Desperate Chances
Page 3

But then I had gone into rehab and started therapy. Which, led to support groups and more therapy.
And more therapy.
“How are you feeling” replaced “hello” in my daily conversations.
And slowly and surely I got better. Stronger. More together. I wasn’t drinking until I blacked out. I had stopped starving myself so that I could fit into a size zero dress. And most importantly I had stopped making really, really bad decisions.
“Why did you run out like that, Gracie?” Mitch demanded.
I couldn’t look at him without remembering the feel of him inside me.
I wanted it.
I wanted to run away from it.
But I knew one thing for certain.
Our friendship was over.
Even worse was that the second he walked away; I knew that I had lost something so much more.
I had lost my heart.
Until I had decided to sleep with my best friend and stomp all over our friendship. Just when I thought I was doing okay.
It seemed my self-destructive tendencies were never too far away.
“Grace Evelyn Cook, are you listening to me?”
I snapped out of my momentary trip down wretched memory lane and looked at my mother.
“I’m sorry, what?”
She blew out an exasperated breath. “Are you sure you’re telling me the truth about the drinking? Let me smell your breath,” Mom said, leaning forward, sniffing.
Oh my god, she was ridiculous.
My mom sat back in her chair and pointed again at my half eaten sandwich and I picked up another piece. I knew from experience that I wouldn’t be allowed to leave until I had finished the whole damn thing.
“I said your father and I were talking and we want you to move back home. Given the fact that you barely make enough at that job of yours to cover your rent, it just makes sense for you to live here until you’re own your feet.” Mom finished her coffee and then wiped her mouth with a napkin. Afterwards she pulled out her compact and reapplied her lipstick.
I sighed. This discussion was quickly become a regular occurrence. My parents seemed to think I would be unable to function unless I was under their thumb. Unless they were there to point me in the “right direction.”
“Mom, it’s not necessary. Viv and I split the bills and I’m fine—”
“You are not fine, Grace. Or have you forgotten that?” my mother snapped.
“As if you’d let me forget,” I muttered under my breath, but not low enough that she couldn’t hear me.
Mom closed her compact and put it on the table, then folded her hands in her lap as she regarded me levelly.
“We just worry about you. You put your father and me through a horrible ordeal and we want to make sure you’re okay.”
I clenched my fist and then forced myself to relax.
Don’t engage. Don’t rise to the bait.
“It was almost two years ago, Mom. I haven’t had a drop to drink since. I have a job—”
“A part time job, Gracie. I’m not sure that even counts,” my mother cut in derisively.
“I also work at the library,” I reminded her, but it was as though I hadn’t even spoken.
“Please be reasonable, Gracie. You can’t survive that way.”
“I have an apartment. I have friends. I’m not going to let myself fall apart again,” I said emphatically, but I wasn’t sure she even heard me.
My mother heard what she wanted to hear.
“It will take a long time to earn back our trust, Grace,” she remarked sharply and I knew there was no point in arguing with her.
She had a way of beating me down until I didn’t want to get back up.
I pinned a smile to my face, trying to resurrect the perky girl I had once been. “I know, Mom. I’m trying though,” I said, my voice unnaturally high.
“Sometimes trying isn’t enough,” Mom intoned critically.
I was more than happy when I had stayed long enough that I could politely make my excuses to leave.
My weekly visits to the Cook house were akin to torture. I knew they were necessary but god, how I hated them.
“I told Vivian I’d go to the grocery store with her, so I’d better get going,” I lied, wishing I could run for the door.
My mom dug her wallet out of her purse and pulled some money out, handing it to me. “I’m sure you need this. I doubt you make enough at that magazine to live on, let alone go grocery shopping,” she said.
Not a question, just a statement. I didn’t want to take the money. I hated how she always assumed I couldn’t take care of myself. That I wasn’t even capable of paying for my own groceries. My part time job paid me more than enough to cover my rent and utilities and yes, even have some left over for food and other essentials. But I didn’t bother explaining any of that to my mother. Again.
So I took the money, with no intention of using it, and tucked it into my pocket. “Thanks, Mom,” I said, my smile fake and brittle.
“I really think it’s best if you move back here. Let’s plan for the end of the month, okay,” she said as I was leaving. She held the kitchen door open for me, letting in a blast of cold, January air. It looked like snow, which sucked majorly given the fact that my tires were on the bald side.
I hoped my mother wouldn’t notice as she followed me out to the driveway. I half expected her to inspect the car before I left. It wouldn’t have been unusual.
“Mom, I’m not moving home,” I replied, feeling like I was banging my head into a brick wall.