MY BEST FRIEND
With over three thousand students, Lewis High School was huge, and its two-story building meandered for what felt like miles. It had more wings than I’d visited and you could probably make it to senior year without seeing some people even once. Chris was typically at my side when I navigated the halls, but Tony Greco, his best friend and a linebacker on the football team, a veritable giant at well over two hundred pounds and six foot three, currently held the role of walking me to the cafeteria to meet up with Krupa for lunch. Tony would be terrifying if it weren’t for his puppy-dog eyes and the fact that he was such a sweetheart.
“So, Rose,” he said, his voice low and deep, as we each grabbed a blue plastic tray from the stack. “When are you going to put in a good word for me with your friend?” His body was stooped to accommodate the rails we pushed our trays along since the metal came barely above his knees.
Tony had been asking about Krupa since Chris and I first started dating. The thought of Tony and Krupa together always made me want to laugh since he was three times Krupa’s size,
but I refrained. “You know she doesn’t date athletes,” I reminded him.
“Someday she’s going to change that rule,” he said, the look on his face sincere.
“For your sake I hope so,” I said. Before we parted ways, Tony toward the burger station and me toward the sandwiches, I tried to offer at least some small bit of hope. “I am sure if Krupa
did
date athletes, you’d top her list.”
Tony placed a massive hand on my shoulder. “You’re nice to me,” he said, and leaned down to kiss the top of my head before loping off. People automatically cleared a path without his having to say a word.
The cafeteria was especially crowded, and half the time allotted for lunch disappeared while I waited in line to get my sandwich and Coke. With my tray balanced across one arm and trying desperately not to spill my drink, I wove in and out of the people milling about, pretending I didn’t notice that most of the occupants at the cheerleaders’ table were staring at me. Finally, I found Krupa, the one person in the world who made me feel safe now that Mom was gone, the friend who reminded me that there was still something of the old Rose left and that maybe she wasn’t gone for good after all. The little tin cups that contained her mother’s homemade Indian cooking were spread out in front of her like shiny round toys, and she speared a tiny tree of cauliflower covered in a yellow sauce, popped it in her mouth, and went for another. The delicious smell of curry hit me and I
immediately regretted my boring sandwich choice. My mouth watered as I placed my lunch on the table and slid into the other chair, nostalgic for the time when my mother used to pack me yummy things to eat at school, too.
“So what’s up?” I asked.
“You know,” Krupa answered, waving her fork like a conductor’s baton. “The usual. Classes. Quizzes. Blah, blah, blah.” She pushed a cup filled with lentils toward me and I dipped my spoon into it. The taste was so transporting I wondered whether Mrs. Shakti could cook away my memory of the last few months. “Though, Ms. Halpert, the athletic director, called me in to see if I’d sing the national anthem at the hockey games this year.”
I looked up in surprise. “But you hate doing the football games.”
Krupa took a sip of her chocolate shake, the only thing she ever bought, and swallowed. “True. But for hockey I’d get a hundred bucks per game and that’s double what I make for football.”
“A hundred dollars? Wow,” I responded, impressed.
“I know. Crazy, right?” Krupa’s brown eyes widened, the whites bright, standing out against her skin. “And there’s, like, a million games, too. Practically every Friday and Saturday night from November till March.” She dipped her naan into some yogurt, and the smell of the garlic spread on the bread was so strong I could almost taste it. “That’s ridiculous money for virtually no effort.”
“Well, as long as you don’t count the forfeit of all your weekends.”
“Luckily I’ll have my best friend to come with me,” Krupa said with a grin, ripping the rest of her naan in two and offering me half.
“Bribes don’t work, you know,” I said, but took it anyway.
“But it’s
hockey
. Hockey is a completely uncomplicated, lacking-in-Rose-baggage scenario, so get your sweaters and mittens ready—hey!” she protested, placing a hand over the lentils before I could scoop the last of them onto my spoon. “Eat your turkey. And speaking of Rose-baggage scenarios—”
I put my hand up to stop her. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Rose,” she pressed.
“Krupa,” I said in between bites of sandwich, my mouth still full.
“Stop avoiding this conversation.”
“But I don’t want to talk about Chris. We’re fine.”
“You can’t keep up this perfect high school couple act forever.”
I picked off the crust on one side of the bread. “It’s not an act,” I said, and dipped the crust into the cup filled with yogurt and long slivers of cucumber before popping it in my mouth, enjoying the cool tang of the
raita
as it slid down my throat. “Yummy.”
Krupa glared as if I had sinned against her lunch.
“From now on, whenever you get annoyed about me mooching on your lunch, just think
hockey games
,” I said, hoping the
subject had been shifted sufficiently. “Every single Friday and Saturday during winter,” I added for good measure, but to no avail.
“Rose, I know you love Chris. I know he loves you in that meathead, good-intentioned-jock way of his, and I know you’ve been with him practically forever—what’s the tally now?”
I sighed. “Two years in October.”
“—thank you. And so, for like, a year and a half of that time things were good, but something has changed. You have to admit.”
“Krupa, do we really have to do this? I hate even thinking about it.”
“Yes, we do. This talk is a long time coming, so why not now?” Krupa scraped her last piece of naan across the bottom of another cup, soaking up the sauce. “You’ll feel better if we do.”
“No, I won’t. Dread is what I feel.”
“But afterward, you’ll feel
un-bur-dened
.” Krupa pronounced each syllable slowly and carefully.
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. We can talk about it,” I said, giving in when a loud electronic noise pierced the air. “The bell,” I exclaimed with relief. “Got to go to lit class,” I sang, and shoved the remains of my sandwich in my mouth, washing them down with soda.
“We’ll continue this later,” Krupa said as we got up. I bussed my tray while she packed her tins into their big mama tin. “You need a ride after school, right?”
“Yes. Chris has football.”
“I’ll see you in the parking lot then,” she said.
As always, Chris was waiting at the cafeteria door to walk me to my next destination. The smile that was so genuine for the entirety of lunch soon faded, and I worried that Krupa had been right, that it wouldn’t be long before Chris and I had to face reality.
HOW TO SAVE A LIFE
It took Krupa ten minutes to get her car started. Between that and the stress of whether we’d break down on the way to my house, she dropped me at home without another word about our earlier, unfinished conversation.
“See you later,” she called through the open window, pulling away in a cloud of exhaust.
As I headed up the front walk an image of the red daisy from this morning popped into my head, and the memory pained me. My eyes scanned the ground for its remains but I was relieved to find no sign of it, as if it had never been there at all. A loud roar came from around the far corner of the house, and there was Will Doniger again, this time behind a lawn mower. He pushed the machine to the edge of the grass, turned, and started down another row as I waited there, watching him until he disappeared behind a long row of trees. I was about to go in the house, when I noticed that Dad’s car was parked next to the Doniger Landscaping truck. I froze, closing my eyes, and it took all the willpower I had not to scream. It was way too early for my
father to be home from work, which meant only one thing. My insides began to cave and I hugged my schoolbag to me, like it might stop everything from crumbling. Since the summer, my father had started drinking. It’s not as though he didn’t drink when Mom was alive, but lately he would go on these benders and they terrified me. Between his driving home drunk and then passing out cold, it felt as though any day now I might lose him, too.
“Breathe, Rose. Just breathe,” I said out loud to no one, and put both hands on my knees to steady myself.
Taking care of everything—the house, the cooking, and the chores—was a challenge to put it mildly, and I had a new appreciation for all that my mother did now that the responsibility was on my shoulders. The only thing I didn’t have to worry about was my brother, Jim, because he was away at college, though I missed him a lot, especially on the days when Dad wasn’t doing well.
Lately my father was a fragile glass picture frame and I was the stand: solid, steady, ensuring that he didn’t topple over and shatter. Over the last few months I’d developed a new routine for us—anything to keep him going. First thing in the morning I ground the coffee in this really loud machine that filled the house with screeching life and signaled the beginning of one
more day we managed to get up for as opposed to stalling out. Eventually that beautiful coffee smell would pull Dad from his room, and if it didn’t, then I pulled him myself. I lined up cereal, skim milk, and fruit on the counter so when Dad shuffled to the kitchen he could fix himself some breakfast, and while he crunched on his Special K, I’d go to his room and lay out a clean shirt, a tie, and a pair of pants for him to wear to work. Eventually I sent Dad out the door with a travel mug filled with coffee and watched as he drove up the street and out of the neighborhood, making sure he turned right toward the office and not left toward his favorite bar.
It was kind of like getting a kid off to school.
After the funeral was over and we were trying to get back to something like normal, Dad told Jim and me that he was going to work, when really, he was going to the local watering hole. Then one day around the end of June, Dad’s office called to ask when he was coming back or if he was coming back at all and that’s how Jim and I found out he was lying to us. We began calling around to the bars, and sure enough, Dad turned up at one of them, and not only was he drunk when we went to pick him up but he was livid that his teenage daughter and son were telling him what to do and mortified that we had found out his secret. The next day, though, he returned to the office and we went on from there.
Now Dad’s work was like his day care and I was his rest-of-the-time care, until we got to those occasions when he gave in
and went to a bar during lunch to let the alcohol dull everything. The last time my father showed any real emotion was the day of Mom’s wake. Before anyone else came in to pay their respects, he threw his arms around her casket as if somehow he could throw his arms around Mom one last time and he wept and cried like he might never be able to stop.
It broke my heart, watching Dad hug that casket.
“Come on, Rose. You can do this,” I said as I straightened up, doing my best to collect myself. Dad’s car was empty so at least he wasn’t passed out in the backseat. I headed through the garage to the door, pausing before I opened it, nervous about what state I’d find him in. Then I barged into the house, letting the door slam against the wall with a sharp bang. My boots clomped across the floor as I thudded through the kitchen and into the living room, the noise a courtesy to give Dad a chance to pull himself together.
But then I saw him.
“Dad?” I called out.
He didn’t look up.
“Daddy?” My voice rose higher. Skin tingling with fear, I rushed over to where he was slumped, his upper body curled into a ball in one of the easy chairs. He seemed so small among those big, soft cushions as I crouched down next to him, my
hands gripping the armrests as I tried to steady myself. “Daddy? I love you,” I whispered as if this would help, even though I knew that all the I love you’s in the world didn’t make any difference at all when something was really wrong. I put my hand across my father’s forehead, feeling for signs of life, and tried to rouse him. “Dad? Are you asleep?”
Passed out? Dead?
“Dad!” I barked, louder, my fear escalating.
Slowly, he opened his eyes and groaned. “Rose,” he said, his voice garbled and low, squinting up at me like he was having trouble focusing. “How was school?” he asked as if nothing was wrong, his words slurred.
The sour smell of liquor on his breath was strong and I jolted away. “You need to eat something,” I said, my voice stiff, feeling enraged that he was still getting drunk in the middle of the day when he was supposed to be at work, and that neither Jim nor I could convince him to stop no matter how we begged, reasoned, threatened, or screamed. But I was relieved, too, because right now, this minute, Dad was alive. He was still breathing and he was just drunk, and drunk I could deal with, because by now I had plenty of experience with this sort of situation and drunk was far better than the alternative scenarios my mind was always conjuring.
Dad shifted, trying to sit up. “Isn’t it early for dinner? What time is it?”
Everything about him seemed ruined, old,
fragile
, and I hated
noticing this. My heart ached, and my hand reached for my chest as if I could soothe this battered part of my anatomy.
“It doesn’t matter how early it is, we have to get food in you,” I said furiously, and stomped my way back to the kitchen, the noise hurting his head for sure but I didn’t care. “And lots of water,” I yelled, grabbing a tall glass from the cabinet above the sink and filling it. When I returned to the living room, Dad was still crumpled in the chair, his elbow and hand holding up his head. He winced each time the heels of my boots hit the floor. “Drink this down right now,” I ordered. “Then I’ll get you another.” He sighed and didn’t move, his eyes barely open. I held the glass in front of his face. “Dad. I’m not leaving until it’s gone.” He finally took it and sipped a little bit. “All of it,” I demanded.
When he began to drink in earnest I sat down on a nearby ottoman to wait, the muffled noise of the lawn mower outside providing the only sound in the house. Any evidence that Mom once livened this room with her loud voice and laughter was gone and a layer of dust covered everything. None of us wanted to touch anything, as if by wiping a cloth across the shelves and knickknacks we would erase any traces she’d left behind. Dad had removed the pictures of her, too, leaving only the dull brown cardboard backing in empty frames. Guilt stabbed me as thoughts of my Survival Kit entered my mind. Like everything in this room, I’d neglected it, and it had sat untouched in my closet since the day I found it. My eyes shifted back to my father, one hand still around the glass, the other resting on the
arm of the chair, his eyes glazed and empty. Maybe whatever Mom had left inside the Survival Kit would help show me how to put our family’s life back together in a way that made sense, or at least that was less painful and sad.
“Keep drinking. You’re almost done. Come on,” I said. “You’ll feel better.”
Dad put the glass to his lips again and gulped down what was left. When he was finished I stood, took it from his hand, and went to refill it, but this time I didn’t wait around while he drank it down. Instead, I started dinner, taking out the eggplant, eggs, and milk from the fridge and breadcrumbs and olive oil from the cabinet. I turned on the flame underneath the big sauté pan after I poured a layer of olive oil across the bottom. Grandma Madison, Dad’s crotchety mother, had taught me to cook, and Dad craved fried eggplant when he’d been drinking—something about fried food soaking up the alcohol. The rhythm of the slicing and dunking and breading and the sound of oil sizzling began to calm me, and for a few minutes I forgot about all the worries and the responsibilities and the giant mess that was Dad in the living room because cooking for me was like gardening for my mother—soothing.
My phone rang, piercing the silence, and I wiped my hands with a dish towel. My brother’s face smiled up at me from the screen and I grabbed it. “Jim, this isn’t a good time, can I call you back?”
“Rosey, I’ve been trying your cell for an hour.” Jim always called me Rosey.
“Let’s talk later,” I said. “I’m busy with Dad.”
“Busy?” He paused, taking in the meaning behind my statement. “Busy” was code between us for when Dad went on another bender. “Jeez. He did it again?”
“The short answer is yes.”
My brother sighed into the receiver. “I thought he was getting better …”
“Well, it
has
been a while since the last time, but really, I need to get off the phone. I’ve got my hands full.”
“But—”
“No buts. Jim, please.”
“I hate that you’re alone—”
“I know, I know.”
“Maybe next semester I should—”
“No dropping out of college,” I interrupted before he could finish. “We already decided this.”
“Rosey, it wouldn’t be permanent. Just for a few—”
“You know I don’t mind,” I broke in again. The noise from the eggplant frying became louder and I began to worry it would burn. “Really out of time, Jimmy. Don’t want to ruin dinner so talk to you later, love you, bye,” I said in one big rush, clicking the
off
button before he could say anything else and dashing to the stove top with a pair of tongs to turn over each of the disks so they didn’t blacken. Once the eggplant was crisp, I turned off the flame, and gradually the sound of the sizzling oil quieted. The noise from the lawn mower outside was gone, too, and the
house became eerily silent. While the eggplant dried on paper towels, I cleaned up, putting the pan in the dishwasher and wiping down the counters with a sponge. When I finally headed back into the living room, I managed to hold my tongue. “Eat up,” I said, and handed Dad the dish piled high with his hangover food. Immediately, I stalked off to my room.
I was so tired of holding him up.