The Corner of Bitter and Sweet (21 page)

“He’s probably got a girlfriend, Mom,” I said as I turned around and started to walk out of the café.

Which would be both a relief and a bummer at the same time.

The next day, after dropping Mom off at an AA meeting at a church in Hudson, I went over to the Spotty Dog, a bookstore/pub on Warren Street.

Other than the guy working behind the bar, there was no one else there. I checked out the photography section. For a small bookstore, they had a surprisingly large collection, including the Francesca Woodman one Ben had bought me. Even though I already knew the photographs by heart, I took it off the shelf so I could browse through it. As I walked toward the back, I passed the self-help section and paused. Usually, I avoided that stuff at all costs, but after glancing to make sure the guy behind the counter was still busy with his issue of the
Believer,
I ran my fingers along the books until I came to the Relationship section and grabbed a book called
Thirty Days to Calling in the One
. It wasn’t like that Matt guy was the
One
—I’d probably never even see him again—but it couldn’t hurt to learn more about what to do if, indeed, I wanted to call in the One. Or Someone. Or Anyone.

I had just finished reading about ways to feng shui your living space to invite in love and had moved on to the chapter about how to unblock your energy field when a shadow came over me.

“Whatcha reading?” a voice asked.

Oh, God. I knew that voice. If I hadn’t recognized it from the
Rad and Righteous
ads, I would have known it from the voice mails that Mom had saved on her iPhone, which I had listened to the other day while she was in the shower. (When I told Walter about that, he suggested I pray to my Higher Power to have my nosiness removed.) I quickly moved the book behind me and jammed my back against the shelf to keep it in place while reaching for the Francesca Woodman.

“Billy, hey. Just, uh, this,” I said, holding it up.

“Dude, I love Francesca Woodman!” he exclaimed, grabbing it from me.

“You know who Francesca Woodman is?” I asked, surprised. She wasn’t one of the big names, like Cindy Sherman or Diane Arbus or Gregory Crewdson. She was more like the angsty Sylvia Plath of photography.

“Yeah. My art consultant bid on one recently at an auction for me, but we didn’t get it.” He started to flip through the pages. “I’ll show you my favorite.”

Now that I thought about it, it made sense. Most of her work consisted of nude self-portraits she had made when she was in college. I couldn’t believe I was going to have to stand here and look at nude photos with Billy Barrett. Although that would have gotten a lot of traction as a Facebook status update or a tweet.

He stopped flipping and held the book out. “This one.”

I looked at it. “Really?” I asked, surprised. It was a photo of her in a clawfoot bathtub. Her face wasn’t visible, but her long dirty-blonde hair hung over the back of the tub.

“Yeah,” he said, studying it intently.

“That one’s my favorite, too,” I replied.

He smiled. “Right on. She reminds me of Ophelia in this one, for some reason.”

“Ophelia from
Hamlet
?” I asked dumbly.

“Well, yeah. I mean, what other Ophelias are there?”

I don’t know why it surprised me that he would reference Shakespeare. The guy
was
an actor, and
Hamlet
was one of the most famous plays in the world. But Billy was better known for explosions than running around a stage in tights.

“Especially in light of, you know, what happened to her at the end,” he went on.

“You know about how she died?” I asked, even more surprised.

At that, he turned to me. “What do you think? That the only thing I read is
Maxim
or something?”

I guess the slight pause as I racked my brain trying to think of a response was answer enough. “Yeah, well, you wouldn’t be the only one,” he sighed.

Way to make a girl feel guilty. But what was I doing feeling bad for Billy Barrett? He did not need my sympathy.

“So are you waiting for your mom?” he asked.

And just like that I no longer felt bad. He didn’t really want to talk to me. He was waiting for her, too. “Yeah.”

“What time is her meeting over?”

I pressed harder against the shelf to keep the book from slipping. “How do you know she’s at a meeting?” I demanded.

“We were texting a little bit earlier.”

I wasn’t sure if it pissed me off to watch his face turn red as he said that, or if I should be grateful that he felt somewhat weird telling me that. “Did you know that when you get sober, they suggest you don’t get into a relationship for, like, a year?” I blurted out.

The way he stared at me made me think that he knew what I was saying with that little tidbit of information. “Yeah, I’ve heard that,” he replied. “I have a bunch of friends in the program. Sounds like it’s probably a good idea.”

Radiohead’s “Creep” began to blare from his phone, which I remembered was Skye’s ringtone. He ignored it.

“You sure you don’t want to get that?” I asked.

“Nope, I’m good,” he said as he turned off the ringer.

“It’s okay if you want to,” I said.

“Nope, it can wait,” he said firmly.

Right then my own phone beeped.

OKAY ALL DONE CAN YOU COME GET ME BECAUSE I STILL CAN’T FIGURE MY WAY AROUND HERE!!!!! THANKS BUG XOXOXOXOXOX

Reading my mother’s texts—almost always composed entirely of caps, Xs and Os, and zero punctuation marks, other than an overabundance of exclamation points—was sensory overload. “I need to go,” I said.

“Right on,” he said. Maybe if you had a total crush on him (like 99 percent of the female population in the world), the “Right on” thing would seem cute, but every time he said it, I wanted to throttle him. “See you at that dinner thing tonight?” Usually, before a movie started shooting, the producers had a dinner so that the key cast members could meet and hang out with the director.

“Oh, you’re going to that?” I asked, trying to hide my disappointment. Of course he was going to that—he was the star. And what was I doing? It was one thing to
think
about how I had no interest in getting to know this guy, and even less interest in my mother getting to know him, but it was a whole other thing for the filter between my brain and mouth to break down so that he knew it as well.

“Yeah,” he replied with a little laugh. “Is that okay?”

“Of course it is,” I said. “I didn’t mean . . . you know, I think I’m still jet-lagged,” I mumbled.

He looked at me for a second. “This is probably going to make me sound like a total ass, but whatever,” he said. “The fact that you don’t like me—”

“I never said I didn’t like you.”

“’It’s actually kind of awesome,” he went on. “I mean—again, gonna make me sound like a jerk—but when everyone is always kissing your ass? It gets boring real fast.”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t really have that problem,” I said wryly.

He smiled. “But it doesn’t mean I’m not going to do everything I can to change your mind about me.”

PLACES TO SHOP FOR MOVIE KICKOFF PARTY-APPROPRIATE OUTFITS IN L.A.

• Fred Segal
  
• Anthropologie
  
• Any boutique on West Third Street near the Grove
  
• The holy trinity of Saks/Neimans/Barneys
  

PLACES TO SHOP FOR MOVIE KICKOFF PARTY-APPROPRIATE OUTFITS IN UPSTATE NEW YORK

• H&M
  
• Kohl’s
  
• T.J. Maxx
  
• Marshalls
  
• Target
  

“Bug, you are so right—Target is
incredible
!” Mom exclaimed as we went through the racks of sundresses that in L.A. would have been considered too casual to wear anywhere else but to Target, but up here were totally appropriate to wear to a fancy dinner.

“Mom, you’ve been to Target before,” I said quietly as two women over near the bathing suits looked over to check out who the nut was who was only just discovering the genius that was Target. “We used to go all the time before you got the show.”

“I know, honey, but I don’t remember the clothes being this fabulous.” She laughed. “Not that I remember much of the last eight years, seeing that I was either passed out or doped up most of the time.”

I cringed. Honesty was one thing. Honesty in front of complete strangers in a discount store about your deepest darkest secrets was a whole other.

“Volume, Mom,” I whispered.

She held up a leopard-print dress. “What about this?”

“We’re here to find something for me, remember?” I replied. “You have five suitcases full of stuff at home.”

“I mean for you.”

I wrinkled my nose. I was so not a leopard girl. Even a print was going out on a limb for me. I was all about solids. Solids were safe. They blended in. Didn’t call attention to themselves.

Mom took me by the shoulders. “Honey, it’s time for you to shake it up a bit,” she said gently. “I know that up until now, most of your life has been spent taking care of me—”

I felt my stomach start to flip-flop as her lip started to quiver. She had to pick here for one of her Moments? Really? “Mom, can we talk about this later?” I asked quietly.

“Oh, God, Annabelle. I know I’m supposed to stop beating myself up for everything I put you through, but it’s just so
hard
,” she moaned, swiping at her eyes, which were now indeed leaking tears. “I mean, you’re my
life
, Bug.” She grabbed my arms tighter. “You know that, right?”

Apparently, we could not talk about it later. “I do,” I said, trying to extract myself from her death grip. I looked around to see more people staring at us. “And now half of Target does as well.” I cringed as I moved her hand away and used her cardigan to dry off my now-sticky arm.

“What was I saying?” she asked as she took out a mirror and checked to make sure her eye makeup hadn’t smeared. You had to give it to my mother—for someone who was a big crier, she had perfected the art of being able to do it so that it left no messy evidence.

“How I was your life.”

“No. Before that.”

“That I need to shake things up a bit.”

“Right.” She grabbed my arms again. “I’m serious, Bug. I’ve been thinking about this a lot, and I don’t want you to turn into one of those characters who ends up alone because she’s devoted her life to taking care of a parent. Like that woman in the English movie we watched last week. The one who snapped when they kept calling her a spinster.”

“Mom, I’m only sixteen—”

“I know, I know, but, sweetie, you need more of a social life,” she said. “The fact that you’ve never had a boyfriend . . . it’s not . . .
normal
.”

I felt my stomach start to burn. I couldn’t believe she was bringing this up again. She knew the subject was off limits. As was my weight, and why I didn’t want to get a bikini wax. She grabbed a purple wrap dress and held it up to me. “What about this? This is cute.”

I pushed it away. Only my mother could totally insult me and try to dress me in the same exact moment. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I snapped. “I guess I was too busy checking on, you know, whether you were still
alive
to worry about hooking up and getting pregnant like you did.”

Her eyes flashed before she took a deep breath. “Okay. I deserve that,” she said quietly.

“And what do you know about normal?” I demanded. “Our life is not and never has been normal, Mom.”

“Hey, we barbecued last night,” she said. “That’s a normal thing to do—”

“And we almost burned the house down because you didn’t check to make sure the propane tank was hooked up correctly!” I cried.

“I meant the dinner
after
that part was normal,” she said. “That salmon was excellent.” She examined the dress again. “Bug, seriously, why won’t you try this on? It’s adorable.”

“Because I don’t want to. It’s too low-cut.”

“Annabelle, I keep telling you—the body is nothing to be ashamed of! Especially since you’ve cut back on snacking,” she said. “I haven’t said anything because I know it makes you mad when I comment on your weight, but sweetie, you’re looking fabulous. Really.”

My mother may not have won an Oscar yet, but she was the queen of backhanded compliments.

She threw the dress in the cart. “Then if you don’t get it, I will. All I’m saying is that you don’t need to take care of me anymore, honey.” She moved my bangs out of my eyes. “I’m okay. I’m going to be okay,” she said gently.

I wanted so badly to believe that, but it was hard. Why was it so hard?

“It’s time for you to have fun again,” she said quietly. “I just want you to be open to it.”

I wanted that, too. I just didn’t know
how
.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” I agreed.

She smiled. “Good. And we’re cutting your bangs before the dinner tonight. You never know who you might meet.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

HOW THE EVENING BEGAN

• Five outfit changes (Mom)
  
• Three warnings that if she changed her outfit one more time we’d be lucky if we made it there for dessert (me)
  
• Four different variations on the same hairstyle (Mom)
  
• Two mumbled recitations of the Serenity Prayer in order to ward off a fight (me)
  
• One tearful call to her sponsor saying she didn’t know how she was going to make it through the dinner without a drink because post-rehab her evenings had been spent either in meetings or at home (Mom)
  
• Numerous updates on what time it was (me)
  

“Honey, forty-five minutes is not late,” Mom announced as we walked into the back garden of Ca’Mea on Warren Street after I had finally wrangled her into the car. “You know, I’ve been thinking about it, and I think your obsession with being on time has to do with the whole being-a-child-of-an-alcoholic thing.”

The last part just happened to coincide with a lull in the conversation so that you would have had to have a hearing problem not to have heard it clearly. Which meant that pretty much everyone in the garden—about twenty people—all turned to stare at us.