Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [52]
“So, Tommy,” she says in a super uncomfortable-sounding voice. “We have to be getting to the airport soon so we don’t miss our flight.”
“Yes, yes,” Tommy says, looking from me to my mom. “She’s in safe hands, don’t you worry.” He glances at his watch. “Group starts in about five minutes, so if you all want to say good-bye, I can take Amelia over there and she can unpack later.”
Mom hugs me and Dad gets tears in his eyes, but I can’t deal with their emotions right now because I have too many questions. Group what? Group isn’t a noun, it describes a noun, and I want to lecture Tommy about how he left off the second part of what I’m about to have to go do and how he should be more accurate when he’s describing something that sounds absolutely terrifying, but Dad envelopes me in a hug before I have a chance to say a word.
“Bye Amelia,” Mom says. “Please be good.” I hug her and realize she’s shaking. It dawns on me how disappointing it must be to have carried someone in your womb for nine months and put up with a whole slew of fights and hassles, only to drop her off at a torn-down-looking rehab with guys like Joel and Stan as playmates, and for a split second I think I’m going to collapse in shame-filled sobs. But I step away from her and stand up straight.
“I will be good, Mom,” I say. “I promise.”
Dad puts his arm around Mom and starts to lead her toward the front door. Then they turn back to wave, and I feel myself tearing up. Apparently, on my first day of kindergarten, when my mom tried to drop me off, I simply wouldn’t let go of her hand. The teacher, Sue, eventually had to literally pry my hand away from Mom’s and I cried inconsolably. Supposedly I was fine by later that day, but transitional moments have never been easy for me.
I wave at their retreating backs, and just as Mom turns around to blow me a kiss, Joel throws one of his bulking hands on my right shoulder.
“Don’t you worry, Mr. and Mrs. Amelia!” he calls. “I’ll keep her good!”
“Group” is apparently short for “group therapy,” and this kind of group therapy involves each of us stating our first name followed by the word “alcoholic,” just like in that ridiculously dull Faye Dunaway movie that always seems to be on the Independent Film Channel. Then Tommy calls on people to “share”—and sharing seems to mean talking about how much we miss “using.” Using seems to refer to anything—drinking, shooting heroin, taking pain pills, whatever. I’m figuring all this stuff out, and feeling like I really may need to talk to the head of Pledges about this bizarre habit they seem to have of leaving off the second part of words—“It should be using alcohol or using drugs, not just the word ‘using’ without having it refer to anything,” I can picture myself explaining—but the problem is that I’m feeling somewhat frozen into muteness. When I was younger, I was considered shy. I don’t remember feeling shy as much as I remember being described as shy, and how much I hated it. I wanted to be gregarious and confident and outgoing even before I knew what those words meant. And when our family went on a cruise to Alaska when I was ten and I befriended a Southern girl named Amy, who everyone called “effervescent,” I decided that was the personality I wanted to adopt. According to Mom, I changed literally overnight, and she suddenly had a loud extrovert for a daughter instead of the diffident girl who clutched her mother’s hand in quaking fear. Occasionally, shy Amelia creeps back up—especially when I’m around new people—and I have to say, that’s one of the reasons I liked drinking and drugs so much: they made me able to access my effervescent side at all times. Just as I’m thinking about this, and about how horribly traumatized I’m going to be if they make me “share” in this “group,” Tommy turns to me.
“Guys, this is Amelia,” he says,