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“I’ll go get her. You have to stay here with your grandma.”
I look at her and I’m surprised to see that she’s serious. She wants to pick up my drunk, teenage sister. Fuck. Molly’s drunk. Well, what did I expect? She’s seen me drink away my troubles for about nine years. And I don’t think my troubles will ever compare to the pain she must be feeling over Grandma.
“You don’t have to do that,” I reply. “I doubt this is how you wanted to spend your Thanksgiving.”
“Hey, I have a lot to be thankful for today. Let me do this … as a friend.”
I can’t help but smile at these last three words. “I think we’re way past that,” I say, reaching into my pocket for my car key. I grab her hand and she swallows hard as I softly place the key in her palm. “Take my car.”
Chapter Eleven
Senia
Tristan programs the address into the GPS in his silver sports car then stands back and watches as I put on my seatbelt. I’m having a little trouble getting the buckle into the slot with my shaky hands. I can’t believe he’s entrusting me with this thing, but he insists that if Molly is going to throw up in the car, he’d rather she do it in his than mine.
“Remember, this is a British car, so the GPS has a British accent,” he says with a warm smile. “And don’t press to hard on the brakes or the accelerator. Just let yourself get a feel for the car. This ain’t a Ford Focus.”
“Ha, ha. I don’t have the Focus any more. I gave it to Claire, remember?”
Oh, what would Claire think of me now? Driving Tristan’s car … picking up his drunk sister … carrying his child!
“Yeah, that was very generous.” His eyes get a little unfocused as his mind wanders off, then he blinks a few times and looks me in the eye. “Be nice to her when you pick her up. She’s losing the most important person in her life.”
I nod and turn away from him, pretending to look at the passenger seat as he closes the door. I crank the key in the ignition and attempt to keep from crying as I recall my Grandma Elena. She passed when I was ten, but she had lived with us all my life. My mom wouldn’t let me go to the funeral. She said I wasn’t old enough. One day she was there, sitting on the sofa watching Mexican soap operas. The next day she was gone. That was eleven years ago and I still expect to see her sitting there every time I come home.
I can’t imagine what Molly must be feeling right now, but I do know that she probably needs something that no one can give her: a promise that everything will be okay.
I have a very choppy drive to Carissa’s house on Bedford Avenue near Pollock Place Park. I get a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach when I see the name Pollock Place Park. It makes me think of Tristan Pollock, then I think of Yesenia Pollock. So stupid. Tristan is not the marrying kind, even if he is acting like a complete weirdo since our meeting at Yogurtland.
I pull up in front of a house on the corner of Bedford and Taylor and take a deep breath as I shut off the engine. A woman with brown, frizzy hair is standing in the threshold of the front door with her arms crossed and a sour expression that matches her shitty sweater. This woman does not want to mess with me when I’m hormonal.
I climb out of the car and stuff the car key into my coat pocket. She looks surprised to see me. Then she steps aside and Molly steps out the door, nearly tripping over the woman’s loafered foot.
I rush to the door to help Molly since this bitch has no intention of doing so. When Molly sees me, her eyebrows shoot up and a faint smile materializes on her slack, drunken features. Molly is such a pretty girl. I’ve only been to Tristan’s house once, a couple of years ago for Molly’s birthday party, but she has the same glossy, light-brown hair as Tristan. She doesn’t have Tristan’s gray eyes. Her eyes are a golden brown, muddied now by the haze of alcohol. This was me last year, before I met Eddie and stopped drinking so much. I hate the fact that that controlling, manipulative asshole is responsible for anything positive in my life.
“Carissa is sleeping off the whiskey, in case you were wondering,” the frizzy-haired woman proclaims as I grab Molly’s arm to hold her upright.
“I’m very sorry about this. I don’t know how they could have gotten the alcohol. I mean, it couldn’t have been here, in this house, could it?” I reply with as much phony concern as I can stomach.
Frizzball narrows her eyes at me. “She’s not allowed back here, ever again.”
“Well, she’ll be devastated to hear you’re closing the open bar. But I’m sure she’ll get her fix somewhere else.” Molly doubles over as she cackles at my response and I wrap my arm around her waist to keep her from toppling over. “Come on, girl. Your brother is waiting for you.”
Molly’s left hand latches onto my coat and we hobble down the long walkway toward Tristan’s car. We’re a few feet away when she begins to retch. I scoot back to get out of her way and maybe grab her hair to hold it back, but I don’t step out of the way fast enough and her watery vomit splashes over my shoe and the pavement.
“Sorry,” she mutters before another stream of vomit spews forth.
This time I’m able to pull her hair back and take safety behind her as she finishes. It must be fifty degrees out here, but her face is red and sweaty and I’m not looking forward to riding home in Tristan’s fancy car with the stench of vomit wafting up from my foot. I help Molly into the car and her head flops to the side as I buckle her seatbelt. I take off my shoes and spend about five minutes looking for the button to pop the trunk. I throw my heels in the trunk then I slide into the driver’s seat and head back.
We’re nearly there when Molly mumbles something I almost wish I didn’t understand. “I hate my life.”
I wait until we’re stopped at Hillsborough and Dixie Trail before I say anything. “Do you want to go straight home or do you want to go somewhere and sober up first?”
“I don’t want to go home like this.”
“That’s what I thought. We’ll go hang out for a little while.”
I drive her to a local burger joint and order her some French fries so she can get something in her stomach. I text Tristan to tell him we’re grabbing a bite to eat, then we sit in the parking lot as she nibbles the fries and I wait for her to say something.
“Are you Claire’s friend?” she finally asks.
“Her very best friend.”
“I miss Claire,” she whispers. “Don’t tell Tristan I said that. I said it in front of him a few weeks ago and he got pissed.”
He probably got pissed because, according to bro-code, you’re automatically supposed to hate the girl who broke your friend’s heart. Of course, Tristan probably doesn’t know the whole story behind Chris and Claire’s breakup. I probably don’t even know the full story. And this animosity Tristan holds for Claire only reminds me that there is one more obstacle standing in the way of Tristan and me – the truth. I don’t know Tristan very well. He doesn’t know me or my best friend. And there’s no denying it, Claire is my fucking soul sister. I can’t be with a guy who doesn’t love and respect her.
“I won’t say a word. Do you want to talk about anything else?”
She shakes her head and sets the bag of French fries on the floor of the car next to her feet. “I want to go home.”
When I pull into the driveway of Tristan’s grandma’s house, he’s sitting on the front steps waiting for us. He gets to his feet quickly and immediately heads for the passenger door to help Molly.
“Are you sick?” he asks and she shakes her head, though I can see she’s still swaying a bit as she walks around the front of the car and toward the front door.
Tristan attempts to grab her arm to help her, but she pushes him away. “Leave me alone. I don’t want to talk to you.”
He looks at me for some kind of explanation, but all I can do is shrug. “I should get going,” I proclaim as I retrieve my heels from the trunk.
“Did she say anything to you?”
“Not really. She’s just upset. You should try to tal
k to her … She needs you.”
He looks at me as if he’s seeing me for the first time tonight, then he reaches forward and I try not to flinch as he touches the backs of his fingers to my abdomen. “We still need to talk about this, don’t we?”
I take a step back so I’m out of his reach. “I’ll call you when I’m done studying this weekend.”
I turn to leave, but he grabs my hand. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
Chapter Twelve
Nine Years Ago
The windows of the rundown duplex on Clover Lane all glow with various shades of yellow light at 2:30 a.m. Not that I didn’t expect Elaine’s house to be jumping at this hour, but it still makes me nervous about what I’ll find in there.
I rode my bike to Elaine’s place in Southeast Raleigh all the way from West Raleigh. Grandma doesn’t know I’m gone. She thinks I’m sleeping at my friend Noah’s house right now, but I had to leave.
I’m twelve years old. I’ve spent the last two years helping Grandma train Molly to piss in a toilet. Before that I was changing diapers; waking up in the middle of the night to quiet Molly down whenever Grandma wasn’t feeling well from her migraines; waking up early on Saturdays so Grandma could go to the farmer’s market where she insists everything is cheaper. I’m tired of that shit. And now she doesn’t want to let me quit school to get a job. I don’t get it. She’s the one always complaining about not having any money and she won’t even let me help. She only needs me for the dirty jobs.
But that’s not the reason I’m leaving.
I didn’t want to come here to Elaine’s, but she’s the only one I know who won’t turn me away. Why would she? They take anyone and everyone in here: crackheads, prostitutes, murderers. I lived with Elaine until I was nine and Molly was one, when we moved here to Raleigh from Maine. After that girl did those things to me in the ice-cream shop, I lied to Grandma and told her I found a needle in Molly’s playpen. I didn’t think she would report Elaine. I never told Grandma what happened at the ice-cream shop. I never had to. I never saw that blonde girl again.
I roll my bike behind a box hedge to hide it, then I knock on the door. My heart pounds against my chest like a crackhead on a dealer’s front door, which is probably what they think I am. The door opens and I freeze when I see the shotgun pointed at my face.
“Who the fuck are you?” an old guy covered in tattoos demands.
“I’m – I’m here for Elaine.”
He narrows his eyes and his leathery skin crinkles at the edges. “What the fuck do you want with her?”
“Who is it?” Elaine’s voice makes me cringe inside, but there must be relief on my face because the guy lowers the shotgun a little.
“She’s my …” – gulp – “… my mom.”
The guy smiles, but only with the left side of his face, as he lowers the gun to his side and opens the screen door separating us. “Well, come on in, son.” I tuck my hands into the front pockets of my hoodie as I step inside so he can’t see that I’m still shaking. “Don’t worry. I ain’t your daddy,” he says with a laugh as he closes the door.
