mark Alexander, f*cking brilliant attorney at law. Bonus—beautiful, alcoholic wife and talented, irresponsible son.
I doubt he thinks I’d even be capable of turning out like him, not that I can argue the point, and not that I ever wanted to be.
***
When we arrive, Dad charges straight across the lobby to the reception desk and I trail him, not taking my sunglasses off until I get past the reception area and anyone hanging out there. The woman behind the desk recognizes him and immediately looks at me, blinking rapidly even though her expression remains neutral, confirming that she knows who I am by association. I wonder if my fame makes being here more difficult for Mom, where everyone knows, or will know—that she’s the mother of Reid Alexander. She can’t be anonymous, any more than I can. But at least my notoriety was/is my choice.
The place is posh, no surprise, and Mom seems as fragile as always, also no surprise. We are only allowed to meet with her in the counselor’s office for this visit, and frankly I’m hoping this time will be the only one required of me.
There are two sofas—one of them is more like a loveseat—and two chairs, surrounding a low table. The therapist, Dr. Weems, takes one of the chairs, crossing her legs and opening the file on her lap, giving us no direction on where to sit. I sense a test, but I’m not sure what arrangement she’d accept as positive, or if she perceives that I know she’s analyzing each of us and how we relate to each other based on our choice. By the time these thoughts make their way through my brain, Dad is sitting in the middle of the long sofa, mom next to him in the corner. I plop down in the middle of the loveseat because that choice doesn’t require anything but sitting straight down. Dr. Weems is scribbling, already finding my faults, or maybe she’s doodling a cartoon of funny cats while waiting for us to stop playing musical sofas.
“Mark, Reid, I’m Dr. Weems—please call me Marcie. It’s good to meet both of you.” She smiles that calculating therapist smile, the one that doesn’t quite reach the eyes, as Dad greets her politely and leans up to shake her hand. When she turns to look at me, I’m leaning forward, elbows on knees, ready to bolt out of here at the first opportunity. I raise my chin once, acknowledging her. That’s the best I’ll do, and my peripheral awareness of Dad’s glower won’t change it.
She’s undaunted. I doubt a*shole adolescent males are new to her. “We’ve made some really solid progress in the last two weeks.” The heel of Marcie’s pump is hanging slightly from her foot, as though she’s actually playing dress up and wearing her mother’s shoes. “I’m pleased that the two of you could join us so you could see for yourselves that your loved one is doing well, and so we can do a little work as a family unit.”
Our “loved one” is sitting right there, being spoken about in the third person with an epithetical term rather than her name. I’ll admit I have issues with therapists in general. I think they’re a pretentious group of people who believe they know your innermost secrets from body language and what they trick you into saying. Marcie is all that plus attributes from your least favorite, most biased teacher ever.
I watch Mom, the way her fingers shake with the slightest tremor, barely perceptible, whenever she has to speak. When she looks up, I try to catch her eyes—dark blue, identical to mine—wondering if she wants someone to just grab her hand and get the hell out of here. But no, she’s determined to tackle the demons. She clenches her jaw, frowns at the flower arrangement in the center of the table or the stack of magazines on either side. And then she pushes her small voice forward, and answers Marcie’s probing questions and Dad’s careful inquiries.
Marcie squints at me a few times during the hour. I’m not saying anything unless asked directly, and even then, I’m the opposite of forthcoming. What I don’t say: I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to contribute, and I don’t see why I have to when it isn’t me in rehab. When the hour is up, I feel like I was just released from prison.
When Mom hugs me goodbye, my arms slide around her and I realize she’s even smaller than usual. “Thank you for coming,” she says into my shoulder. “I’m sorry. I love you.”
I close my eyes. Say it, say it, say it. “You too.” Both not good enough and better than nothing. She gives me another squeeze before letting go. She walks into my dad’s arms and I turn towards the window. He’s the worst kind of hypocrite—pretending this level of give-a-shit now when she’s spent years flying along behind him like a kite, just trying to stay airborne.
*** *** ***
Emma
“Where are Reid’s posters?” I’m reclining on Emily’s bed, Hector draped over my abdomen, purring an atypical welcome. I stroke his silky back and scratch behind his ears.
Emily closes her bedroom door, where two sexy-beautiful close-up posters of Reid are attached with double-stick tape. (Emily’s mom has two rules for posters: double-stick tape, not thumbtacks, and on the doors, never the walls.) “You downgraded him to the back of the door?” Emily’s system: the favored boys go on the closet door, visible all the time; the lesser ones go to the back of her bedroom door. Quinton’s is still on the closet door, and has in fact moved to the number one spot: face level above the door knob.
“It didn’t seem right to have Reid in a prominent spot when you two are practically a couple. I can’t cheat with my best friend’s guy. Even theoretically.”
“So he’s like a brother to you now.”
“Don’t be crazy,” she answers. “Look at him.”
“I do look at him. Practically every day.”
She mock-glares at me and I laugh.
“I found a few pics of Graham, by the way.” She plops onto the bed next to me, grabbing a pillow and propping her head at the foot of the bed so we can see each other over the lump of Hector fur. “He’s hot, though more in that intense, introspective sorta way, rather than Reid’s all-American look. My coworkers would be all over him.”
I breathe a sigh, trying to clear the stab of hostility I suddenly feel towards Emily’s coworkers. “Em, I don’t understand how you work at Hot Topic, dress twenty-first century Gothic, and are attracted to guys who look like Reid.”
“Opposites attract?”
“Not usually,” I say, and she shrugs.
“So, the fan pages are speculating that you and Reid are having hot sex all over Austin.”
“What? God. Well, we’re not.” I cover my face and Hector meows in complaint until I begin stroking him again. “I still don’t know what kind of relationship he wants. Or, you know, if. He’s used to girls throwing themselves at him. I’m sure I’m confusing the crap out of him.”
“Hmm.” He stares at us from the back of her door. “Official dilemma.”
“Seriously.” Hector rolls over, flopping between us on the bed, legs in the air, begging for a tummy rub. “Um, is Hector on drugs or something?”
“Maybe one of Mom’s plants is a cat narcotic. God knows he chews on them enough—every plant in the house has teeth marks. Drives Mom insane.”
“Grandma tried putting Tabasco sauce on the leaves. Worked pretty well.”
We laugh, imagining the effects of this on an unsuspecting Hector. “Your grandma was an evil genius.”
I remember her so much more clearly than I remember Mom. “Yeah, she was.” I stare at the ceiling. “Right before you picked me up, my father asked if I wanted to go for a run tomorrow morning, ‘like old times.’ I was standing there in that revolting yellow room with that flowery duvet and furniture that looks like an animal has gnawed on it, and I was thinking ‘old times’—like when I was what, five?”
She’s silent for a couple of minutes. “Are you afraid if you talked to him, you might actually tell him how angry you are?”
It’s true. This is not standard annoyance. I’m livid. “Maybe. Why now? Why now do I give a crap?”
“You’ve always given a crap, Emma. You just pushed it inside. Acted like a miniature grownup. What else could you do? Of course you’re angry.”
I suddenly burst into tears like one of those geysers in Yellowstone erupts—pop, pop, gush, and she sits up and grabs me, pulls me close and stretches her arms around me.
“What am I supposed to do now?” I hiccup, sniffling.
She sighs. “Maybe it’s not the best timing, right in the middle of filming the biggest movie of your career so far, but emotional self-awareness doesn’t always sit around waiting for the perfect time to reveal itself.” She hands me the tissue box. “You’ll wash your face so you don’t scare my parents, then we’ll eat the pasta and sausage meatballs they’re making, watch some bad television or a good DVD, and munch something calorific. And after that, we’ll figure this shit out.”
I take a shuddering breath and lean my head into her lap. She strokes my hair, pulling it from my wet face and tucking it behind my ear, which makes me ache for my mother. I can’t recall her face, exactly, but I remember vividly the feel of her fingers threading through my hair. People are right about time healing wounds. But the scars are always there, waiting for something to poke them. I close my eyes and just let myself miss her.