You and Me and Us Read online

  “I know I can, but I don’t want to.”

  Becky furrows her eyebrows, trying to make sense out of the pieces I know don’t fit together. But I can’t tell her the truth, that I can’t stand the thought of running into Monica. Or worse, having Tommy run into her. Or, god forbid, CeCe.

  “Going down to Destin just isn’t realistic,” I try to explain. “His doctors are all here, and we already paid for CeCe’s theater camp. She’s been looking forward to it all year.”

  Becky sighs and nods in agreement. “How is the bean taking everything?”

  “She doesn’t know yet.”

  Becky coughs, choking midsip.

  “I’m pretty sure she knows something is going on, but she has no idea what.”

  “When are you going to tell her?”

  I shrug. “I don’t want to think about that right now.”

  “Finally, something I can help with.”

  Now I’m the one to raise an eyebrow.

  “The best way to avoid thinking about something is to drink about it instead. Adina!” she calls out. “Another round, por favor!”

  Chapter Seven

  CeCe

  I open the front door to find Mom standing on the other side, trying to get her key in the lock. She glances up, looking like a mess in one of the shapeless shirts she usually wears just around the house. Her eyes look sad even though she’s laughing.

  “What is wrong with you?” I ask. I could hear her banging around from the kitchen, where I was trying to memorize my lines. She’s been acting off all week—but just because something is clearly going wrong at work doesn’t mean we should have to suffer at home.

  “You saved my life,” Mom slurs as she falls inside, throwing her arms around me. Her weight is heavy on my shoulders and she reeks of beer.

  “Are you drunk?” I shrug her off me and she stumbles back, giggling as she balances herself against the wall.

  “Maybe just a little?” she whispers loudly, as if she just noticed we’re standing outside Dad’s closed office door.

  “You’re wasted.”

  She shrugs and stumbles past me, heading toward the kitchen.

  I follow a few steps behind, a little worried she might fall. If she does, I’ll have to break the one rule I’ve never broken and interrupt Dad when he’s counseling one of his online patients. But it’ll be her fault—she is not a small woman and I doubt I’d be able to pick her up on my own.

  “Careful,” I say as she falls into her chair at the kitchen table.

  What kind of mother comes home out-of-her-mind drunk before it’s even dark outside? I glance at the clock on the microwave—it’s 4:35. Thank god Dad will be out of his session soon. She’s his responsibility, not mine.

  “I can do this; I’ll be fine on my own.” Mom’s slurring her words together so I don’t fully understand. “The two of us, we’ll be fine.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, sounding more like the parent than the child, which is totally screwed up.

  She rests her head on her hands and hiccups. “Water.”

  I get a glass from the cabinet and fill it with the cold filtered water from the fridge and set it down in front of her. She hiccups again. “Thank you,” she says before taking a sip. “You love me, don’t you?”

  “Not when you’re like this.”

  Mom closes her eyes and nods. I almost feel bad for a second that I may have hurt her feelings, but this is not how a mother is supposed to act.

  “You didn’t drive home, did you?” I ask, fully assuming the role of parent.

  “Uber,” she says, hiccuping again.

  At least she was semismart about it.

  Her glass is almost empty, so I fill it up again. When I turn back, her eyes are fluttering closed like she’s about to fall asleep—right there at the kitchen table where we eat dinner, where I do my homework, where I’m supposed to be memorizing lines for a play she clearly doesn’t care about.

  “You should go to bed,” I tell her.

  She mumbles in agreement, so I grab her arm and attempt to pull her up. She resists, but I’m younger, I’m stronger, and I’m sober.

  I take a step back and steady myself, giving her arm a big yank. She finally stands up and drapes her arm around my shoulder. The two of us walk slow and steady like we’re tied together in a three-legged race. We’re rounding the corner of the living room toward the stairs when the door to Dad’s office flies open.

  “What in the world?”

  “Hi, baby.” Mom lifts her head up, but it wobbles around like her neck isn’t really supporting it. “Everything’s fine.”

  “I’ve got this,” Dad says, taking over just as Mom lets out a disgusting man-size belch.

  “Gross.” I step away and brush her germs off my shoulder.

  Dad lifts her up, holding her like a baby in his arms. A big, drunk baby. It looks like it’s taking a lot of effort to carry her up the stairs, so I stay at the bottom in case he needs help.

  “Don’t leave me,” I hear Mom say before he turns into their room. The door closes, but I can still hear the sound of her crying.

  There’s a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach, and for a second, I’m scared that something is really wrong. Mom’s never done anything like this before. I try to think back to all the incoherent things she was mumbling about. Then all of a sudden, it’s so obvious.

  I smile and head back into the kitchen. Maybe wishes do come true. Because I heard her, clear as day. She said, “Don’t leave me.” There’s no other explanation—Mom and Dad are getting a divorce. Or breaking up, since they aren’t officially married.

  Now I just have to decide how I’m going to let all this play out. If I let Dad know that I know, I could catch him off guard. Which could be good. Or it might make him mad. And if he’s mad, then I won’t be able to take full advantage.

  When Sofia’s parents told her they were getting divorced, she practically had a meltdown. She locked herself in her room until her dad promised to put his credit card on an Uber account so she could go back and forth between their houses whenever she wanted.

  Lauren got her mom to take her on a trip to Paris. I don’t remember how she pulled it off, something about being worried that she and her mom wouldn’t be as close since they weren’t going to be living in the same house all the time.

  Come to think about it, not having to live in a house with my mom would be even better than a trip to Paris. I could tell the judge how Mom came home drunk today. The courts would never leave an innocent child with a woman who did that sort of thing.

  I hear Dad’s cough getting closer, so I push my script aside and get him a glass of water—no time like the present to show him things will be okay when it’s just the two of us. I can help take care of him, probably better than Mom does. She’s so focused on her stupid agency, it’s like her employees mean more to her than we do. She’ll have plenty of time to spend with them once Dad and I move out.

  On second thought, Mom should be the one to move out. She can get an apartment and Dad and I can stay at the house. It makes more sense since his office is here, and so is all my stuff.

  “Whoa, careful.” Dad reaches over my shoulder to turn off the faucet. The water is overflowing, pouring out of the glass like the fountain at Piedmont Park.

  “Sorry, I was distracted.”

  “Understandable,” he says, before coughing again. I hand him the glass of water and he gives me a sad smile before taking a sip. “That must have been scary, seeing your mom like that.”

  “Whatever.” I shrug it off, remembering too late that I was supposed to make it seem like a bigger deal so I’m not lying when I tell the divorce judge about it.

  “Your mom’s got a lot going on,” he says, making excuses for her like he always does. Sometimes I wonder what he sees in her. At least he’s finally come to his senses; we’ll be better off without her.

  I lift myself up on the counter and watch as he tries to act normal and pretend
nothing is wrong. I know I decided not to steal his thunder and let him break the news, but I don’t think I can wait. And with Mom being passed out drunk upstairs, there might not be a better time to go in for the full-custody kill.

  “I know,” I tell him.

  “What do you know?” Dad asks, raising an eyebrow.

  “I know what’s going on.”

  Dad takes a step back and sits down at the kitchen table. He looks tired and sad. “Oh, kiddo,” he says. “I wanted to be the one to tell you.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, trying to keep my voice upbeat. “I already told you—most of my friends’ parents are divorced. As long as you can get full custody, it’ll be fine.”

  “Full custody?”

  “Or whatever it’s called. Mom can move out and you and I can stay here.” Dad takes a deep breath, which starts him coughing again. I hop off the counter and bring him the glass of water he left by the sink. “You’ve said it yourself: I’m grown-up for my age. I can help take care of you.”

  “Oh, Cecelia,” he says.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m breaking your heart.”

  “Sit down with me.” He reaches for my hand and pulls me closer until I’m sitting in his lap, the way I used to when I was little. “Your mom and I aren’t getting divorced.”

  “I know you’re not officially married.”

  “It’s not that.”

  My stomach feels weird, the way it does for a second right before I go onstage. I stand up and turn around so I can look him in the face. “But I heard her. Mom said, ‘Don’t leave me.’”

  “She did,” Dad says, his voice eerily quiet.

  “Where are you going?” I pull my chair out and sit down so our knees are almost touching. “Daddy?”

  He reaches over and takes my hands in his. They’re shaking, and so is his right leg. “I’m sick, baby girl.” He coughs again as if he’s making a point.

  “But you’ll get better,” I tell him. “You’ll go to the doctor.”

  He looks down at the floor and squeezes my hands. When he looks back up, I can see the truth in his eyes, shining with tears that are about to fall.

  I’ve never seen my dad cry before. I don’t want to see him cry.

  “I have to go.” My legs wobble beneath me as I stand up. I take a careful step, like I’m made of glass and the smallest wrong move could shatter me into a million tiny pieces that he’ll never be able to put back together. “I should go check on Mom.”

  I keep walking out of the room, away from his sad eyes. He doesn’t stop me.

  Upstairs, I close the door and collapse on my bed. The tears start falling before my head even hits the pillow. My shoulders start to shake and a loud noise comes out of my mouth that I’ve never heard before. My heart is racing, my stomach aches, and my breath is fogging up my glasses, but I don’t care enough to wipe them off.

  I don’t hear my door open, but I feel the bed shift as Dad sits down beside me.

  “It’s okay,” he lies. “It’s going to be okay.”

  Chapter Eight

  Alexis

  The sound of a jackhammer wakes me before I’m ready to get up. Everything hurts. The roof of my mouth is drier than a desert and my tongue feels thick, like it’s coated with sandpaper.

  There’s no need to call in sick today now that Becky knows what’s going on—it was her idea for me to take another few days off. I flip the pillow over to the cool side and try to fall back asleep when I realize the offensive noise is inside my head.

  In the hallway, I hear CeCe banging around, getting ready for school. I’m not sure if it’s my imagination or my current state, but it sounds louder than normal.

  “Keep it down, please,” Tommy whispers loudly. His normal shrink voice is soft and quiet, but whenever he tries to whisper, he fails miserably. “Your mom is still sleeping.”

  “So, what, she gets rewarded for being drunk?” CeCe’s voice gets louder with every word. “You’re the one who’s sick, but she gets to stay home from work? And I have to go to school?”

  My stomach turns—I hope I didn’t let it slip last night that he was sick.

  “I said keep it down.” Tommy raises his voice, clearly forgetting he was trying not to wake me.

  “It’s not fair.”

  I strain to hear his reply, but I can’t. Either they really are whispering now, or more likely, Tommy is using one of his shrink moves and not saying anything at all.

  “Do you want to stay home from school today?” he finally asks. “I’ll be working, but you can hang out with your mom.”

  Now it’s CeCe’s turn to not say anything. I picture the scowl on her face, causing her thick black glasses to slide down her nose, making her even angrier. The image makes me smile until I realize Tommy used the thought of spending time with me to make school look like the better option.

  “Well?” I hear Tommy say.

  “It’s not like I can just miss rehearsal after school,” she says in defeat.

  “I think that’s a smart decision,” Tommy says, again in his shrink-voice. “I’m going to make breakfast, come down if you want to join me.”

  Nailed it. I burrow deeper under the covers and close my eyes again. Since I’m not going into the office, I can spend the day doing more research on treatment options. I saw an ad the other day for a drug, Keytruda. It’s only for non–small cell lung cancer, but I figure it’s worth a shot to do some digging. Maybe the pharmaceutical company is working on a similar drug for the small cell kind?

  I roll over and reach for my phone, which is miraculously in its usual spot, plugged in on the nightstand. I google “cure for small cell lung cancer.”

  The first few results are ads for the clinic at Emory University where Tommy’s oncologist works. But halfway down the page, there’s a link to a blog by a stage 4 cancer survivor who beat the odds thanks to homeopathic remedies.

  I tap the link and hold my breath as the page loads. I have to read the woman’s story twice to make sure I didn’t misunderstand. But the beautiful truth is there, written in black-and-white: her doctor told her there was no hope, but eleven years later, she’s still cancer-free after going to a clinic in Mexico that used natural remedies. She went from stage 4 to a zero, so it is possible.

  For the next ten minutes, I continue down the rabbit hole, reading patient testimonials, choosing to ignore the “results may vary” and “not approved by the FDA” warnings. The site doesn’t go into detail of what the treatments entail, but the author lists a few by name. I reach for the notepad and pen on my nightstand and jot down the phrases to research individually: hyperthermia (“local whole body heat”), sonodynamic therapy, oxygen treatments, enzyme therapy.

  Another quick Google search locates the clinic I’m pretty sure she’s talking about. It’s in Tijuana, less than half an hour from the San Diego airport. My pulse quickens as I read about their philosophy, how important the patient’s attitude is and how they see fewer patients in order to provide the highest level of individual care.

  I’ve got to get Tommy into this program. As I fill out the form for more information, a plan starts to formulate.

  It’ll be a compromise. Shrinks love compromise, it’s like part of their code of conduct. Tommy will get to spend the summer at the beach like he wanted, just a different beach, one near a clinic that can save his life so we can go back to Destin for years to come, long after Monica’s stupid show has wrapped. It’s the best of both worlds.

  I’m so relieved to be feeling hope instead of despair that when I hear the bedroom door slowly open, I forget that I shouldn’t look quite so happy.

  “Morning,” he says, slightly suspicious. “You look like you’re feeling better.”

  “Just happy to see you,” I say. “CeCe left for school?”

  Tommy nods and leans against the doorframe. He looks exhausted.

  I hesitate before asking the next question, afraid to hear the answer. “I didn’t tell her, did I?”

  Tommy shakes
his head, and I feel more relieved than I have the right to be. “I told her,” he says.

  I know better than to ask how it went, so I pat the bed beside me instead. Tommy gives me a small smile and walks closer. His eyes graze across the page where my scribbled notes and plans are outlined. He frowns and I quickly turn over the notepad before reaching for his hand.

  “I have a patient in half an hour,” he says, lifting the covers and sliding underneath.

  “I’ll take all the time I can get.” I curl into his side and throw my arm around him, letting my head rise and fall with his breaths, which I try not to notice are shorter than they should be. I should have noticed; why didn’t I pay more attention? If I had, if I’d made him go to the doctor sooner, then maybe it wouldn’t be too late.

  As if the universe wants to make the point loud and clear, Tommy coughs and I can hear the rattle echo in his chest. The sound hurts my heart, so I lift my head, away from what’s trying to destroy him from the inside out, and focus on his lips instead. I drink him in, tasting the coffee on his tongue.

  Tommy’s hands slip underneath the pajama top I don’t remember putting on last night. His fingers feel cool on my back and I don’t want to wait any longer. I want his hands, his skin, his lips, on every part of me.

  Knowing we don’t have much time to waste, I sit up and slip the shirt over my head before doing the same to his. I hesitate for a second too long, my eyes lingering on his chest, imagining the tumors hiding beneath the surface. Tommy notices and takes charge, flipping me over so I’m lying on my back. I smile before pulling him down to me. Lying beneath him, with his weight holding me down, I feel safer than I have since our lives turned upside down.

  Tommy’s touch is both gentle and firm. I wrap my arms around him, holding him as close as I can. I relinquish all control and let him show me that he’s still very much alive.