Chapter 10: You’re No Good

ASTRID AND GEORGE

When Astrid opened the door from the garage to the kitchen, she found George leaning against the sink, tossing one of her empty bottles of Smirnoff from hand to hand. Damn, she thought. Didn’t I put that in the recycle bin?

“Where did you go?” he asked her, his voice remarkably devoid of sarcasm. She smelled a minefield. The only time he didn’t confront her about her drinking with sarcasm was when he was planning something particularly nasty.

“Look at my bags and you tell me, George.”  She felt it best to meet the hurricane head-on, no boarded up windows and no evacuating.

He scanned the bags in her hands. One from Kitchen Kitsch, one from the Hallmark store, and one plain brown paper bag that had to be from the liquor store.

“How many bottles today?” he asked.

“Three.”  She walked to the island and set the bags down. The first bands of rain should be hitting right about now, and the initial storm surge should be cresting.

“Just three?”

“Yes, just three.”  She pulled the tortilla press and corn meal out of the Kitchen Kitsch bag. “I had to go out and get a press for your tortillas.”

“Aren’t you the dutiful wife?”  He still tossed the bottle from hand to hand, leveling inscrutable stare at her.

“It would appear that way, George.”

“Appearances are everything, aren’t they, Astrid?”

“You would know best, George.”

He took a moment, sizing her up. Heavier bands were coming, the storm surge crashing against the sea wall.

“Two empty bottles plus three full bottles equals one worthless drunk,” George said, setting the empty bottle on the counter next to him, label facing toward her. “That’s an equation they don’t teach in algebra, but maybe they should.  A real-world application for the kids to learn might be helpful to them.”

The storm was only going to get worse, but she knew better than run and hide inside. She needed to just bear the brunt. “Maybe.”

“You agree?”

“It might make math more interesting for young girls.”

“Now you’re concerned about the youth of America?”

“I think a story problem should accompany that equation you came up with, George.”  She met his gaze with her own.

“Do tell.”  He folded his arms across his chest.

“Here’s what I think it should be,” she said. “A woman marries a selfish, verbally abusive man she thinks she loves. Day after day, he greets her with at least one insult, but that’s on a slow day. Usually, it’s more like five insults. Nothing she ever does is good enough for him, but she still tries. So she decides to enjoy her day a little by having some quality time with Mr. Smirnoff. How many bottles does she need to drink until she matches the average number of insults he throws at her?”  Not once, not one time, did she blink or move her eyes from his.

The smirk. She managed to get the smirk. Good. Exactly what she wanted. If she was going to get soaked to the bone in the storm, she at least had to get the smirk. Otherwise, what was the point?

“Good one, Astrid,” he said. “Good one. And typical. I noticed how the husband got the blame.”

“I was hoping you would.”

“Very original.”

“Actually, it’s not terribly original,” she said. “It’s a bit of a cliché at this point.”

“Indeed it is.”

Suddenly, the rain started letting up and the surge noticeably lightened. The storm was losing its ferocity as it churned over land.

“Two bottles in one morning is a lot.”

“Not all in one morning,” she said. “But it’s kind of you to notice, George.”

“I’m keeping count.”

“Tell me about it.”

He paused. She wasn’t what he expected she’d be today. Something was different. Something was off. She was fighting back, not like she normally did. “You know he’s probably been discharged by now.”

Maybe the storm hadn’t lost all its power after all. “I know.”

“He turned out a lot like you, Astrid. A lot like you.”

“He reminds me more of you, George.”

“Does he? Funny. I don’t see the resemblance.”

“You could be twins.”

He narrowed his eyes a bit, squinting, like she had to squint when driving downtown. Like she had to when she saw Nathan outside the pizza parlor, just to make sure she wasn’t seeing things. She couldn’t be one hundred percent sure it was even him, but she knew deep down. That was the boy she had given birth to.

“I don’t feel bad about what happened, Astrid,” he said, not acknowledging her last statement, her last attempt at an insult.

“You made that clear when you walked away from him, George.”

“I wasn’t going to sit there and constantly be blamed for what’s wrong with him!” George said. “There he was, constantly blaming me for his problems, and those nurses and doctors believed every word he said! You even believed him! You would join right in attacking me. No, I wasn’t going to let that happen. He’s a man now. He’s on his own, and I don’t want anything more to do with him.”

Astrid didn’t respond. There was nothing to respond to. She had heard that same rant over and over in the last month, and she could recite it by heart.

“We’re better off without him,” George said.

Astrid didn’t respond.

“You know it’s your fault anyway,” he said. “You know that you’re a drunk. You’re no good. You’re a no-good drunk, and you’re a no-good mother, and you’re sure as hell a no-good wife.”

Astrid didn’t respond.

George shook his head and rolled his eyes. “I’m going to the den to work. Let me know when supper’s ready.”

And he left. The storm was over.

Astrid stared where George had just stood. She saw the empty bottle, standing there like a lonely bowling pin.

She left the bottle on the counter. She grabbed the brown paper bag with the bottles and headed to the basement, to the wet bar. She put two of the bottles in the wine refrigerator, and kept one out. She twisted the cap off, and sniffed it the way a wine connoisseur would smell a cork. Instead of oaky and floral bouquets, she smelled sharp and clean 80-proof, modern vintage. All business, no fanciness.

She took a highball glass from the shelf, and tinkled ice into it with tongs. She poured the vodka to within an inch of the rim. She swirled the glass, letting the vodka flow over the ice. She brought the glass to her lips and drained it in three long sips. Shocking, bracing, numbing.

She had seen Nathan today. She had seen him. He was out of the hospital. He was in town. And if she saw him once, she might see him again. Maybe he would see her, too, and maybe he’d want to talk to her.

But no. He made his choice. Hadn’t he? Or had the choice been made for him? Was she only mad at him when she was feeling sorry for herself? Did she only hate him when she hated herself the most? When she was the most drunk?

But no. He was the reason everything had fallen apart on him. He knew better. He fought and lost, but he probably sat there thinking he was the winner in all of this. Teenagers always think they’re right, that they know more than their parents.

But hadn’t she fought back today? Just now, in the kitchen with George? She didn’t flinch, even when he threw his barbs at her. She stood there, not shaking, not yelling, not reacting. She didn’t take it; she gave it. He didn’t cut her in half, and he didn’t yell. He didn’t raise his voice this time. Something was different, and it was because she was different.

But what was different? She was no good, supposedly, yet she had been just right today, just now. Was it because of seeing Nathan? Was it because her buzz had worn off? Her buzz had disappeared the moment she saw Nathan. From that moment on, she had felt sober and clear-headed.

Was this how Nathan felt these days? Clear-headed and aware? Free? An urge to head back downtown seized her. She wanted to get back into her BMW and drive around the streets until she spotted him again, until she could call out to him, get him to come to her so she could look at him again, and see him all healthy and happy and free, not skeletal and sad and imprisoned. Not like walking death. She wanted to smell him, to see if that sickly sweet scent he had when he was starving himself had gone. The same pull that brought her to her Smirnoff bottles called to her to go in search of him.

But no. George would hear her open the garage door, hear her start her car and back out. He’d want to know where she was going. She had no reason to go out, not again. She had everything she needed to get through the day.

Except Nathan. Suddenly she needed him. She needed him near her. But he wasn’t. He wouldn’t be. Not anymore, not unless he wanted to. She wouldn’t blame him for not wanting to. His father didn’t want to be near her. He learned that from George.

He was like his father. He had paid attention to George too closely. He learned how to forsake her the way his father had. The apple landed right next to the trunk.

No, she would not go searching for him. Not today, not anytime soon. Maybe not ever again. He could search for her. He knew where to find her.

He was no longer her son, right?

She placed the highball back on the bar, grabbed the Smirnoff, and poured another glass full, this time to nearly full. Nathan was gone. She had found him, but he was still gone. This was all she had. This was the only thing she understood. This would never leave her, not unless she told it to.

She had no intention of that. No intention at all.

She poured another glassful of vodka and swirled the glass, alcohol washing over the ice cubes. She raised the glass to her lips, her hand slightly trembling. The confidence and levelness she felt upstairs deserted her now, left her feeling open and vulnerable. Left her wanting to run and hide.

So she ran and hid to the only safe place she knew, to her glass full of vodka and ice, to her cupboard under the stairs. Three long sips and she was gone, hidden, not to be found.

Disappeared. For now.