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“I’m good, Dad,” Norm said. “Just talk to my teachers. Ask anyone.”
Norm hadn’t invited their parents to any of his theater productions. Without being asked, Katrina had known to keep Norm’s involvement a secret. It was the seventies. If a boy wasn’t keen on sports, he was often perceived as gay. And having a gay son was Calvin Whittaker’s worst nightmare.
Of course, everyone knew Norm had a steady girlfriend. But that still didn’t make his interest in theater “right” in the mind of their father.
That night, Calvin went on a bender in his study. He drank through an entire bottle of whiskey and started on the scotch. Presumably, that gave him enough courage to stumble down the hallway, blast his fist against Norm’s door, and ask him, “You think you’re better than us? Huh? Is that why you’re going to New York City?”
Norm kept his door locked. He told Katrina later that he was in a ball on the floor, sobbing with fear. He had no idea what would happen if their father was able to break down the door. When Calvin got drunk enough, he was no longer himself. He was a monster.
Now, so many years after that horrible night, Katrina poked through her father’s old desk, trying to understand his psyche. She found long-dried-out pens, sticky notes with scribbled to-do lists, old cigars, and other odds and ends. When she opened the third drawer on the left, she found three half-empty bottles of scotch—his leftovers from decades ago. It wasn’t hard to imagine that the entire house was lined with bottles like this. Addicts like Calvin planted them everywhere. They didn’t like to be too far away from their next fix.
Overwhelmed, Katrina backed out of the study, closed the door, and took several deep breaths in the hallway. Her father’s yells echoed in her head. Before she’d thought it through, she pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed Ida. She needed backup.
Ida pulled into the driveway forty minutes later. Katrina watched her from the foyer, her heart brimming with pride. Ida was forty-three, a wife, a mother, a respected businesswoman, and a pillar of their community. She was precisely the sort of woman Katrina had wanted her daughters to become.
A 50 percent success rate wasn’t bad, she supposed.
Ida had brought Nellie and Frankie along to help out. This pleased Katrina to no end. She swallowed them in hugs and ordered them to make themselves cozy in the living room. She’d just started a fire in the fireplace, and the CD player still worked if the girls wanted to go through Great-Grandma’s CDs. When Nellie and Frankie dropped to their knees in front of the CD collection, they studied them as though they were relics from a forgotten time.
Ida followed Katrina into the kitchen to make tea. Katrina put the kettle on the stovetop and studied the calendar that hung on the wall, upon which her mother had written doctors’ appointments and lunches with friends. Many of her eighty-something friends were still living. They’d come by the hospital to say hello, talking about a version of Agatha that Katrina had never been allowed to know.
“Tomorrow’s the day?” Ida crossed her arms.
“I hope everything works out okay,” Katrina said.
“Gosh, I hope she doesn’t feel all that pain at once,” Ida said. “She’s black and blue.”
“They have her on some pretty good drugs,” Katrina offered. “Good thing addiction runs on Dad’s side, not Mom’s.” She bit her lip, swimming in regret. Why had she brought up addiction?
Ida’s face fell. Katrina and Ida had never spoken to one another about Sophie’s drug use. Katrina liked to think of their relationship as a safe space from that darkness. She was the daughter who hadn’t received Calvin’s genes. She was her angel.
“Are the girls hanging around home for New Year’s Eve tonight?” Katrina asked.
“Um. I think they’ll be at a friend’s place. Maybe somebody’s basement. Who knows?”
Katrina remembered how truthful she’d been of her own children. How sure she’d been that they wouldn’t do anything wrong. How foolish.
“Nellie and Frankie have good heads on their shoulders,” Katrina said. “I’m sure they’ll be fine.”
“They’re twenty-two and twenty,” Ida said. “I’m sure they know how to handle a few beers by now.”
“And let’s hope they stop there,” Katrina said.
Ida sucked in her cheeks and stared at the kettle. Katrina’s heart flipped over.
“Mom,” Ida began, “there’s quite a lot of work to be done with this old place. Isn’t there?”
“You’re telling me,” Katrina said. “I imagine this will be the next few months of our lives. And I’m dreading telling your grandmother. How do you tell Agatha Whittaker that you know best?”
Ida nodded and rubbed her chest. “Why don’t we ask Sophie for help, too?”
The kettle roared and sounded. Katrina hurried to remove it from the stovetop and pour the water into four mugs. “How does ginger tea sound?”
“It’s fine, Mom.” Ida sounded frustrated. “I just think…”
“What do you think?” Katrina’s voice had a hard edge to it. She turned to look at Ida, her perfect daughter. The one who’d never given her any trouble.
“I just think you need to give Sophie more credit, is all,” Ida said. “She’s worked hard to be sober this time. She told me she hasn’t missed a single NA meeting.”
