When Maya started to cry, he realized it was the latter.
“Oh, shit,” he said, just as Grace moved to put her arm around her. Maya was still holding the joint, its smoke rising up in a long, smooth line before curling up at the top, and when Grace moved, her arm cut through the smoke, sending it scattering. “Oh, shit, Maya,” Joaquin said. “I’m sorry. I was only kidding.”
“Stop, it’s fine,” she said, but she was still sniffling. Joaquin was new to having siblings, but he was pretty sure that making your little sister cry was at the top of the Do Not Do This Ever list.
“Just tell him,” Grace said, her voice quiet even as she pressed her cheek against Maya’s hair.
Maya took a deep breath, then took another hit off the joint. “So,” she said, her voice ragged with both tears and smoke. “Maybe you already knew this, but my mom’s a pretty big alcoholic?”
Joaquin felt his spine straighten up like the line of smoke in front of him. He had spent time with an alcoholic foster parent once. It hadn’t been great. If anyone had hurt Maya like that, Joaquin was pretty sure that he would have to do something about it.
Judging from Grace’s face, she felt the same way.
“Anyway, she’s not really dealing with the divorce that well?” Maya continued. Her voice kept going up on the end of her sentences, like she was asking if the things she was saying were really true. Joaquin could understand that. “And she’s been drinking a lot this week, even for her? And then last night, Lauren and I”—Maya gestured in the general direction of where Lauren had left—“went out to dinner and when we got back, my mom was . . . she was on the floor. She fell and hit her head. There was a lot of blood. There’s probably a lot of blood still. We might need to hire someone to clean that up. It looks like a crime scene in there. Do you ever watch those shows on TV, the ones about murderers where they re-create the crime scene?”
“My.” Grace reached over and put her hand on Maya’s knee. “We got it.”
Maya nodded. “Anyway, yeah. She had to stay in the hospital overnight because she had a concussion.”
“Where’s your dad?” Joaquin asked. “Is he with her?”
“Nope. He’s in New Orleans. Well, actually, he’s probably flying home right now from New Orleans. Grace’s parents called him last night.”
“And does he know about . . . you know . . . ?”
“The drinking?” Maya said, and Joaquin nodded. “Well, he does now, I guess. I don’t think he knew how bad it was. But he knows now.”
“Maya called me last night,” Grace said “And we—my parents and I, I mean—met everyone at the hospital.”
“Lauren and I rode in the ambulance,” Maya said. “Lots of sirens, lots of lights. You’d think it’d be loud inside the ambulance, but it wasn’t. The movies lied.”
Joaquin watched Maya raise the joint to her mouth again, then set it down without taking another hit. He felt like he was watching a little kid drive a car, her legs too short to reach the pedals, her eyes too low to see over the steering wheel. “So when does she get to come home?” he asked.
“She’s not,” Maya said, her voice clipped. “At least, not yet. She’s going to rehab. My dad found a place in Palm Springs and he’s going to take her out there tonight, once she gets released. Oh, and yeah, my girlfriend and I broke up yesterday. So I’ve got that going for me. I should probably wrap Lauren in Bubble Wrap or something, because people are dropping like flies all around me.” She gestured to both Grace and Joaquin with the hand that was holding the joint. “Definitely look both ways before crossing the street, you two. I’m bad luck.”
“You’re not bad luck,” Joaquin snapped, and both girls looked up at him in surprise. “Don’t say things like that. Shitty things are just happening around you. It’s not your fault.”
Maya suddenly looked very woebegone. (Joaquin had read that word in a book once and had never forgotten it. It made him think of Dickensian orphans, old widows, puppies abandoned in the rain.) “No, I’m pretty sure it’s me,” she said, wiping at her eyes again. “In fact, I’m one hundred percent sure that the breakup with Claire was my fault. I pushed her away.”
“Well, is it permanent?” Joaquin asked. “Can you apologize?”
“Nope,” Maya said.
“That’s not true,” Grace told her.
Maya started to cry again.
Joaquin and Grace looked at each other once more; then Joaquin moved over until he could put his arm around Maya’s waist. He knew what it felt like to cry alone. It felt terrible, like you were the only person alive in the world. He didn’t want that for Maya.
“What if she doesn’t stay in rehab?” Maya sobbed. “What if she thinks she’s okay and signs herself out and then hits her head again?”
“She’s going to stay,” Grace soothed. “Your dad will make her stay.”
“She might not,” Joaquin said, and ignored the angry glance that Grace shot him. “I mean, it’s true, right? She might not.”
“The rain cloud to Grace’s sunshine,” Maya sniffled. “You’re a good team.”
Joaquin hadn’t thought of anyone being on his team before, not since Birdie. He wondered if Maya was right. “Look,” he said. “You can’t control what your mom does. But you can control what you do.”
Maya wiped her eyes on the back of her arm before looking at him. “Do you . . . go to therapy, Joaq?”
Joaquin startled a little. “I . . . Yeah, I do. Mark and Linda pay for it, but yeah.”
“I’ve been trying to keep her sober—well, less drunk,” Maya said. “She has wine hidden all over the house. Lauren and I were trying to keep track of that.”
“Does your dad know about that part?” Grace asked. “Maybe you should tell him.”
“How could he not know?” Maya said. “And if he does, he obviously doesn’t care. I mean, he just left us here with her. He found a place and moved out last week. He’s going to move back in now while my mom’s gone, but . . . yeah.” She tossed the joint into the pool, where it quickly burned out and then floated on the blue water. “Everything is so fucking fucked up. My mom’s a drunk and my ex-girlfriend hates me.”
“Well, my ex-girlfriend hates me, too,” Joaquin admitted, and both of his sisters’ heads swiveled toward him, their eyes wide. “If it’s any consolation.”
“You had a girlfriend?” Grace asked.
“Why’d you break up?” Maya asked.
“How long were you together?”
“What was her name?”
“Did you break up with her or did she break up with you?”
“I broke up with her,” Joaquin said. “And her name was Elizabeth but everybody calls her Birdie.”
“Birdie.” Maya looked unimpressed. “Is she twee? Does she buy things on Etsy?”
Joaquin had no idea what Etsy was. “It was her grandmother’s name,” he explained. “What does twee mean?”
“Nothing,” Grace said. “Why’d you break up with her?”
Joaquin laughed a little, then watched as the joint started to sink to the bottom of the pool. “It’s stupid.”