When Pax walks ahead of us into the house, I pause with Impatient outside. "You're right. He's fucking horrible. The dude has no fucking depth perception. He tails the car ahead of him like he's being towed. The passenger side imaginary brake pedal is for real. I wore it the fuck out."
She smirks. "Told you." And holds out her fist.
I bump knuckles. "I need some fucking gum. My nerves are shot."
Wednesday, December 20
(Scout)
"They didn't even call, Scout. It's my birthday and they couldn't even make a goddamn phone call." There's disappointment in his voice, like he's floating alone in a sea of letdown.
I nod and battle with myself, wondering if this is the time to tell him about his mom.
He beats me to it and starts talking again before I do. "I shouldn't be surprised, really. I'm sure mom's drunk and dad's busy."
It's then that I make the decision. "Paxton, Jane's in rehab."
He's sitting on the corner of my bed with his back mostly to me, but turns to face me. The movement is slow like he's trying to decide if he heard me correctly or not. His eyebrows are tight with confusion, but his eyes look hopeful—an expression that contradicts itself, like he's been handed the gift he's always wanted but if he opens it a grenade might go off. "Rehab?"
"Uh-huh. She checked herself in about two months ago. From what I understand she can't have contact with anyone outside the facility until she completes the program. She'll be there another two to three weeks." I'm holding my breath the entire time I'm telling him, because I don't want him to be let down if she doesn't complete it. My dad's a career alcoholic; I know what it's like to be in Paxton's shoes. I knew never to let my heart hope.
His eyes drop. He's thinking about it, but when his eyes rise and meet mine again the momentary hope is gone and he shakes his head doubtfully. "She's not strong enough. She'll never do it."
My heart clenches like a dishcloth being wrung out inside my chest. "Sometimes it isn't a matter of being strong enough, Paxton. Alcoholism is a disease."
"Don't. Just don't, Scout. I know you've lived with it, too, but she chooses to wake up every day and drink. She chooses it over me. Every fucking day of my life." He takes a deep breath and it's as if the happiness of the past few weeks is deflating before my eyes.
I know how he feels. My dad's alcoholism is the reason I haven't lived with him since I was eleven. It's the reason uncle Jim thought it would be better if I lived with him and Jane. Here's the thing about alcoholism. It's destructive on many levels and to many degrees. While Jane uses it to dampen her feelings, the depression, the inadequacy; my dad was a partier. He used it to turn himself into the person he wanted be. The person he thought other people wanted him to be. The problem was he forgot who he was when he was sober and embraced the drunk version instead. And when that happened I never saw my real dad again. He was absent. The drunk dad pursued people and a lifestyle and forgot to be a parent. It's not that he's forgotten about me altogether. I still talk to him about once a year. Does he love me? Sure. Is he good at showing it? Not at all. That's life. I've accepted it.
Paxton hasn't. I'm not saying he should. He's only eighteen. And Jane's depression immobilizes her. Couple that with the alcohol, and it breeds resentment in Paxton.
His eyes are filling up with tears. I hate this part. It kills me when he cries. I've seen it too many times. He has the gentlest heart and watching it get crushed repeatedly is almost too much.
"Come here," I say gently.
I'm sitting on my bed with my back against the headboard. He crawls up the bed toward me and is sobbing by the time he wraps his arms around me. I hold him and I let him cry, just like every time before, and I pray to God that Jane helps herself so that I don't have to watch this sweet boy cry anymore.
When his breathing resumes to a natural cadence and he's just resting his cheek on my shoulder, I ask, "Did you have a good birthday, Paxton? I mean before all of this." I know he did.
He nods against my shoulder.
"What was the best part?" He needs to focus on something positive.
He sniffs a couple of times to clear his nose. "I don't know. The cupcakes were really good." He lifts his head slightly so that he's looking at me, and he quickly apologizes, "No offense, Scout, you make really good cakes."
I laugh. "None taken. I agree; Audrey's cupcakes are way better than my cake."
He smiles and rests his head back on my shoulder. "I think what I liked most was just hanging out with you and Gus and Audrey. It felt like a real family, you know? I know eighteen-year-old guys shouldn't get so excited over a barbeque, watching their favorite movie, and eating cupcakes ... but I did. Everyone just wanted to make me happy today."
"Of course we want to see you happy, Paxton."
"I know you always do, but they don't have to. They just do it. And not just on my birthday. They do it every day. Every day they're nice, Scout. I like it here. Why couldn't you have found Audrey and Gus ten years ago?"
I laugh. "Because I was fourteen, I wasn't really in the market for a job then."
He laughs, too. "I guess so." It's quiet for several moments before he says, "I'm glad things didn't work out between you and the jerk."