The Art of Losing(35)

“Seriously? That’s all you have to say?”

“What?” he said, innocence plastered on his face. “It’s not my fault I have impeccable timing. I should call myself ‘The Cooler.’”

I turned and bolted for the front door. “I’m not hearing this.”

“No, I mean it,” Dad said. He raced after me. Luckily, once inside, he had to deal with Floyd, who had been waiting with his nose plastered to the window since I got home.

“Maybe I have special powers,” he said once he’d given Floyd enough pets that he had rolled onto his back. “I’m like the Flash, except my power is keeping guys from kissing my daughters.”

“I hate to say it, Dad, but if you have that power, you’re really not using it right.”

His smile faded.

“Hey, have you been to see Audrey today?” I asked, awkwardly changing the subject.

Dad crouched beside Floyd, stroking his ears. The crease between his eyebrows deepened. “Same as yesterday,” he said.

I nodded. My throat tightened. “I saw Mom crying today,” I blurted out. It felt a little bit like I was tattling on her, but Dad needed to know. Mom prided herself on responsibility and routine, but today, she’d skipped work and gone to the hospital all day. When I left for the party, she was lying on the couch with the lights off. The sun had almost set, casting the room into a slow darkness. She had barely acknowledged me when I told her I was going out.

Dad took a deep breath in through his nose and rose from the floor. “That’s good,” he said finally. “I think she needs to cry.” Then all at once he pulled me into his warm chest and pounded me hard on the back twice before releasing me. “Let’s go check on her, okay?”

I nodded, trying to hide my shock. So . . . he was letting me get away without discussing what he’d just witnessed? He had never let me kiss Mike in front of him. He’d walk into the room, see us, and immediately start making an embarrassing siren or alarm sound, or just announce, “Father in the room!” It was all pretty effective. Maybe this was a test.

I turned to head up the stairs when he added, “You might want to clean off that smudge of lip gloss first, though.”

And there it was. Best to just get it over with. I stopped on the first stair so that we were eye to eye.

“What you saw, that was just a mistake. I’m going to tell Raf that it was too soon and we need to be friends.”

There was a flicker of relief on Dad’s face. “Smart girl,” he said.

My fists clenched at my sides. The anger was sudden and unexpected. I fought to keep it bottled up. Why was he so sure I was being smart? What did he really know about Raf, anyway? There was no need to get into it; I was only fighting with myself. Dad was just echoing what I’d told Cassidy. What I so desperately wanted to believe. That it was too soon. We should just be friends.

I hurried up the stairs and knocked on my parents’ bedroom door.

“Mom?” I said.

Dad pushed the door open before she answered. “It’s my room, too,” he joked defensively.

I almost laughed, but then I saw Mom. She was curled on her side, in her nightgown, with a blanket tucked up under her armpit. She wasn’t crying anymore. Her eyes were open, and she was glassily staring at the wall. The room was silent and smelled strongly of stale booze. Dad and I exchanged a nervous glance.

“Maureen?” Dad said. His tone reminded me of how he’d talk to Audrey when we were younger, when Audrey was on the verge of a panic attack. “Honey, are you okay?”

I sat down on the edge of the bed and patted her foot. Her toes were tiny ice cubes. “Mom? What’s going on?”

“Do you think she knows we’re not there with her right now?” Mom replied. Her voice was unexpectedly calm and steady.

Dad and I exchanged another uneasy glance. I looked at him pointedly, and he knelt next to the bed so he was at eye level with Mom.

“No,” he said. “I don’t think she knows what day it is or what time it is. I think she can hear us sometimes, but other times, she’s sleeping, healing. But I don’t think Audrey would be upset that we aren’t there every moment. I think she’d want us to try to live our lives as best we can. Don’t you think so, Harley?”

“Yes,” I heard myself say.

“She was moving a little more today,” Mom remarked, not looking at either of us. “But she won’t wake up. I just kept asking her to, over and over again . . .” Her voice trailed off as she squeezed her eyes shut. A tear leaked out. For once, maybe for the first time, her hair was matted and greasy. My eyes drifted to the glass on her bedside table; it was half full of brown liquor and stained with her lipstick.

She’d kept it together as long as she could, but now it was her turn to fall apart. Now it was my turn to take care of her.

I stood and walked to the other side of the bed. Mom tilted her head back to look at me as I reached for the top sheet and comforter, which were still crisp and neatly made. Dad took the other corner, and we eased them out from beneath her. She rolled onto her back and we tucked her in. Then I switched off the light and turned the TV on to distract her. Dad removed the glass of whiskey from her bedside table.

“Watch some Friends,” I said over the soft laughter of the studio audience. “And get some sleep. We’ll see Audy first thing in the morning.”