―Oh, so he‘s a Marine.‖ Mr. Anderson nodded. ―My brother‘s over there, too, only he‘s army. Special forces.‖

―Where is he stationed?‖

―I have no idea, really. Somewhere in Afghanistan is all he‘ll say. Scares the hell out of me when I don‘t hear from him and then when I do, the relief just sucks everything out for a little while, like I‘ve run fifty miles instead of twenty.‖

I knew how that felt. ―How often do you hear from your brother?‖

―Casey?‖ He thought about it. ―Once a month? Not very often. Everything he does is classified. What about you?‖

―Matt gets off an e-mail about once a week, but I write to him almost every day. It makes me feel better. Like I‘m doing something. Like—‖

―What?‖

―Like I‘m keeping him alive. Like our e-mails are—‖ I wanted to say lifelines. If I wrote to Matt, I was keeping him close. But I couldn‘t say any of that. I‘d sound insane. I‘d said too much already. So I kept quiet.

He waited. Finally, he said, ―Do your parents know?‖

It seemed an odd question. I shot him a glance, but Mr. Anderson‘s gaze was on the road. ―No.‖ I told him about how they‘d been against Matt enlisting. ―The last thing I want is to upset my mother more than she already is.‖

―I think she‘d be more upset if she found out you were keeping secrets.‖

―She‘s got enough to worry about.‖ I paused then added, ―You won‘t . . . mention this to anyone, will you? To Ms. Sherman or anyone?‖

―The Tank? No. But . . . is this something she should be worried about?‖ Before I could answer, he held up a hand. ―Sorry. Not my business. I can keep a secret. But you know, Jenna . . . your brother‘s not the only person you can talk to.‖

Was that the first time he‘d used my name-name? ―I don‘t know anyone else.‖

―Well, you know me.‖ He paused. ―And you could make more of an effort to get involved in school.‖

Now he was sounding like an adult. ―How? I don‘t have a car. I don‘t even have a cell.‖

―Don‘t you have a license?‖

―My parents haven‘t . . . My mom hasn‘t had time to take me to the DMV.‖

―What about your father?‖

―He‘s . . .‖ My brain went into prerecorded robot-mode. ―He‘s really busy. He works all the time. He‘s under a lot of stress.‖

―Everyone has things to do. He should make the time.‖

Maybe in Mr. Anderson‘s perfect world, there were parents who were more interested in their kids than their own problems, but I had to live in mine. ―I‘m okay. It doesn‘t matter,‖ I said. ―It‘s not like I can exactly run out and do stuff with anyone, anyway.‖

―Do you want to?‖ When I didn‘t answer, he said, ―That‘s what I thought.‖

Honestly, Bob, what could I say?

c

The good news: as we pulled into the McMansion‘s driveway, I could tell from all those yellow rectangles that just about every single light downstairs was on.

Then, the bad news: the garage door was down, so I had no way of knowing just who was home. I couldn‘t slide out of having Mr. Anderson come inside either. He just wouldn‘t budge and I was too worked up to argue.

I didn‘t hear the television from the front foyer, but that didn‘t necessarily mean anything. ―Mom?‖ Pause. ―Dad?‖

No answer. I moved deeper into the house, Mr. Anderson following close behind.

Every step felt like a march to a scaffold. The light was so bright and blazing it hurt my eyes.

Please. I turned down the short hall for the kitchen. Make me be wrong, please, please....

No such luck.

15: a

Her head was down on the table: face turned away, cheek cradled on her arms. By her right elbow, a water glass, half-full of clear liquid and ice, squatted in a puddle of condensation. The cupboards beneath the sink were open. The Stoli bottle was on the counter. The kitchen smelled of fried eggs and rubbing alcohol.

I was aware of Mr. Anderson standing just behind me. He didn‘t say anything and I couldn‘t look at him. Instead, I put my hand on my drunken mother‘s shoulder. ―Mom?‖

When she didn‘t respond, I said, more loudly, ―Mom? Wake up, it‘s Jenna. Mom? ‖

―What?‖ She gasped and sat up so quickly she missed clocking my face with her head by inches. I couldn‘t tell if the sharp alcohol stink I smelled was from her, or the open bottle. Her eyes were puffy, but they weren‘t ticking from side to side—a good sign.

―Jenna? What . . . ?‖ Her eyes widened. ―Who ... ?‖

―Mitch Anderson.‖ Mr. Anderson held out his hand. ―I‘m Jenna‘s chemistry teacher.‖

―Emily Lord,‖ Mom said faintly. She made a move to take his hand then stopped, her fingers twitching a little like the legs of a dying spider. ―What . . .why. . . ?‖

Mr. Anderson waited a beat then slid his hand into a pocket. ―When you didn‘t show up at school or answer your cell, I brought Jenna home.‖

―School?‖ Mom‘s hand flew to her mouth. Her cheek was slick with drool. ―Oh my God. Oh, Jenna, honey, I‘m so sorry, I was so overwhelmed.... I just wasn‘t thinking; I was on autopilot.... I ...‖ Her gaze clicked to her drink and she swallowed. ―I wasn‘t thinking,‖

she said again.

―It‘s okay,‖ I said for want of anything better. Her words weren‘t slurred. Maybe she hadn‘t drunk much. Maybe she‘d been so tired, she‘d fallen asleep right here at the kitchen table. Maybe pigs could fly.

We all stood there a second and then Mr. Anderson said, ―Mrs. Lord, you look pretty beat. Have you had anything to eat? When did you get home?‖

―Nine, I think. I don‘t remember. I went out with Nate . . . Mr. Bartholomew for a few drinks and then we . . . I came home.‖ She ran a hand over her lips. She looked at the kitchen, maybe seeing it for the first time. ―I was just going to sit and collect my thoughts. I guess I fell asleep.‖

And in all that time—having drinks with Nate, the ride home, walking into an empty house, pouring out her vodka— she hadn‘t once thought of me. ―Where‘s Dad?‖ I asked.

―He left a voice mail. He‘s covering for Dr. Kirby and was just going into the OR.‖

I‘d spoken to the page operator and that, I knew, was wrong. Before I could say anything, Mr. Anderson put in, ―Well, that‘s all good then. Tell you what, Mrs. Lord, why don‘t you get cleaned up and we‘ll make tea and maybe some sandwiches? You‘ll feel better.‖ He put his hand on my mother‘s elbow and gently got her on her feet. ―Jenna, you want to help your mom? Maybe turn on the shower?‖

I knew what he wanted me to do. ―Sure. Thanks.‖

He did me the favor of not smiling. ―No problem.‖

―I‘m so sorry, honey,‖ Mom said as we went upstairs. Her breath was sour. ―I didn‘t mean to embarrass you. It was just . . . Things aren‘t getting better at the store and . . .‖

―Oh, Mom. I was just scared something had happened. And you didn‘t answer your cell. Why? Is the battery dead?‖

―Yes,‖ Mom said, after a moment. ―That must be it.‖

b

When I got back to the kitchen, Mr. Anderson was loading the last of the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. ―Hey,‖ he said, then tilted his head at the Stoli, now capped.

―Where should I put that?‖

―In the trash?‖ I was almost too exhausted to be embarrassed. I hugged myself and shivered. The house felt chilly, but I always got cold when I was tired. ―Mr. Anderson, you should go home. I‘m sorry about my mom—‖

―Stop.‖ He put a light hand on my shoulder and squeezed. ―Lots of families have problems. Now . . . you like tuna fish?‖

I pulled out bread and opened cans. Mr. Anderson chopped celery. Overhead, water gurgled through pipes as Mom showered. As I spooned in mayonnaise, he said, ―You know, my dad was a drunk. The worst kind. He‘d get nasty, then drink some more and get violent. When I was young, I called the police more than once. He only stopped because I got old enough and strong enough to beat the crap out of him.‖

My gaze went to the kitchen wall my father had cratered a month before. The drywall was patched and the wall repaired, but I still saw the hole every day. ―I‘m not that strong,‖ I said, stirring in mayo.

―I don‘t know about that. You could‘ve had a meltdown, but you didn‘t. You took care of your mother, and that‘s probably more than she‘s done for you, lately. Just remember, though, that no matter how bad it may seem now, you‘ll be gone in a couple of years. You‘ll go to college and . . . No, wait, try this.‖ He shook several squirts of soy sauce into the tuna fish. ―Go on, stir it in.... Don‘t give me that look. It‘s really good. Trust me, Jenna.‖

―Oh, Mr. Anderson, I . . .‖ My throat clogged. ―I never... I ...‖

―Hey, Jenna, it‘s okay,‖ he said. ―Just because your mom has a problem doesn‘t mean I think you‘re a horrible person. I‘m not thinking what a loser you are. I‘m thinking that you‘re a brave, smart, tough girl who‘s doing the best she can under really crummy circumstances.‖

I gave a weak, watery laugh. ―You don‘t know me.‖

―I know what I need to know for now,‖ he said.

c

Mom was all apologies when she came down fifteen minutes later. Her face was scrubbed clean, and she looked better. We had jasmine tea and tuna fish sandwiches. (And, Bob, tuna really is better with a little soy sauce.) Mr. Anderson got Mom talking about books, which was the absolute right thing to do. She jabbered on about the store and then told Mr. Anderson about the big October party: ―It‘s next week. You should come. Please, we‘d love to have you. Bring your wife; I can introduce her to Meryl.‖

―Well, we‘ll see,‖ Mr. Anderson said, noncommittally, and then glanced at his watch. ―I really ought to be going. School night, you know.‖

At the door, Mom shook his hand. ―Thank you so much for looking after Jenna. I don‘t know how to begin to repay your kindness.‖

Fail. Looking after me? Mom made it sound like I was about five years old. She continued, ―Please do think about coming to the party.‖