The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [48]
“Anytime.”
Julianne is smiling, smiling, smiling as she closes the door.
Chapter 12
Paisley—Drinking
The story is that I stopped drinking so as not to embarrass the girls. That was only part of it.
It was true that Brynne’s third-grade teacher, Mrs. Rose, told the kids an alcoholic was someone who took at least one drink every day. Somehow the concept of the drink containing alcohol had dropped out of the equation. There wasn’t a single student who hadn’t seen their parents drinking. Orange juice, water, ginger ale. They went home, upset, anxious to sound the alarm. Some parent—not me—confronted Mrs. Rose in the principal’s office the next morning, brandishing a dictionary. “Alcoholic: someone addicted to alcohol. How do we define ‘addicted,’ exactly? One drink a day? One alcoholic drink a day?” It went on from there.
A parents’ meeting was called to allow Mrs. Rose to explain herself. She was in her sixties, a dour woman who could have used a few vials of Botox to soften her frown. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry you’re so upset. I was only quoting statistics,” she argued weakly. “I certainly didn’t mean to confuse the children. I didn’t mean to be unclear.” She offered her sincere apology. Already, a substance abuse counselor had been called in to clarify the issue to the children. The meeting might have gone on longer and gotten louder if Mrs. Rose hadn’t been so visibly shaken. She was out on sick leave the following week. She took early retirement.
Score: Alcohol, one. Abstinence, nothing.
I didn’t drink every day. I rarely got drunk and never looked drunk, never acted drunk, even if I’d had quite a lot. I’d learned early to keep the sweet buzz a private pleasure except at a party when a little giddiness seemed the order of the evening.
Brynne was eight then, a calm, steady girl, never as wild as her two-year-old sister even when she’d been the same age; but smart, thoughtful, cloistered, and observant. She’d seen me pouring vodka into my orange juice; she knew what it was. “You shouldn’t drink that every day, Mom,” she said.
“Oh, I don’t.”
“It can make you sick.”
“I know, honey. I’m very careful.”
This was at least a month after the incident at school. Brynne was a worrier, easily troubled and then unable to let go. Rubbing the wounds deeper, sometimes for weeks, pulling off the scabs. Where did she get that? Not from me. Telling her I was careful only disturbed her. Sometimes when she was upset she’d ride her bike around and around Lindenwood Court until she calmed down.
That particular afternoon felt endless. Melody was taking a three-hour nap. There was no chance of getting out, though I’d been home all day. Outside, the air was chilly and the sky was gray and gritty. On days like that I allowed myself a shot or two, or at least a glass of wine. It was bourbon and ginger ale that day. I was careful to mix it while Brynne was upstairs changing clothes, but she knew. Maybe she smelled it on my breath.
Opening the garage door, she retrieved her helmet, got onto her bike. I came out onto the front porch, baby monitor in hand lest Melody wake up, and sat on the step to watch her. I clinked the ice around in my glass, though my hands were freezing. Brynne wore a pair of child-size biking shorts Mason had found in a sports store. They didn’t come down farther than her knees. I should stop her, send her upstairs for warmer slacks. But no, the activity would keep her warm. I was a little dizzy.
Brynne was having a contest with herself. Around and around the court, faster and faster. An angry speed. She didn’t look at me. I would talk to her later, assure her once again about the drinking. I put down the glass.
With every pass, she circled in a smaller arc, leaning a little more to the side each time to make the ever-more-narrow turn. On her face as she passed me, an expression of victory. She pedaled furiously. She leaned too far. At the end of the cul-de-sac, the bike tipped, skidded, came to a stop at the edge of our front yard. Brynne went with it, her bare calf scraping the street as she slid.