Best Kept Secret (39 page)

“Oh my God,” I say to the empty kitchen. “Holy shit.” I pop open the e-mail I sent the night before, and there it is, addressed to “Tara” instead of “Trina.” Outlook must have autofilled the address when I typed in the letter “T.” I was obviously too tired to notice.

“Oh no,” I groan. “Oh no, oh no! Please, God, tell me I didn’t do this!” But there it is, in pretty black script. Maybe if I blink hard enough, it will disappear. I blink. It doesn’t work. I blink again.
Dammit.
No luck.

I grab my cell phone off the table, call Jess, and tell her what I’ve done.

“That’s fantastic!” she says. “I’m so proud of you!”

“Wh-what?” I stutter. “Proud?”
I can’t believe this is happening.

“She loves the idea, right?” Jess chatters on. “You’ve been struggling to come up with something and here it is!” I can hear Derek mumbling something in the background and she shushes him.

“I didn’t
mean
to do it!” I wail, throwing my free hand up into the air, then slapping the top of my thigh. I take a quick intake of breath. “Holy shit, Jess, I have to write her and tell her it was a fictional e-mail or something. Something I was writing for a story.” I move to click on the screen, prepared to take the appropriate measures to write that e-mail.

“What?” Jess exclaims. “Are you kidding me? Lying to her would totally screw with your professional credibility.”

“Oh, and my confirming that I’m an alcoholic in danger of losing her child in a custody dispute won’t?” I hesitate, though my hand is hovering over the mouse and my eyes are still glued to the screen.

She sighs. “People feel better if they know you’ve got some personal experience you can relate to theirs with. She obviously connected to you because of her aunt. This is a good thing, Cadence.”

“I don’t know,” I say, completely rattled. My heart is still pounding in my chest.

“You don’t know what?”

“Should I really leave it alone?”

“Absolutely. But make sure you send the e-mail to the woman you meant to send it to in the first place, too.”

“Good point. Thanks.” We hang up and I carefully copy and paste the e-mail Tara received, making sure Trina’s e-mail address is in the correct place before sending it.

Next, I decide to Google “mothers and alcoholism.” A spark of my old journalistic tendencies ignites as I read; I smell a good story.

Getting sober for women is different than it is for men,
I find on a website dedicated to recovery.

I am utterly engrossed in my reading until the phone rings and I see Kristin’s cell on the display screen. “I’m on my way,” she says too quickly for me even to say hello to her. “Do you want a mocha from Wholly Grounds or have you already hit your caffeine limit for the morning?”

“What?” I say, puzzled.

Kristin sighs in my ear. There is the subdued roar of her car engine, indicating that yes, indeed, she is on her way to my house. “We’re carpooling to group, remember? We talked about it on Saturday?”

“Oh, oh, that’s right.” I press a palm to my forehead, sitting back in my chair. “Sorry.” I glance at the clock: 9:00 a.m.

“So, do you want a coffee?” Kristin presses.

My eyes fall onto the untouched, forgotten, and cold remainder of the cup I’d poured when I first got up, something that suddenly seems a lifetime ago. “Yeah, that’d be great, thanks.” I take a deep breath. “Can you make it a double?”

C
alling Tara at
O
magazine is one of the most intimidating things I’ve ever done. Even with Nadine and Andi urging me on, it takes me a little over a week to muster up the courage to pick up the phone. I wait until I get home from my Friday shift at the cafe, take a shower, a deep breath, and then punch in the number she listed in her e-mail.

“Tara Isaacs speaking,” she says when she answers.

“Hi, Tara,” I say. My mouth is dry, so I swallow once to avoid sounding like I have cotton wrapped around my tongue. “It’s Cadence Sutter.”

“Oh,
Cadence
. I’m so happy to hear from you. When you didn’t respond to my e-mail, I was afraid I might have scared you away.”

I laugh nervously. “Well, I’m definitely a little scared to be talking with you. Embarrassed, really, to tell you the truth.”

“Why? Because you accidentally sent me the e-mail? Don’t be. It happens to the best of us.” She chuckles. “My husband’s name is Owen, so I can’t tell you the number of times Oprah has been sent a note asking her to pick up milk on the way home from work.”

I laugh again, this time a little more comfortably. “Thank you for that. It’s scary to be talking about this at all. I haven’t really advertised what happened with me.”

“I’d imagine not,” she says. “But that’s all part of the story, right?
How hard it is for women to tell the truth about what they’re struggling with and get help?”

“I think it’s more that it’s hard to
ask
for help. Especially mothers who might have a problem. If we tell someone, ‘Gee, I think I might be drinking too much,’ what if our kids get taken away?” My throat catches on that last sentence, so I cough to clear it.

“See? It’s a great angle. I want all those kinds of details. How you started drinking, how it progressed. Do you think you could get me five thousand words to start?”

My pulse quickens. “Um, I don’t know. I haven’t written anything in a while. And the custody decision hasn’t been made yet. I’d feel a little strange writing it without knowing the outcome.” I can’t imagine writing about what I’ve done, detailing the days I chose alcohol over my son, committing my sins to the page.

“There’s no rush,” she says. “Why don’t you just take your time, and send me whatever you come up with when you’re ready? Or not, if you decide you aren’t comfortable doing it. We’ll be going ahead with a women and addiction issue, but haven’t picked the month yet. It’s at least a year out.”

“I’ll definitely think about it. I just wanted to say thank you for the opportunity. And your kindness.”

“You’re very welcome,” Tara says. “I’m rooting for you.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I can use all the cheerleaders I can get.”

Later that night my in-box blinks with the e-mail that has finally arrived from Trina. Tiny, panicky bubbles begin to bounce along in my veins as I click on it, and with a deep, unsteady breath, I whisper a quick thank-you to the empty room. It reads:

Relief flows through me. It worked. What I offered was actually of help to her. Maybe there’s hope for me yet.

C
harlie’s birthday falls on
what is forecasted to be the hottest day of the year. After Martin’s last e-mail on the subject, I managed to grit my teeth and give up the fight to have the party at Bouncy Land, settling instead for putting together ten goody bags filled with a variety of tacky, easily breakable loot his little preschool friends will adore. Rubber balls, plastic sunglasses, toy cars. And candy. Lots and lots of candy.

“Just do what you can do,” Nadine told me. “Being there for your son is the most important thing. Not where the party is held or who makes the cake.”

“Oh, I’m still making a cake,” I said.

“Didn’t you tell me Martin insisted Alice was making it?”

“Yep.”

“And you’re making another one?”

“Yep.”

“Without telling him?”

“Yep.”

Nadine shook her head, but smiled. “Kind of ornery, aren’t you?”

I smiled, too. “Maybe just a little.” Charlie told me what kind of cake he wanted and he was going to get it. I make it for him every year. Case closed.

I invite Kristin and her kids to come along to the party, along
with my mom, Jess, Derek, and my nephews. I feel like I’ll need protection of some sort, being among the Mommy and Me Mafia again, though after what happened in the coffee shop, I didn’t invite Susanne. My stomach twists at the thought of what the other women say about me, the judgments that are made, but Andi encourages me to try and let those thoughts go.

“What other people think of you is none of your business,” she says. “You can’t change it, you can’t control it. The only thing you can control is your reaction to it. Focus on Charlie. Take lots of deep breaths. Have a place where you can go take a break from the party if you need to—your car or something. Keep your friends close and you’ll be fine.”

I follow her advice and spend the drive over to Alice’s house taking huge yoga breaths. In through my nose . . . and out through my mouth. I imagine the tension I feel releasing and traveling outside my body through every breath. I sit in my car, continuing to breathe until I see Jess and Derek pull up with the boys. I step out onto the parking strip and she comes over to hug me.

“You ready?”

I pull back from her embrace and give her a big smile. “As I’ll ever be. Can Derek carry the box with the goody bags? I need to get the cake.”

“Sure.” She calls him over and he takes the large box out of my trunk. Together we walk up and around the side of the house to the backyard, where the party is being held. Marley and Jake immediately race off to find their cousin, who I see already splashing around in a sizeable wading pool. He sees me and waves. He is wearing Spider-Man swim trunks and Spider-Man goggles. Of course.

“Hi, Mommy! It’s my birthday!” He flaps his hands in the water, emphasizing the excitement he feels.

“I know, sweetie! I’ll be over in a minute.”

“Okay! I’ll be right here!”

The sun is a brilliant, roasting ball in the sky. The heat lies over
my bare shoulders like an electric blanket. Marley and Jake, wisely dressed only in swim trunks, jump into the pool with Charlie. Martin and Alice are nowhere to be seen.

“Come with me into the house?” I ask Jess. I still can’t help but feel apprehensive about being alone with Alice for very long. I want a witness in case she decides to dangle a glass of merlot in front of my face.

“Of course. Hey, honey,” she says to Derek. “Why don’t you set those goody bags on each of the plates on the picnic table.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Derek says.

Jess and I go up the back steps into the kitchen, where I see Alice at the table, putting finishing touches on a large white sheet cake decorated with bright yellow sunflowers.

“That’s very pretty,” I say.
A ten-year-old girl would love it.

“Thank you,” she says, looking over with a smile. The smile disappears when her eyes register the dark chocolate Bundt cake I carry. It’s covered in fudgy frosting and crumbled-up Oreos. The middle is filled with gobs of gummy worms, which spill up and over the top of the cake in a slightly gross, squirmy fashion. A Spider-Man action figure is posed on the top of the cake, wrestling with two gummy worms in a battle for his life.

“What’s that?” she asks. Her voice is flat.

“A cake,” Jess says with a smile. She loved that I decided to bring it despite Martin telling me not to. “Can we put it in the fridge so it doesn’t melt?”

Alice’s face is like stone. “I’m not sure if there’s room.”

“We’ll make room,” Jess says cheerfully. I don’t think I’ve ever loved my sister more than in this moment. Talk about ornery. She steps over to the refrigerator and shuffles a few things around before reaching for the cake and sliding it onto a shelf. “There! Perfect.”

“Where’s Martin?” I ask.

“He’s finishing wrapping presents in my bedroom,” Alice says. “He’ll be down in a minute.”

Jess and I go back outside, where Derek is now spraying down
squealing children with water from the garden hose. Brittany and Renee have arrived along with Julia, the woman I’d met at Wholly Grounds back in May. Their children are already in the pool, too. I plaster a grin across my face and decide to force myself to go say hello. Just as I’m about to move toward them, Kristin steps through the gate with Riley.

“Hey, glad you found it okay,” I say. “Where’s Liza?”

“Home with Grandma. Apparently, attending a little boy’s birthday party wasn’t high on her list of priorities.”

“Ah.” I smile at Riley. “I’m glad you came, sweetie.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” Riley says, standing shyly next to his mother, still holding her hand.

“Why don’t you go play in the pool?” Kristin says, giving him a little nudge.

I crouch down next to Riley and point out my son. “See the boy in the Spider-Man getup? That’s the birthday boy.” I call out his name. “Charlie? This is Riley, my friend Kristin’s son.”