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“No, no. I already talked to his doctor.” I pressed my fingertips to my forehead. “He’s going to be fine. He’s just having an interaction between a ton of THC and Valium. But I need to get coffee in him, and I don’t want to leave him alone. Can you go up there and see if you can keep him awake?”
“Yeah, no problem.” He smiled a grim sort of smile. “Did that for plenty of my fraternity buddies.”
“Great. Thanks.” I was halfway down the next set of stairs before I realized how weird it sounded for me to say “great” in response to his admission that a bunch of his friends had gotten life-threateningly fucked up.
In the kitchen, I made the strongest coffee in the world by using a French press and way too little water. It was like sludge. I hoped Neil hated it.
Emma had said her father didn’t handle grief well. Was this a common occurrence in the face of it, then? I was about to marry this man; it was something I needed to know.
I slipped my phone from my back pocket and blew out a long breath. I didn’t want to make this call. Oh, how I did not want to make this call. But I needed someone who knew Neil, and who wouldn’t hesitate to tell me something that might make me reconsider my relationship with him.
I hated myself, but I hit the call button.
* * * *
I met Valerie at the door. She went immediately to the bottom of the stairs in the foyer and looked up. “Is he awake?”
“On and off. Michael is with him, right now, trying to sober him up. Here, let me get your coat.” I helped Valerie out of her burgundy duster and took it to the closet to hang it up.
“I should go up and see Emma.” Valerie already had her foot on the first step. She and Neil were so alike in their shared worry for their daughter. Despite my personal disagreements with Valerie, there was no denying she was a good, loving mother.
Which is why I knew she would understand when I said, “No, don’t. She’s sleeping. She doesn’t know any of this is going on. Michael and I are trying to keep it quiet, because the flight was hard on her. Neil should be okay in a few hours.”
Valerie frowned. “I’m confused, Sophie. Why, exactly, am I here if I’m not needed?”
“You are needed.” It was the hardest thing I’d ever had to say to another human being. “I need you. I wanted to talk to you about something.”
She looked irritated but followed me into the kitchen.
“Should I put the kettle on?” I asked, gesturing toward the electric kettle. “I finally figured out how to use this.”
“Sophie, I flew in this morning, as well, and I am exhausted, as I’m sure you are. We don’t particularly enjoy each other’s company, so be direct with me.” She pressed her fingertips to her temple, like a person in an Advil commercial.
“Fine.” The faster I got her out of my house the better, in my opinion. “You knew Neil back when his father died. Did anything like this happen then?”
She froze like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights.
I took advantage of the moment to add, “I’m about to marry him, Valerie. I need to know.”
After our huge blow up the night before Emma’s wedding, a fight in which I’d threatened Valerie with physical violence and boasted of my ability to manipulate her right out of Neil’s life—not my finest moment as a human being—she had no reason to participate in a difficult heart-to-heart with me. But she cared about Neil, and I hoped it would be enough to get me the answers I was dreading.
“Oh, Sophie. I apologize for being so brusque. Of course you’re concerned about this.” Every trace of irritation or dislike of me vanished from her expression. She looked genuinely remorseful. After a pause, she answered, “Yes. When Leif died, Neil did something very similar to this. Only then, he ended up in the hospital.”
“This time, it was Valium and pot and booze,” I told her, sliding onto a stool on the other side of the island.
Valerie leaned against the fridge. “Sleeping pills and vodka.”
A chill went up my spine. “You don’t think he was…”
“No.” She shook her head to reinforce her answer. “I don’t believe he was suicidal. You know Neil and his need for control. This is just a manifestation of that. If he can’t will himself to stop feeling, he’ll drink himself into a stupor or reach for the Klonopin. I’m amazed he’s hid it from you for this long.”
“He didn’t.” I just hadn’t noticed the pattern. When Emma had gotten married, he’d responded to his grief at “losing” his daughter by keeping his blood alcohol level up. After our abortion, he’d bought weed. Any difficult conversation? Alcohol was there.
The room around me seemed to vibrate, but it was just sudden, relentless tension in my skull.
“Sophie? Are you all right?” Valerie stepped forward, and I waved her back.
“Just a little…” I tried to breathe to calm my nerves, b
