The Last Time They Met_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [26]
—Nashua? New Hampshire? What was he doing there?
—I’m not sure he really knows.
Oh Marcus, Linda thought. Oh my poor, poor Marcus. She had seen him drunk at Thanksgiving and again at Christmas, but she hadn’t quite realized. Or had she simply refused to see?
—Are you thinking of an intervention? Is that what they call it?
—I don’t think that will be necessary, David said thoughtfully, indicating that he had considered it. At least, I hope not. He just needs a kick in the pants. And he got it in Nashua. He’s pretty scared.
—Do you have any place in mind?
—I’m not sure. I’ll have to make some calls. They say Brattleboro is the best.
Linda recoiled at the thought of her son in an institution. She pressed her lips together. If it was as bad as David had said — and of course it was; Marcus had had an accident — what more proof did a mother need?
—I really would like to talk to Marcus, she said again.
—He’s sleeping, David said. They gave him something at the hospital.
—I see. She took a breath to control her anger. It was unnatural to push a mother away from her cub. Though, to be fair, Marcus was hardly a cub.
—If it’s as bad as you say, the past months must have been difficult for you, Linda said, trying to be generous.
—I love him.
The statement, too bald, was like a naked man in the street, something that should be clothed. Vincent’s death had freed Marcus. Within a month, he’d told his mother and his sister he was gay. Within the year, he’d found David.
—I had no idea he was so unhappy.
—I don’t know how much happiness has to do with it.
What makes an alcoholic? Linda wondered. Poor mothering? Bad genes? A fatal gene, commonly carried in Irish blood? She’d hardly known her father, but she had known her uncles, alternately morose or exuberant, sometimes brutish. And to think how smug she’d once been, gloating inwardly over the success of her children: Maria at Harvard, now a medical student at Johns Hopkins; and Marcus at Brown, now in graduate school at Boston University. How often had she casually insinuated those prestigious names in conversation? And now there would be this to say: My son is an alcoholic. My son, Marcus, is an alcoholic.
Was she an alcoholic as well? All her own drinking put now in a different perspective.
—The car’s totaled, David said. They towed it. Another pause. He’ll lose his license.
—Oh, I know he will. Linda stifled an incipient wail. We need to get a lawyer.
And too late, she heard the we.
David waited patiently, parent to the parent now. We have one, Mrs. Fallon. A friend of ours. He’s very good.
On the bed, Linda put a hand to her brow, clammy with the news. You’ll let me know. Trying to keep hysteria from her voice. You’ll let me know how he is and what you’ve done. What you’ve decided.
She was certain that she heard a sigh. Of course I will, David said.
* * *
Linda lay back on the bed. Marcus was suffering — with shame and a battered knee. And would suffer worse, in court and certainly in rehabilitation, about which she knew nothing. Was rehab physically painful? Was it excruciatingly dull? She tried to recall all the times she had seen Marcus drinking. There had been beer in his refrigerator at Brown. At the beach, he would sometimes start with gin and tonics at three o’clock. She’d thought then that the drinking had been festive and celebratory, merely summer playfulness. But she had known, hadn’t she? She’d known. And had forgiven her son even before the word problem had had a chance to register, almost as quickly as she’d tried to adjust her expectations when she’d learned that he was gay. And she’d known then, too. Of course she had.
Despair and irritation grew in equal measure. She looked around at the empty room, its luxury fading with this news from home. She stood up from the bed and began to pace, her arms crossed over her chest. She talked to herself, and to Marcus and to Vincent, pale imitations of what