Desperate Chances (2 page)

“Sit up straight, you slouch too much. You’ll become a hunchback,” she instructed, smacking the back of my hand. I didn’t flinch at the sudden sting. I was used to her casual abuse. It was as normal as apple pie.

I wanted to roll my eyes, but I knew better. So I bit my tongue and put my shoulders back, making my spine as straight as a steel rod. She’d get nothing from me. No reason to pick and pull apart. I was stronger than that and I’d never give her an inch.

Though the truth was I was a twenty-four-year-old woman who was more than a little scared of her mother.

My mom narrowed her eyes, taking in my neat and tidy appearance. I had dressed conservatively in khakis and a button down shirt. My long, blonde hair was held back in a clip and I wore minimal makeup. It was a far cry from the dolled up college girl I used to be. But
I
was a far cry from the dolled up college girl I used to be. And I was thankful for that. Because Gracie Cook of four years ago was rather annoying.

And for me, it was important to
not
look like a recovering alcoholic and anorexic, for whatever that was worth. I wanted to appear competent and capable. It made it easier to believe that I actually was.

“You’re not drinking again, are you? Do I need to have you take a breathalyzer every time you enter my house?” she demanded, her eyes hard, her mouth pinched into an expression I was used to.

Disapproval.

Of course Sarah Cook would look at pressed trousers and brown loafers and see “drunk.” Her perception was beyond skewed.

Be cool, Gracie. Don’t throw the sandwich in her face. She means well. Well, maybe not, but it’s not worth getting pissed. Remember all those great techniques you learned in therapy.

My mental pep talk worked and I was able to give Mom a dazzling smile full of white teeth and full lips. A smile that meant business. “I’m sober as a priest, Mom. I promise.”

She frowned, clearly not appreciating my euphemism. She reached across the kitchen table and carefully cut my sandwich into quarters as she had done since I was five. She arranged the pieces on my plate and pointed at it. “Eat,” she commanded.

I wasn’t hungry. Something about my mother made me instantly lose my appetite.

But dutifully, I picked up my sandwich and took a bite. It tasted perfect. Of course it did. My mother would never settle for anything less. Crisp lettuce and tasty ham on thick white bread with the crusts cut off. It could have been on a goddamned magazine cover.

I spent the next fifteen minutes swallowing my pride along with my food as my mother fussed over me like I was still a child. Our relationship had seriously regressed in the last couple of years to the point that I was no longer viewed as an adult who had graduated from college and had been living on her own for years. And no matter how many strides I made in the right direction it didn’t matter. Because I had messed up. I had embarrassed them. I had proven that I wasn’t deserving of any sort of trust they could have had in me.

I knew they had only been waiting for me to screw up. So when the moment came, they pounced. They swooped in, taking me home, tucking me into my childhood bed, cooking me my childhood meals, and treating me like I was incapable of doing anything for myself.

I had been one giant mess and they loved making all of my decisions for me.

After all, I was an alcoholic who, in my parents’ eyes, was always in danger of falling off the wagon. And some days I agreed with them.

Even though I had worked hard to get myself together, it wasn’t quite enough. I was working part time at Southern Garden Magazine freelancing for their weekly feature section. It wasn’t my dream of working at a big time magazine like Time or People, but I’d take it. I also started working a few shifts a week at the local library to round out the rest of my income. Sure, it wasn’t the best arrangement, but it was better than slinging coffee and feeling sorry for myself, as I had been doing before that. They may only be a couple of part time gigs, but they were totally respectable jobs where I got to dress like a grown up, pack my lunches, and carry coffee in a silver thermos.

I was still the girl who had almost drunk herself into an early grave.

But I had grown tired of the label. And I was gearing up to put my foot down, and god help us all when I finally did.

I hated to think about who I used to be
before
. Gracie Cook—sorority girl, life of the party.

Back when the most important things in my life had been what color lip-gloss I should wear with my cute, pink skirt. I had been shallow and a bit on the vapid side. I thought I was happy, but I had been living a great, big lie.

The truth was that inside I was wallowing in misery.

But now…well now, I was figuring shit out. I was sorting out my head.

And my heart.

I was trying to get my life where I wanted it to be.

After all, my friends were all in good places in their lives. I was tired of trailing behind.

But working at Southern Gardens was a great start, in my opinion
.
It was one of the few passions I still held on to.

I had worried that the whole working at a newspaper thing would take a nosedive after I had almost died from alcohol poisoning. Because it was funny how a near death experience could really mess with getting a reference from your former employer. And for a while it didn’t look like I had a chance in hell of ever continuing the career I had planned for myself.

But then I had gone into rehab and started therapy. Which, led to support groups and more therapy.

And more therapy.

“How are you feeling” replaced “hello” in my daily conversations.

And slowly and surely I got better. Stronger. More together. I wasn’t drinking until I blacked out. I had stopped starving myself so that I could fit into a size zero dress. And most importantly I had stopped making really, really bad decisions.

“Why did you run out like that, Gracie?” Mitch demanded.

I couldn’t look at him without remembering the feel of him inside me.

I wanted it.

I wanted to run away from it.

But I knew one thing for certain.

Our friendship was over.

Even worse was that the second he walked away; I knew that I had lost something so much more.

I had lost my heart.

Until I had decided to sleep with my best friend and stomp all over our friendship. Just when I thought I was doing okay.

It seemed my self-destructive tendencies were never too far away.

“Grace Evelyn Cook, are you listening to me?”

I snapped out of my momentary trip down wretched memory lane and looked at my mother.

“I’m sorry, what?”

She blew out an exasperated breath. “Are you sure you’re telling me the truth about the drinking? Let me smell your breath,” Mom said, leaning forward, sniffing.

Oh my god, she was ridiculous.

My mom sat back in her chair and pointed again at my half eaten sandwich and I picked up another piece. I knew from experience that I wouldn’t be allowed to leave until I had finished the whole damn thing.

“I
said
your father and I were talking and we want you to move back home. Given the fact that you barely make enough at that job of yours to cover your rent, it just makes sense for you to live here until you’re own your feet.” Mom finished her coffee and then wiped her mouth with a napkin. Afterwards she pulled out her compact and reapplied her lipstick.

I sighed. This discussion was quickly become a regular occurrence. My parents seemed to think I would be unable to function unless I was under their thumb. Unless they were there to point me in the “right direction.”

“Mom, it’s not necessary. Viv and I split the bills and I’m fine—”

“You are
not
fine, Grace. Or have you forgotten that?” my mother snapped.

“As if you’d let me forget,” I muttered under my breath, but not low enough that she couldn’t hear me.

Mom closed her compact and put it on the table, then folded her hands in her lap as she regarded me levelly.

“We just worry about you. You put your father and me through a horrible ordeal and we want to make sure you’re okay.”

I clenched my fist and then forced myself to relax.

Don’t engage. Don’t rise to the bait.

“It was almost two years ago, Mom. I haven’t had a drop to drink since. I have a job—”

“A
part time
job, Gracie. I’m not sure that even counts,” my mother cut in derisively.

“I also work at the library,” I reminded her, but it was as though I hadn’t even spoken.

“Please be reasonable, Gracie. You can’t survive that way.”

“I have an apartment. I have friends. I’m not going to let myself fall apart again,” I said emphatically, but I wasn’t sure she even heard me.

My mother heard what she wanted to hear.

“It will take a long time to earn back our trust, Grace,” she remarked sharply and I knew there was no point in arguing with her.

She had a way of beating me down until I didn’t want to get back up.

I pinned a smile to my face, trying to resurrect the perky girl I had once been. “I know, Mom. I’m trying though,” I said, my voice unnaturally high.

“Sometimes trying isn’t enough,” Mom intoned critically.

I was more than happy when I had stayed long enough that I could politely make my excuses to leave.

My weekly visits to the Cook house were akin to torture. I knew they were necessary but god, how I hated them.

“I told Vivian I’d go to the grocery store with her, so I’d better get going,” I lied, wishing I could run for the door.

My mom dug her wallet out of her purse and pulled some money out, handing it to me. “I’m sure you need this. I doubt you make enough at that magazine to live on, let alone go grocery shopping,” she said.

Not a question, just a statement. I didn’t want to take the money. I hated how she always assumed I couldn’t take care of myself. That I wasn’t even capable of paying for my own groceries. My part time job paid me more than enough to cover my rent and utilities and yes, even have some left over for food and other essentials. But I didn’t bother explaining any of that to my mother. Again.

So I took the money, with no intention of using it, and tucked it into my pocket. “Thanks, Mom,” I said, my smile fake and brittle.

“I really think it’s best if you move back here. Let’s plan for the end of the month, okay,” she said as I was leaving. She held the kitchen door open for me, letting in a blast of cold, January air. It looked like snow, which sucked majorly given the fact that my tires were on the bald side.

I hoped my mother wouldn’t notice as she followed me out to the driveway. I half expected her to inspect the car before I left. It wouldn’t have been unusual.

“Mom, I’m not moving home,” I replied, feeling like I was banging my head into a brick wall.

She waved away my words, pretending I hadn’t said them. “I’ll take you to lunch on Friday. I have a hair appointment. We can meet at the café on 7
th
.”

I wasn’t sure I could stomach more than one meal a week with my mom. “Fridays are usually my day for interviews,” I excused.

“I’m sure you can rearrange whatever you have planned. It’s not as though you run the magazine or anything,” she dismissed, cutting me down so easily.

I jangled my keys in my hand and started to get twitchy with my need to flee. “No, it’s not like I run the magazine,” I agreed through clenched teeth.

“Okay, well I’ll see you then. Kisses,” she chirped, her smile as fake as mine. She gripped me by the shoulders and air kissed my cheeks.

Finally, I was allowed to escape and I couldn’t get away fast enough.

“H
ey, you’re looking decidedly manic today,” Vivian commented after I arrived back home twenty minutes later.

My roommate and friend was on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table with some sort of reality show on in the background and her phone glued between her hands. Her fingers never stopped texting as she looked at me. Her ability to multitask was impressive.

I slammed the door behind me, kicked off my boots and hung up my coat. I joined her on the couch, tucking my ice cold feet under the blanket Viv had draped over her lap.

“Visit with Mommy Dearest,” I explained, grimacing.

Vivian winced. “Ah, okay then.” Her eyes returned to the screen of her phone.

“Cole?” I asked. I really didn’t need to pose it as a question, because Vivian spent at least three hours a day either talking or texting with her boyfriend, Cole Brandt, former male whore, now reformed one woman man, and lead singer of the rock band, Generation Rejects.

Vivian nodded, her fingers moving at a speed almost invisible to the naked eye. “Yeah, the boys are on their way to Pittsburgh,” she responded distractedly. She giggled and by the red flush on her cheeks I figured I didn’t want to know the exact nature of their conversation.