Twelve Steps to Normal(59)

My heart remains still in my chest, not fluttering even once.

It feels so weird. Final.

I pull the keys out of the ignition and walk inside. Wallis bounces around me in his familiar enthusiastic greeting, but once he gets the attention he desires he pads away.

I set my book bag down by the stairs and wander into the kitchen. Peach is sitting at the kitchen table, my dad’s laptop perched in front of her. She’s wearing thin frames as she studies the screen. A pile of opened mail sits beside her.

“Hey!” she says. “I brought home some cupcakes from the bakery. If you’re hungry, there’s stew on the stove.”

I’m about to thank her when my eye catches the piece of mail at the top of the stack. It’s addressed to my dad, but I notice the return address reads CEDARVILLE HIGH SCHOOL. I pick it up, realizing that it’s my progress report.

I’m immediately infuriated. “Did you go through my mail?”

Peach glances up, startled. Then she notices the envelope in my hand.

My dad emerges from his room. “What’s going on?”

I cross my arms, glaring at her. It’s not enough that they’re infiltrating my home. She has absolutely no right going through my personal items.

My dad takes my progress report from me as Peach tries to explain. “Your dad wanted me to help him get some things in order. I’m filing all of it for—”

“Kira, you have a D in algebra?”

There’s anger in his voice, but I’m too mad to worry about that. Instead I turn to Peach. “You can’t just go through my stuff whenever you feel like it.”

“It was in your daddy’s name, I just assumed—”

My dad steps in. “That’s okay, Peach. I know you’re trying to help.”

I can’t believe it. My dad is actually defending her. I thought we were on the verge of a breakthrough after we talked the other night on the way to Lucky’s.

My face heats up, and I feel my defenses rise. “It’s not okay. What about this is okay?”

I can tell by the look on my dad’s face that my outburst is not welcome, but I don’t care.

“Grams used to take care of the finances,” he says. “I needed a little help getting organized, that’s all.”

Peach stands up. “I—”

“No.” I don’t want to hear it. I’m tired of her always hanging around, worming her way into my life. “I don’t care what my dad says. I don’t want your help—I don’t want you here. You’re not Grams, and you’re not my mother.”

Silence.

Dead. Silence.

I can’t look at my dad. I know he’s furious, but he’s not the only one. I don’t even know why he wanted me to move back here in the first place. Not when he has his Sober Living friends that apparently make his life so much better now.

“Kira, please apologize.”

His authoritative tone is back. I ignore it, taking the stairs two at a time, already aware that I’m going to be in huge trouble, but I don’t care. I close myself off in my room. All I wanted was a normal life with my dad. My dad. Nobody else. I don’t need anyone taking Grams’s place.

Wallis scratches at the door. Sighing, I get up and let him in. He sniffs around my bed skirt before nudging my hand with his nose, urging me to pet him.

I remember Nonnie mentioning that she was the fourth person to adopt Wallis. It’s weird, because even though his prior families abandoned him, he still has this automatic trusting demeanor. He’s been cast aside so many times but gives each new person another chance.

A voice in the back of my mind says, You’re the one not giving them a chance.

It says, You’re being too hard on him. On everyone.

Wallis paws at my bed. I let him jump up, which causes the mattress to creak and sag under his weight. I’m still convinced he’s part Shetland pony.

I don’t do my homework. Instead I walk over to my desk and unfold my twelve-steps list. My dad and I need to learn how to make a life for ourselves, and that means he can’t use them as a safety net anymore.

It’s time for us to start being our own family, just the two of us.





TWENTY TWO


AFTER LAST NIGHT, I PLAN to leave for school without interacting with anyone. I’m still not in a stellar mood. It’s one thing for my dad to let the recoverees stay here, but to let them meddle in my life? That’s a boundary I’m not about to let any of them cross.

My dad is buttering a piece of toast when I walk into the kitchen. I brace myself for some type of scolding, but I’m surprised to see the softness in his expression when he meets my eyes.

“Goose, about last night.” He sets the knife down beside the plate. “I understand why you’re upset. I don’t want you to feel like anyone is trying to fill Grams’s shoes.”

The defensive side of me begins to dissolve. Could he actually understand why I’m upset about involving them in our personal life?

“But I’d still like you to apologize to Peach. It wasn’t fair to lash out like you did.”

And there it is: The proof that he doesn’t really understand. Because to him, it’s more important that I apologize when I’m the one whose life has been completely derailed not only by his addiction, but by inviting these people here and expecting me to act like everything is perfectly fine.