Better Than Perfect Read online

  8

  The next thing I knew, my phone was ringing, waking me for the second time in less than twelve hours. I reached for it, groggily registering that sunlight was streaming through the blinds and that Sofia wasn’t in her bed. The number wasn’t one I recognized; I registered a lot of extra digits before putting it to my ear.

  “Hello?” I said, my voice hoarse with sleep.

  “Juliet, honey, did I wake you?”

  “Grace?” I felt so out of it, like I was underwater and trying to swim to the surface. Why would Jason’s mother be calling me?

  “Juliet, I just got off the phone with your dad.”

  “You talked to my dad?” Grace and my dad never talked. If ever there needed to be parental communication, it was always between our moms.

  She ignored my question. “We agreed that you’re going to stay at our house until your mother . . . until everything is worked out. I know your aunt is arriving today, and she’s going to stay with you until we’re back, and then next week you’ll come to us, okay?”

  “Next week?” My tongue felt heavy and it was hard to form words. I needed to pull myself out of my grogginess and focus. I sat up. “Wait, Grace, my mom will be home by then.”

  “Well, if she is, that’s wonderful.” Grace said it like, If she is, I’m a pole dancer.

  “When did you . . .” I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them wide, hoping that would wake me up. “When did you talk to my dad?”

  “I just got off the phone with him,” said Grace. “He said you were at Sofia’s for the night, but that you needed a place to stay more long-term, and he felt it might not be a good idea for him to move back into the house.”

  I knew I’d been the one to say my dad shouldn’t move back into the house, but the fact that he’d listened to me and was just going to foist me off on the Robinsons made my body go cold all over. Last year Michael Priest, a second-semester senior whose dad had been transferred to California, had stayed with Chris Cho’s family for the last few months of school. But that was different. My dad lived in New York. And what gave Grace the idea that my mother wouldn’t be home in a week?

  “Grace, I don’t think—”

  She wasn’t listening. “Let me give you to Jason. He’s eager to talk to you.”

  If the news that my father was boarding me out like our old golden retriever had made me go cold, the thought of talking to Jason turned me to ice. I could not be on the phone with him. Not until I’d had a chance to get my thoughts together. If I had to talk to him now, I was going to confess everything. I was going to ruin everything. “Grace—” The word was high-pitched, almost a scream.

  But Grace was gone. The voice on the other end of the line was Jason’s. “Hey, J.”

  If I lived to be a hundred, could there ever be two syllables that were more familiar to me than those? I must have heard them a million times. Ten million. They’d been shouted at me down the corridors of Milltown High, hummed quietly in my ear while we were kissing, written across the screen of my phone.

  They were more familiar to me than the sound of my actual name.

  I hugged the arm holding the phone tightly to my chest. “Hey, J,” I echoed. It was all I trusted myself to say, but hearing the words come out of my mouth sounding almost normal gave me hope.

  I could do this.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  I pushed away the memory of Declan asking me that same question last night, and I pushed away what had happened after. “I’m okay,” I lied.

  “How’s your mom?” he asked.

  “She’s . . . I don’t know how she is today. She was sleeping when I saw her last night.”

  “It’s going to be okay, J. She’s going to be okay.” Jason sounded calm and confident. I remembered how freaked Sofia had been when I’d told her the news, and how I’d imagined Jason reacting exactly the same way. But of course he wouldn’t. Jason never got freaked out about anything.

  “I don’t know, J,” I said. I reached forward and grabbed my foot through the tangled sheet, the pressure of my own hand strangely comforting. “I don’t know how you’re all right after something like this.”

  “It was just an accident, J. I’m sure of it. Remember how messed up I was after my knee surgery? My mom wouldn’t even let me have the pain pills because I kept forgetting how many I’d taken. It could have happened to anyone.”

  I started to cry. “J, I just love you so much,” I said. My nose was running, and I pressed against it with the tips of my fingers.

  “I love you too, J,” he said, and when I gave a loud sob, he laughed softly. “Is my saying I love you going to make you cry now?”

  In response, I just gave a little squeak.

  “I’ll be home soon,” he promised. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  I remembered seeing the country club yesterday and how it had made me feel like I was being wrapped up in something warm and safe. I’d thought of cashmere, but the warm and safe thing the club reminded me of wasn’t an expensive sweater.

  It was Jason.

  Grace said something in the background. “My mom says you’re supposed to go and meet your aunt or something,” Jason translated.

  I forced myself to take a breath and let it out slowly. “Yeah.” I’d gone from being scared to talk to Jason to being scared to hang up the phone. But the clock on Sofia’s night table said ten thirty, which meant Aunt Kathy was probably already at my house.

  Jason lowered his voice. “I miss you.”

  My eyes stung. “I miss you too.”

  “Remember: J power,” he said.

  It was all I could do not to start bawling again. “J power,” I whispered. And then he was gone.

  When I was a little girl, my parents tried to get me to like I Love Lucy, which they and my brother thought was hilarious. To their surprise, I hated the show, how Lucy and Ethel’s plans seemed foolproof but were really anything but, how you had to watch, helpless, as they got tangled up in their own complicated incompetence. It made me mad and anxious, and after assuring me for several episodes that this was the one I was guaranteed to like, my parents finally stopped trying to make me a convert.

  Years later, I hardly ever thought of the show, but as I drove home, an image from it appeared to me. It was Lucy, standing in a vat of grapes, holding her dress high and stomping on the fruit to make wine. In my memory, her expression was pained, as if the grapes were a bed of hot coals on which she was being forced to dance.

  Now I felt like Lucy, my memories of last night grapes I had to press down, down, down until they liquefied and fermented and finally turned into something else entirely, something completely unlike what they were—turned into a dream I’d had or a story I’d heard from a girl at school or a scene from a movie I’d watched late one night when Sofia and I were channel surfing at my house.

  Anything other than what they were, which was something gross and mean and stupid that I had done.

  My dad called as I was pulling into the driveway of my house.

  I didn’t bother with hello. “Why did you tell Grace Robinson I’d stay at their house without asking me?” I tucked the phone under my chin as I put the car in park.

  “What?” He sounded genuinely shocked. “I never said you’d be staying with the Robinsons.”

  “That’s not what Grace said. She said the two of you had agreed I’d stay there until Mom gets home. Which, by the way, Grace seems to think is going to be in about a thousand years.”

  My dad sighed. “I asked Grace if you could stay there if you had to. I wanted to know what your options were. I have no idea what possessed her to call you and present it as a fait accompli.”

  “Okay, Dad? Just so you know, when Grace Robinson is involved in something, it is a fait accompli.”

  “I’m sorry, honey. I wasn’t thinking straight. This morning, I realized I can just rent an apartment near school and you’ll stay with me, okay? I’ll get a three-bedroom and call Hofstra or Adelphi an
d see if there’s a college student who could stay in the apartment when I’m traveling for more than a night or two.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “A babysitter? You want to get me a babysitter?”

  My dad fumbled for a response. “Not a babysitter exactly, a—”

  “Dad, this is absurd,” I said, snatching my keys out of the ignition. “I’m seventeen years old. I don’t need a babysitter. Why can’t I just stay at home? Or at Sofia’s?”

  “I’m not comfortable with your staying in the house alone, and your mother and I don’t like you staying at Sofia’s when her mother is working nights.”

  I snorted. “I love how all of a sudden when it comes to saying no to me, you and Mom are a team.”

  Another sigh. “Juliet, I’m doing the best I can. We’re all going to need to be a little flexible right now.”

  The way he said that, like being flexible was something he’d been handed that was very heavy and that he was preparing to carry for a long time, brought me up short. There was silence for a minute, and then I said, “I should go, Dad. Aunt Kathy’s waiting for me.”

  As soon as I pushed open the front door, I smelled coffee. Unlike my parents, Kathy and her husband, Sam, didn’t care about wine or furniture or where their kids went to college, but they were obsessed with incredibly strong coffee. Whenever I was at their house, I had to make my own because theirs was too strong for me to drink.

  “Hello?” called Aunt Kathy.

  I put my bag on the table in the foyer and headed through the dining room and into the kitchen, suddenly wishing I were someplace else. Everything I looked at had the power to hurt. I had never understood arsonists, how you could burn down something whole for no reason at all. But now I did. If I’d had a can of gasoline in my hand, I would have happily poured it everywhere, then tossed in the match behind me and pulled the door shut. I would have sat on the hood of my car and watched until my house burned to the ground.

  “Hey,” said my aunt when I crossed the threshold into the kitchen. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt with a bright floral print on it and she was barefoot. She got up from the table and gave me a hug. “Oh, Juliet,” she murmured as she held me tightly, rocking me back and forth slightly as we stood together. Then she pulled me over to the kitchen table and sat down next to me. There was a piece of paper next to her coffee cup, and on it I saw the words milk, cereal, bread, and, in a separate column, clothes, music (?). I averted my eyes, not wanting to think about who she might be getting the clothes and music for.

  “How are you?” she asked. She tucked her hair behind her ear and folded her legs under her on the seat.

  “I’m . . . I don’t know. I’m okay, I guess.”

  “It’s a stupid question, isn’t it?” she acknowledged.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “It is, kind of.”

  I’d always known that my aunt looked a lot like my mom. They were both tall and very pretty with long hair and eyes such a light brown they were almost gold. The funny thing was that my mom was older but (normally) she looked younger because she dyed her hair and she was obsessed with not getting any sun on her face. My aunt’s hair was going gray and she had wrinkles that she didn’t try to hide. Still, they looked enough alike that all of a sudden it was eerie sitting at the table next to Kathy, almost as if I were sitting with my mom’s ghost. I looked away.

  “I want to know what happened. Did she take the pills on purpose, or was it an accident? Don’t lie to me,” I added quickly. “I can take it.”

  My aunt made a clucking noise in the back of her throat. “Of course you can. And I would never lie to you. But it may not be that simple. I just spoke with the attending psychiatrist. Your mom doesn’t remember exactly what happened.”

  “What?” I turned to stare at her. “How is that possible?”

  “Well, it sounds like she’s been taking a lot of different medications—” Kathy started hesitantly.

  “My dad told the social worker my mom was abusing her medication,” I interrupted, my voice sharp.

  I expected Kathy to be outraged, but she just sighed and put her chin in her hand. “Yeah, I think that’s probably true.”

  “What is going on?” I stood up. “What is going on here? He said she was mixing drugs and alcohol, too. Is that true? I mean, her doctor prescribed her everything. It’s not like she’s some kid at Milltown getting Ritalin from her friends.”

  “Oh, honey.” Kathy reached for my hand. Her voice was quiet. “It’s complicated. I know her doctor prescribed everything she was taking, but I also know he wasn’t supervising her very carefully. And I know she was doing some self-medicating—a little extra Ambien when she couldn’t sleep, a little more Klonopin when she was feeling anxious. And drinking.”

  “Mom doesn’t drink,” I corrected my aunt. “She has, like, a glass of wine with dinner.”

  “Well . . .” Kathy raised her eyebrows and nodded slowly, almost reluctantly. “You’re really not supposed to drink at all when you’re on those drugs, Juliet. She and I have talked about it in the past. And I don’t think it was just a glass. Whenever I was here, it seemed more like it was closer to a bottle a night. Every night.”

  “So, what are you saying? ‘Hey, Juliet, guess what? Your mother’s an alcoholic and a drug addict’?”

  Kathy grimaced. “Your mom’s unhappy, Juliet.”

  “Yeah! Because her husband left her.”

  “She was unhappy before that. And taking pills and drinking took the edge off that unhappiness.”

  Suddenly I felt as if I couldn’t hold my body up for another minute. I dropped heavily into my chair. “I can’t believe you’re telling me this. I can’t believe I didn’t know this was going on.”

  “Sweetheart, she’s still your mom,” Kathy started. “She’s still the person you thought she was.”

  I raised my eyebrow and stared at Kathy. “Are you serious?”

  “What I mean is she still loves you.”

  I had no idea what I was supposed to say to that, so I just sat there and let Kathy talk. She toyed with the pad of paper as she spoke, turning it around and around on the table. “They’re still trying to figure out how much of everything she was taking so they can start weaning her off of it. These medications are serious, and you can’t just stop taking them on a dime.” Abruptly she pushed the pad away, as if she hadn’t realized she’d been touching it. “The doctor is recommending that your mom be transferred from the hospital to a long-term facility. Someplace she can get some help.”

  The word long-term felt like a punch in the stomach. I swallowed and forced myself to sound calm. “How long-term are we talking about?”

  Kathy reached over and put her hand on mine. Her fingernails were cut short and unmanicured, nothing like my mom’s perfect, oval nails with their sheer polish. And unlike my mom, who wears a lot of jewelry, Kathy only wore a plain gold wedding band. It was easier to look at my aunt’s hands than at her face.

  “My guess is once they find a space for her somewhere, we’re talking about six weeks to three months.” I didn’t say anything as the time my mother might be away washed over me like a huge wave, leaving me shaky and scared. Kathy took my other hand in hers and leaned forward. I could tell she wanted me to look at her, but I stayed focused on her fingernails. “Juliet, I want you to consider something. I want you to consider coming to stay with me and Sam and the boys until your mom’s better.”

  Now I did look at her. “What?”

  “I’d like you to think about moving to Portland.”

  My lips were dry, and I licked them. “You’re not serious.”

  “I am.”

  There was silence, and then I said as calmly as I could, “You think she meant to do it. To kill herself.”

  Kathy shrugged sadly. “I can’t say that for sure. I don’t know enough to know. I don’t even know how we got to this point. I blame myself. I knew she was in bad shape, but I was busy, and I put off coming out . . .” She shook her
head. “The point is I want to make a real plan. I want to take care of you.”

  “Aunt Kathy, it’s my senior year. I can’t just pick up and go to another school.”

  “I know this is hard,” she said, her eyes bright. “If you were younger, it would be so much easier. I’d be upstairs right now packing your suitcase. Not neatly enough for you, of course.” We both laughed at that. Once, my parents went away to Vancouver for a weekend while Oliver and I stayed with Aunt Kathy and Uncle Sam and my cousins, Andrew and William. I was eight, and apparently I organized and color-coordinated Andrew and William’s drawers. I also delivered a lecture on tidiness to the whole family.

  I guess you’re never too young to be type A.

  “I’m worried about you, Juliet.” Aunt Kathy’s voice was gentle. “I know you’re super competent and responsible. But I’m worried. Your dad travels so much. . . .” She bit her lip and looked around the kitchen. A few years ago, my parents had done a big renovation on the house, pushing out the back wall to create the eating nook we were sitting in now. I remembered them sitting with the architect, looking over the plans in the dining room, cheese and crackers and a bottle of wine open on the table. “Think about it,” Aunt Kathy finished. “Just tell me you’ll think about it.”

  I stood up, walked over to the window, and stared out at the line of trees that marked the far border of our perfectly manicured backyard. “Okay,” I promised. “I will.”

  The hospital didn’t allow psychiatric patients to have visitors who were under eighteen, so only Aunt Kathy could go see my mom. She suggested I might want to write my mother a note, so I went upstairs to my room and tried to think of something to say. Dear Mom. I sat and stared at the paper for a while. Then I wrote, I love you and I miss you. I looked at the words. They seemed so meager on the page. I ripped the paper up and started again. Dear Mom, I really hope you’re okay. That was worse; obviously she wasn’t okay. I ripped up the second draft also, and when Kathy headed to the hospital, I just told her to tell my mom that I loved her.