Everything You Are: A Novel Page 21

  Phee laughs out loud, in spite of everything. “That life you keep trying to plan for me is more a fantasy than the curse. What man would ever tolerate my obsession?”

  “I was wishing that the man would become your obsession, child.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” Phee whispers.

  “Oh, Phee.” Bridgette reaches across the table and covers her daughter’s hand with her own. “You never could do anything by halves.”

  When Phee arrives on Braden’s doorstep on Wednesday afternoon at 3:29 and rings the bell, she gives herself a serious pep talk. She’ll be friendly but keep good boundaries. She’s not taking him on a date. The way her blood surges at the smallest thought of him, the way her heart beats faster and her breath seems to live in her throat at the sound of his voice, all of this is irrelevant. She’s here as a sponsor and a . . . coach. That’s it. A person with a job to do. Keep him sober. Get him playing the cello.

  She has a rudimentary plan forming in her head, only she needs help to make it happen.

  “Look what you’ve gotten me into,” she mutters to her grandfather as she punches the bell again. Music swirls between her ears, this time nothing classical, a mournful lament.

  The door swings open, and her heart does a series of rolling somersaults, despite all of her best intentions.

  “No Celestine?” Braden asks, looking behind her.

  “He’s not exactly well behaved at the pet store. I half expected that you wouldn’t be here,” she adds, getting back in the car.

  “I almost wasn’t.” He busies himself buckling his seat belt, avoiding her gaze. “I confess that I actually fled the premises, but then I came back.”

  “Why?”

  “Which thing?”

  “Both. Why leave. Why come back?”

  “Afraid to face the group. Afraid I’ll drink if I don’t go. Afraid of you, frankly. Did you tell them about my relapse?”

  “Hey, my interference and enabling goes only so far. Tell or don’t tell, that’s your decision to make.”

  “But you called a special meeting.”

  “I told them I was thinking about drinking. They were all having fits because I missed on Monday. I never miss.”

  “Are you? Thinking about drinking?”

  “Crossed my mind.”

  It’s not a lie. The aroma of the Scotch she poured on her grandfather’s grave is still making her mouth water. But that’s not why she’s called this meeting, which is all about Braden. As much as she’s struggling with her boundaries, though, she knows it won’t do him any good to talk about his relapses unless he brings it up himself.

  They drive the rest of the way in an uneasy silence, Phee alternating between her own thoughts and trying to read his. When she parks the car, he makes no move to get out.

  “You coming?”

  “I tried to play last night. Just so you know.”

  “Oh, Braden.”

  “It was absolutely horrifying. Spent the rest of the night walking around and trying not to think. Or drink.”

  “Did you pop into a bar? Buy a bottle?”

  “I did not, oddly enough.”

  “Come on,” she says. “Come inside. We’re late.”

  The whole group cheers when they walk in.

  “Hey, glad you made it,” Oscar says. “We were starting to worry. Phee is never late.”

  “And she never misses meetings.” Katie glares at Braden, as if sensing that he is responsible for Phee’s absence.

  “I’m only here because she dragged me,” Braden says, pulling up a chair.

  “You wouldn’t be here if you really didn’t want to come,” Jean says. She’s wearing a long sweater, her hands completely disappeared inside the sleeves, but she holds eye contact with Braden for a long moment, reading him. Jean always can see things that everybody else misses.

  “Let’s talk adventures. Braden, as our newest member, you are on the hot seat.” Len uncaps his marker, ready to write down adventure points.

  “I didn’t take anybody on an adventure. I thought about it, for about half a second. The checker at the grocery store looked like she needed one. Are there points for good intentions?”

  “Yep. A zero,” Len says good-naturedly.

  “Technically, we took each other on an adventure,” Phee interjects, trying to lighten his mood, ease his way. “Just a picnic in the rain. So split it up, half for each of us.”

  Braden meets her eyes across the table. “I won’t let you do it, Phee.”

  “It’s true! Technically.”

  “It’s not true,” he says, carefully and deliberately. “I was on the edge of drinking. Phee advised that I lock myself out of the house, which I did. And then she took me to the park.”

  “Sounds like an adventure to me,” Dennis says. “Letting Phee whisk you off is bound to be unpredictable. Was Celestine involved?”

  Braden takes a breath. “He was. And despite an enormous amount of dog slobber and getting drenched in the rain, I returned home and drank half a bottle.”

  Phee realizes she’s been holding her breath. He’s fessed up to his relapse, that’s the important thing. He’s also completely left out the bits that helped drive him to drink, namely Phee badgering him about curses and oaths and playing the cello.

  “You were able to stop at half? That’s pretty impressive control,” Dennis says. “I sure didn’t manage that.”

  “Only because I got a call to come pick up my drunk and underage daughter from a party.” He’s tight as an over-tuned string, ready to snap, waiting for judgment from the group.

  Katie pours a mug of coffee and sets it in front of Braden. “Black, right?” is all she says, but her fingers graze the back of his hand.

  Jean smiles at him. Not pity, not judgment, just pure understanding.

  “Sorry to hear it, man. What set you off?” Oscar asks.

  Braden grimaces, an attempt at a smile that doesn’t make it past good intentions.

  “Guilt. Grief. I abandoned my kids when they were little. My ex and my son were killed a few weeks ago, and now my surviving daughter hates me. It all got too big.”

  “How’s she coping?” Jean asks.

  “She’s not. Former 4.0 GPA apparently, and she hasn’t been to school since the accident. Skated away from an MIP at the party. Hanging out with a boy who is . . . I don’t like him. And then Phee found her in the graveyard the other day, in the rain. Grass stained and soaked, and I just—” His voice breaks.

  Tears gather behind Phee’s eyes and a lump grows in her throat. She wants to comfort him but doesn’t have any comfort to offer. She won’t spout lies, won’t tell him it will be all right when there’s no reason to believe it to be true.

  All of them are silent for a little too long.

  “Wow. That’s fucked up.” Trust Katie to find the perfect words.

  “I’ve tried to make things right with her, but I’m getting nowhere. She knows I’ve been drinking, which doesn’t help at all.”

  “Look, man.” Dennis leans forward. “You’re in a touchy situation. Maybe a counselor. I mean, that’s a lot of shit for a kid to manage.”

  The cello, Phee thinks at him. The cello is at the center of this. Allie needs her music. And she needs your music.

  “You’re not expected to be a superhero,” Len says.

  “But you’re a good man,” Jean whispers.

  Braden laughs, short and sharp. “I left my family for booze. I hardly think that counts as good.”

  “You’re here, right?” Oscar says. “Here and sober.”

  “More or less. I’ve been drinking.”

  “Are you sober now?” Jean asks.

  “All you have to do is stay,” Katie says. “She’s pissed right now. And horribly wounded. But she wants you to stay, so the most important thing is that you can’t run off.”

  A missing word hangs in the air. Braden says it.

  “Again, Katie. Can’t run off again. I’m not sure she can forgive me f
or the last time.”

  “If my dad ever came back? Like, even now? I’d treat him like shit. But I’d hope that he’d stick around and prove me wrong.” Katie’s voice cracks. She sniffles, hides her face in her hands. “Oh fuck. Now look what you made me do.”

  Phee feels the tears on her own cheeks. Len’s eyes are wet. All of them know better than to offer Katie sympathy. They all just sit with the emotion, trusting that she’s strong enough to handle it, that they all are.

  Katie drags her sleeve across her eyes and sits up straight, a fierce expression on her face. “Braden relapsed. He needs consequences.”

  “You’re kidding,” Braden says. “I mean, I get the adventure thing, but—”

  “She’s right. Come on, man. Out in the hall with you.” Oscar pushes back his chair.

  Braden glances around the table, fixes a pleading gaze on Phee. “Don’t you dare run off,” she admonishes.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Promise?”

  He sighs. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  From his lips, the old words are not exactly comforting, but it will do for now.

  “There’s always skydiving,” Len says as soon as Oscar closes the door behind Braden. “Or maybe even just a ride in a small plane. I know a guy who does flight lessons. Maybe he could take a turn at flying.”

  “Wait,” Phee says. “This is a special situation. Whatever we plan, it needs to include both of them. Something they do together, to help repair what’s broken between them.”

  “How about something fun,” Katie suggests. “Like a rock concert.”

  “I think it should be something that lasts awhile and pushes the two of them together,” Phee argues, nudging them in the direction of her plan. “I mean, we can all go, but then leave them alone together.” With the cello, she adds silently.

  “Camping,” Dennis says.

  “It’s way too cold for that.”

  “African safari?”

  “Smart-ass.”

  “Tough time of year for outdoor shit. Snowmobile trip in the mountains? Dogsledding in Alaska?”

  “How about a week in a cabin somewhere?” Phee says casually. “We drive up in a couple of cars, stay for the weekend, then leave them there to work things out.”

  “Hate to be the spoilsport,” Len says, “but isn’t Allie supposed to be in school?”

  “Supposed to be, yes. But she’s not.”

  “School is way overrated,” Katie says. “Can we make it in the mountains? A ski cabin maybe? I’ve never actually been snow skiing!”

  “How about tropical?” Dennis asks, laughing. “Can we rent an island?”

  “My old bones vote for a place with hot springs.” Len speaks lightly, but his shrewd eyes narrow as he scrutinizes Phee.

  She puts on her most innocent face and claps her hands. “We’re agreed on a cabin getaway, yes? I’ll do the research and find a place. When?”

  “Well, Dennis’s consequences adventure is this Saturday.”

  “We can always change that,” Dennis says. “Allie’s need seems more pressing.”

  “It’s going to take some time to set things up,” Phee says. “Maybe the weekend after, if I can pull it off?”

  Assent follows from around the table, and Oscar goes to the door and ushers Braden back to his seat.

  “What is my fate? Will I be licked to death by kittens?” he asks, looking at the circle of faces with that twisted half smile that hints at the humor that once was part of him.

  Katie giggles. “It would be a long, slow death. Mark off a whole week, not this one but next.”

  He sobers. “I can’t leave Allie.”

  “She comes, too,” Phee says. “Two adventures for the price of one.”

  “You can’t argue with an all-expenses paid vacation with all of us,” Len says. “Got anywhere else to be?”

  “Can’t say as I do.”

  “Then consider it done. All right. Who had an adventure this week? Jean?”

  Phee spends the rest of the meeting paying surface attention while spinning a complex plot in her head. For the first time since the inception of the Angels, she can’t wait for the meeting to be over so she can get to work.

  Finally, the last adventure is celebrated, the numbers are tallied. Katie draws Braden off to show him the arrival of a new bird, a parrot that can whistle “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” with surprising accuracy.

  Len takes the opportunity to have a private word with Phee.

  “What are you up to?”

  “Me?”

  “Don’t even. You’re scheming.”

  Len’s ability to read people is almost as alarming as Jean’s, and definitely more problematic. Jean gets psychic hits but hardly ever dares to say anything about them. Len, on the other hand, honed his skill during a forty-year career as a clinical psychologist, and has absolutely no problem calling people on their shit.

  Phee gives him her widest, most innocent smile, the one that Bridgette has always said makes her look guilty as sin. “I need to ask you a hypothetical question.”

  “On a personal or professional level?”

  “Professional.”

  “Hmmm. Why do I feel like the wrong answer will induct me into a secret society without my knowledge or consent?”

  “Hush. It’s about somebody I’m taking on an adventure, and I need some help. If an individual has a bad case of, say, PTSD, so severe that they’ve blocked out a whole set of memories, is it possible they’d also have a physical component?”

  She holds her breath, hoping his suspicions will be overridden by professional enthusiasm. When his eyes light up with interest and he looks through her without seeing her, she knows she’s scored a hit.

  “PTSD is such a fascinating combination of chemicals and psychological blocks, Phee. Very complex. Many sufferers do have a host of physical ailments. They are much more likely to suffer from inflammatory diseases and immune disorders. Chronic fatigue, fibromyalgia, rheumatoid arthritis. Not to mention higher incidence of blood pressure and even diabetes due to the continual presence of stress hormones—”

  “How about something more specific?” Now that Phee has got him talking, the trick is to head him off before he gives her a one-hour lecture on the role of stress in immune disorders. “How about loss of function in a part of the body?”

  Len’s gaze sharpens, and she keeps her face open and noncommittal, eyes wide, channeling all of the genuine curiosity she can summon up.

  “What I think you’re asking isn’t necessarily connected to PTSD, although there is usually trauma involved. There is a fascinating condition we call conversion disorder. A person is faced with a set of circumstances so impossible to reconcile with their belief system, or a trauma so intense, that an elaborate defense mechanism emerges. I know of a four-year-old child who saw her father commit a murder. For months, she exhibited total blindness. Didn’t even blink if we shone a flashlight in her eyes. But there was absolutely nothing wrong with the eye or the optic nerve . . .”

  Len stops himself, and Phee realizes she’s forgotten to manage her expression.

  “What are you up to, Ophelia MacPhee?”

  “Research. Like I said—”

  “No, you’re plotting. I know that gleam in your eye. This is dangerous territory. Not some sort of game. If you are thinking for one minute about creating an adventure that’s going to make someone with PTSD confront their trauma—”

  “I’m not an idiot,” she says stiffly, as if he’s hurt her feelings. “I’m just trying to understand.”

  “I mean it, Phee. Even trained professionals mess this stuff up. It’s like dynamite, and you never know which way it’s going to blow. Dealing with it requires all kinds of safety structures in place. Are you listening to me?”

  She pats his arm reassuringly. “I understand. Dynamite. Only for professionals. Thanks, Len.”

  He doesn’t quite believe her, smart man that he is. She can feel his eyes boring ho
les into her back as she hugs Jean and Katie good night, thanks Oscar for running the extra meeting, exchanges jokes with Dennis about his upcoming consequences party. All the while she’s watching Braden and thinking about explosions.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ALLIE

  Allie parks the car but just sits there, hands at ten and two, leaving the motor running. The headlights illuminate a yellow grocery bag caught up on the branch of a sickly shrub. She wishes it were daylight. She’d like to see the sun once more, or even the moon, but today was dim and gray even before the sun went down.

  For the very last time, she asks herself if she has other options.

  But just thinking about the year ahead shrivels her up inside. If she fails this semester, she’ll have to face the humiliation of going back to school in the fall, or settle for a GED. Even if she does pass, her grades are gonna suck. And then what? Even if she can get another scholarship to UW, she’d feel obligated to do premed, follow her mother’s wishes.

  Her life was always music. That’s all she wants to do, all she is, but she can’t do that, either. She makes herself face the memory of the tragedy, the day that tore her life apart forever. If she’s going to chicken out of living, the least she can do for her mother and brother is face up to the memory, and she lets herself sink into it, one last time.

  The sun is shining, the day full of promise.

  She’s going to meet her father. She’s going to nail this audition and show him what she can do.

  It all starts to go wrong when she swings by the kitchen for a glass of orange juice and a muffin. Her mom is usually sleeping, but instead she’s in the kitchen with a cup of coffee.

  “I need you to pick up Trey after school.”

  Allie whirls around in dismay, spilling orange juice all over her dress.

  “I have plans.”

  “Well, your plans will have to be changed. I have appointments this morning. I need to sleep before I go in to work.”