In Sight of Stars(42)

“Yeah, I guess.” He drops his chair again and looks down. “I miss him. I miss him a lot,” he says.

“So, who do you live with now?”

“No one. I mean, it’s my dad’s house, but he don’t live there anymore. Not for years. Guy’s a piece of shit and the bank is about to take it anyway, so I mostly hang out with friends. Or, I guess, for now, I live here.”

“Oh,” I say, wondering what landed him here. Not that it’s any of my business, but it’s the Ape Can, not a hotel or a homeless shelter, right? So he must have done something crazy to be here. Because that’s what we all have in common.

Gene’s eyes shift to mine, and something in them is so sad, or maybe mad, like he thinks I don’t get it, or don’t care. Like whatever I’ve suffered isn’t half as bad. And maybe it isn’t. Or maybe the only thing worse than your own father abandoning you, is your own father shooting himself in the head. Deciding you’re not even a good enough reason to live.

“My father left, too,” I say. “Didn’t stick around.”

Gene nods, and his face softens. It’s enough what I’ve told him, if only a fraction of the truth.

“How come you keep lying, Alden…?” Sarah’s voice, calling me on it like she did that day in my room.

I don’t know why I lied. I don’t know why I continue to.

I close my eyes and grip my hands in my lap, feeling dizzy and off-kilter again. Dr. Howe’s voice drifts in from down the hall, then Martin’s. I’m relieved the others are here.

Sabrina follows, and they sit. Dr. Howe looks from me to Gene and back to me again.

“Nice to see you both here,” she says. “Ready and eager to get to work.”

But I’m not really here, am I? I’m back with Sarah, instead. Lost in the sound of her voice, the feel of her body. Lost in an early morning a few months ago, and the magical way she had of making me forget everything, of making the pain disappear.

*

“Hey, wake up, Alden.”

I nearly have a heart attack. Sarah stands next to my bed, hair hanging down, a mischievous smile on her face.

I prop myself up, confused, and wipe drool from the corners of my mouth.

Did I sleep through Tarantoli? Did she show up here to rescue me?

I reach out to grab my phone, but Sarah covers it with her hand and says, “Don’t bother. It’s Sunday. Ten thirty. I’ve been up for hours. Texted you three times, then got bored, so I walked my ass over here.”

My eyes dart past my half-open bedroom door, trying to hear my mother, trying to sort out what kind of disaster might have already gone down before Sarah made her way to my room.

“She’s not here,” Sarah says, walking to my door and pulling it open fully. She gestures into the empty hallway like a Price Is Right model showing off a new car, and adds, “I got here just in time to see her leave. Dressed up all neat and pretty, like she has a meeting with a CEO. So, I figure it’s safe to assume she’s not coming back anytime soon?” I wrack my brain to remember if my mother told me where she was going. “I let myself in. The door wasn’t locked. We have the whole fancy place to ourselves. Apparently your mom is under the delusion that you don’t need to lock your doors up here in the sticks.”

She laughs, and I sit up, overwhelmingly happy that she’s here. Especially given how tense things were the last time I hung out with her. I wasn’t even sure we were dating anymore.

“My mother is always dressed up,” I say, trying to remember where she went. Bereavement group? Fund-raiser? Lunch with a friend? “She could just be headed to the convenience store. Anyway, I’m glad you’re here, but you scared the crap out of me. I thought you were an intruder. I thought I was being attacked.”

“You wish.” She lifts the blanket, slips into bed, and crawls on top of me. “Or, maybe you are.” I feel self-conscious, though, about my breath, and more, about the piss boner I’m acutely aware of.

“Can you give me a minute?” I nudge her off me. “I really have to brush and take a leak.”

“Gross, yeah, you do.” She waves her hand in front of her face, and I get up, taking the sheet with me. “Anyway, I’m starving,” she calls. “I’m going to find us some breakfast while you’re gone.”

“Help yourself to whatever.”

When I return, washed and brushed, she’s taken me up on my offer. In one hand she holds two slightly crispy toasted waffles, and in the other, a bottle of maple syrup. Wedged under her arm is a bottle of expensive vodka.

“Sunday brunch!” she says, setting the waffles and syrup on my night table. She holds the vodka bottle up in a toast.

“It’s a little early for Grey Goose, no?”

“Maybe.” She smiles coyly. “But, we need something to wash those down.”

“Breakfast of champions,” I say, as she uncaps the bottle and takes a swig. “So, you’re serious then? At ten A.M. No glasses even?”

“Ten thirty. Lighten up, Alden. Or if you can’t, this will help.”

She presses the bottle forward, so I take it, though there’s not a chance I feel like drinking straight vodka first thing in the morning. Maybe I should explain that this bottle probably cost a hundred dollars or more, which is the only reason my mother hauled it up here. She doesn’t drink vodka, only highbrow shit like Prosecco or a fine French wine. But then I decide, fuck it, maybe she’s right. Maybe for once I should loosen up, and since my mother doesn’t drink it, she won’t notice. No sense in it going to waste.