Drowsy-eyed, I make my way out of the bedroom, wearing faded jeans and a sloppy T-shirt. The pants are loose on me—yet more physical evidence of the spiritual emaciation that Marti’s been talking about. When I enter the living room, Andrea’s eyes are laser-locked with the television, on what looks to be Hannah Montana.
“Morning, sweet pea,” I announce with a smile, but she doesn’t bother answering me. I watch her as I move past our leather sofa, where she’s sitting, knees tucked neatly inside her cotton nightgown. “Did I hear a ‘good morning’ there?” I push, sounding a little too much like my old drill sergeant.
Finally, she blinks up at me. “Morning.” Nothing more, no hint of our late-night truce. Not even a smile; just a chilly blue-eyed glance.
“That’s my girl.” Back at my game of appeasement as usual. Marti’s in the kitchen, doling out eggs and bacon for me, and I bend low to kiss her cheek, whispering an awkward “thanks” as she presses the plate into my hand.
“We only talking food?” she asks, leaning back against the counter. “Or is life advice included in that murmur of gratitude?”
“Whole enchilada, Ms. Murphy.” I hoist myself up onto the bar, lifting the plate close to my chin for ease of consumption. It’s the kind of uncouth behavior that Alex used to complain about; something I now do precisely because he’s not here to gripe anymore. Maybe it’s my way of venting some of this subtle anger that’s always swashing around inside of me.
“You know, since I’m clearly on a roll here,” Marti says, snagging some bacon out of the pan for herself, “would you consider one more piece of advice?”
“I’m guessing I don’t have a choice.”
She steps much closer to me. Casting a cautious glance in Andrea’s direction, she clasps my shoulder conspiratorially. “You need some time to yourself. Time to do something just for you. I could take Andrea home to stay the night. The kids would love to see her, and Dave’s planning to cook burgers on the grill.”
For a moment, sadness stabs at my heart because Marti and Dave lead a family life that I can only dream of giving Andrea. Hell, it’s not a life our daughter’s ever led, not even when Alex was still alive. I should be grateful for the occasional time she gets at their suburban home, not jealous of the way Andrea worships their whole family, but I can’t seem to help myself.
In the living room, Andrea’s already looking our way with keen expectation. “Sure,” I say, tightlipped without meaning to be. “That’d be great.”
“Cool!” Andrea cries, bounding to her feet. “Can I go pack now?”
“Yeah, sweetie, go get your stuff together.” I barely have the words out before she’s vanished into her room.
Marti’s gaze drills into me, telling me that I should just take this break. “Don’t feel guilty. You always do, but don’t. Go and have some fun, for crying out loud. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Fun? I doubt I’m capable of it anymore. I think of Casey and his repeated invitations to hit the movies, get a couple of beers, head out dancing—anything that involves going out with the guys. But the thought of passing through those old haunts without Alex chills me to the core.
“Yeah, I’ll do something relaxing.” Fix that stupid burned-out light in the hallway, the one I’ve been ignoring for the past year. Maybe work out in the yard for a while, try to pick up where Casey leaves off today. I see him out there now, bent over, slaving to resurrect the flower garden before it’s choked alive by weeds.
Marti slugs me on the shoulder. “Good, because there will be a test at the end of the break. And remember what I said about life, okay?” Marti admonishes, an encouraging smile filling her broad face.
“It’s for the living?”
She gets the look of a pleased parent, as if I’ve recited my alphabet correctly. “Right!”
Right. But the thing is I can’t help but wonder, like I did last night, if I’m even part of that club anymore.
***
So much for my revolutionary plan of staying home by myself, because no sooner than I’d set about repairing that hallway light, teetering high on the stepladder, that I remember my un-deposited paycheck, left somewhere on my workbench back at the studio. Yet more evidence of the mental haze I’ve been wandering around in these days, especially since I count on that weekly check. So without showering, I climb in the truck and hightail it toward Hollywood, knowing that with enough luck I can get the check to the bank before it closes at one.