Diary Three: Dawn, Sunny, Maggie, Amalia, and Ducky Read online

  But you don’t say this to Maggie, brilliant Ducky that you are.

  Mr. Blume says he’s already talked to the Betty Ford Center, a place where people with drug and drinking problems go to get better. They are waiting for him to bring Mrs. Blume in. But first there’s going to be an “intervention.” He and two of Mrs. B’s best friends are coming over to confront Mrs. B “in a firm, caring way” about her drinking.

  Maggie and Zeke can opt out of this part.

  The scene at the Blume house is not nice in a big way. (You’re not there, of course, but Maggie’s told you about it.) Mrs. Blume is drunk. The house is trashed, although Pilar has been there cleaning up. Mrs. B doesn’t even seem to have noticed that her own two kids were missing. (Maggie had left a note for Pilar that, fortunately, survived Mrs. B’s rampage.)

  Even Mr. Blume looks taken aback.

  Maggie and Zeke head for the relative peace and quiet of their rooms as Mr. Blume tries to settle Mrs. Blume down.

  He succeeds.

  Things are quiet. Until the doorbell rings.

  And rings again.

  After awhile, Maggie slips out onto the stair landing in time to hear Rachel, one of Mrs. Blume’s two friends, say from the library, “Why would I make this up? You ARE an alcoholic.”

  “You drink too. You were loaded at the New Year’s party.” Mrs. Blume’s voice is off the scale.

  Maggie feels Zeke sit down next to her.

  Rachel says, “We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you.”

  “We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you,” Mrs. B spits back.

  Mr. Blume says something Maggie can’t quite catch.

  Her mother’s voice comes through loud and clear, though. She says, “I don’t need help! I’m fine. You know what your problem is? You’ve got too much time on your hands. Take up a hobby. Knitting. Go knit yourself a life.”

  Maggie is on her feet before she knows it. With Zeke right behind her she goes down the stairs and into the family room.

  “Mom, you’re a drunk!” Maggie shouts, bursting in.

  Mr. B holds up his hand as if to stop Maggie. She remembers what he said about an intervention: caring, firm.

  Not nasty. Not angry.

  Maggie reins herself in.

  “I love you, Mom. We all do. But you are killing yourself. Just like I was killing myself when I wasn’t eating. It’s a disease and you’re going to die if you don’t start fighting back.”

  “Don’t drink, Mama,” Zeke says. “Don’t die.”

  Mrs. B says, “I’m not sick. I feel fine.”

  Maggie just looks at her mother. Her eyes are filling with tears but she doesn’t turn away.

  “It’s not true!” Mrs. B shouts. “I can quit anytime I want. I just don’t want to.”

  Mrs. B’s other friend, Corrine, puts her hand on Mrs. B’s arm. “Listen to your children,” she says softly. “Listen to the people who love you most in the world.”

  Mrs. B falters. “It’s not true,” she says. And then she says, “I’m sorry.” She keeps apologizing. And promising she’ll do better.

  Mr. B says, “Yes, good. You’re going to Betty Ford.”

  Mrs. B stops apologizing and says, “No! I’m not that bad. The Betty Ford Center is for people who have real problems.”

  No one says anything. They all just look at Mrs. Blume.

  Her face collapses. She wails, “Nooo.”

  Maggie wants to go to her, tell her it’s all right.

  Except that it isn’t. And Maggie isn’t going to pretend it is anymore.

  It’s Mr. B who says it’s over. That it’s gone too far. It’s gone on too long. Everyone has tried to cope, but they can’t anymore. Mrs. B needs help that they can’t give.

  By now Mrs. B is really crying.

  “Anyway,” Maggie concludes what she’s telling you brightly. “She’s left. Gone. On her way to Betty’s.”

  When you ask her how she feels, Maggie says, “Fine.”

  You don’t say anything.

  Maggie says, “Okay. Fine, a little. Scared, a lot. Hopeful and afraid to hope. It could all go wrong. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to hope. But maybe… maybe just facing the fact that mom is an alcoholic will make a difference for all of us.”

  Aug. 29

  History of Ducky’s Sunday, Part II

  You hang out around the house until midafternoon.

  You watch some pretty dumb movies.

  You waste time on the web.

  You clean the kitchen.

  You give up and go to Sunny’s house. But she’s not home.

  No one is. While you are standing halfway down the front walk, thinking about leaving a note (bad idea), making a few phone calls (not appealing), or driving around aimlessly pretending you are searching for Sunny (appealing—a good, guilt-free way to waste time, except for the waste of fossil fuel), Dawn shouts your name from next door.

  You accept her invitation to enter her case and go to the mat with baby Gracie.

  Gracie laughs at all your jokes. Fortunately, you don’t suspect her of having a hidden, terrifying agenda.

  As if she has read your mind, Dawn observes that babies have it easy.

  “They don’t worry about expectations,” she says. “They just put it out there. They’re happy? They laugh. They’re hungry? They cry. No miscommunications. No hurt feelings. And they’re willing to forgive you if you make a mistake. So you think they’re crying because they want food and you discover they want to be changed. Change them—they’re happy, you’re happy.”

  You say, “Yeah.”

  Ducky the great communicator.

  Dawn says, not unexpectedly, given the lead-in: “So, what about you and Sunny? Any chance?”

  Just like that, she asks the question.

  The two-letter negative is on the tip of your tongue, but you lack the straightforwardness of a mere baby like Gracie.

  You say, “Well, uh.”

  You say, “Sunny’s great. I love her, but…”

  You say, “I wish I could be different about this.”

  You finally wind down your extended version of “N” followed by “O.”

  Gracie is staring at you. Dawn is studying you too.

  You pretend Gracie is fascination personified. She agrees and laughs in delight.

  Somewhere above you, Dawn says, “It’s too bad. But I do understand, Ducky, more than you think. And you know what? Sunny will too. Eventually.”

  You hope that this is TRUE and that it will happen SOON.

  Aug. 29

  History of Ducky’s Sunday, Part III

  P.M. approaching A.M.

  You… no, I wish I could fall in love with Sunny.

  I do, I do, I really, really do.

  But I can’t.

  Aug. 29

  History of Ducky’s Sunday, part IV

  You wish you could go to sleep too, don’t you, Ducky?

  Like Ted the snore machine in there.

  But you can’t.

  Not until you’ve talked to Sunny.

  You get up and go into the kitchen. Maybe you’ll clean something else: the laundry room, the den.

  You forgot you used up all the cleaning supplies on the kitchen.

  Aug. 29

  History of Ducky’s Sunday, Part V

  So what are you going to say? If you go with the “just be friends” routine, it’s gonna sound like the lame lose-yourself it usually is.

  How did “just” get to be attached to the word “friends” anyway?

  You’ve lived a long time without a girlfriend and a pretty good while without anything like a family in residence.

  But you could live, oh, ten minutes without friends.

  Friends are your family of choice. You get to choose them. That’s what so cool about it. And they choose you.

  That’s true love, if you ask… you.

  Aug. 29

  History of Ducky’s Sunday, Part VI


  That’s it. You’re going to sleep even if you have to lie in bed awake for the RESTOFTHENIGHT.

  Aug. 30

  So you’ve told Sunny, in a particularly graceful and suave way, that you have to talk to her, as in:

  Scene: Bookstore, moments after opening. You emerge from the rest room and there’s Sunny.

  D: Sunny!

  S: Good morning, Ducky.

  D: Sunny.

  S: [A look]

  D: Uh, can we talk?

  S: [Long pause] okay. After work.

  You are not sure whether you are relieved for the time to think about it, or whether you just wish it were over with already.

  5:15

  Late break. You are sucking back coffee because when you’re nervous, that helps your nerves, right?

  You are sitting on a bench behind a tree, like some spy.

  You can see Sunny inside the bookstore as you skulk.

  She is laughing at something her father has said to a customer (you surmise). Or maybe it’s something the customer said….

  Stop this. Off the point.

  The point is…

  What is the point?

  What if Sunny looks at you and says that? “Ducky, what’s the point?”

  What if she says, “Let’s just be friends.”

  And that means that she is no longer your friend because there are ways of saying it and other ways of saying it and you don’t like the possibility of the way you think she might say it.

  You are losing it.

  Definitely.

  Two more customers just walked in.

  Must leap from behind the tree and get back inside to work.

  Later

  IS THIS WEIRD, TO hang out in your car? To hang out in your car writing in your journal?

  Or what?

  At least you’re not hanging out on a bench. The grocery store parking lot is not so strange. After all, you could just be writing up a grocery list.

  Of cleaning supplies.

  This is what happened.

  You hover around the register as Mr. W closes it out. He looks up, smiles. “Take off,” he says. “See you at home, Sunny?”

  “Yep,” she says. “For dinner.”

  She takes your hand and leads you out of the store. You are a) grateful for the guidance; and b) PANICKED THAT SHE IS HOLDING YOUR HAND.

  Your hand starts to sweat.

  Also your neck.

  You follow Sunny to your car. She says, “the beach.”

  So you drive to the beach. Sunny doesn’t say anything. She fiddles with the sad excuse you call a car radio.

  At the beach, you pull into a deserted end of the lot.

  Sunny gets out.

  She jumps up onto the hood of your car.

  You do the same.

  You both stare out at the ocean.

  Farther up the beach is the surfers’ zone. Farther down is the family spot, where the waves are gentler.

  Here it’s anything goes.

  Someone, you think a young woman, is doing the slow movements of Tai Chi.

  Two guys are sitting cross-legged, playing some kind of board game.

  A man and a woman with six golden retrievers and a Jack Russell terrier are throwing about a hundred tennis balls into the surf for the dogs to retrieve.

  You decide you identify with one of the tennis balls. Smashed in the waves. Gnashed in a dog’s teeth.

  You take a deep breath to begin to ruin what is left of your relationship with Sunny.

  She beats you to it.

  She says, “I hate this. I hate it, Ducky.”

  “You do?” you croak.

  For a moment, you think she’s said, “I hate you, Ducky.” But she hasn’t.

  Not yet.

  “I do,” she says. “I hate what’s happening. I hate the way you look scared whenever I talk to you. I hate the way you stand there but sort of back up, like with your eyes, you know? Detach. Distance yourself. I hate myself for kissing you, because I should have known something like this would happen. If I could unkiss you, I would. Totally. In a heartbeat.”

  “Oh,” you say.

  One of the retrievers has managed to put three balls into its mouth. It is trying to pick up a fourth, but so far, no luck.

  Sunny elbows you. “Your turn,” she says.

  “You’d unkiss me?” you say. “That’s not very flattering.”

  “Ducky,” she says in a warning voice.

  “Yeah,” you say. And then, words come, more or less. You tell her how completely miserable you’ve been. That you can’t sleep. That it’s not her fault and you’re sorry about the scared look, but it wasn’t fear of what she would do, it was fear of your own reaction. You believed that if you reacted wrong, you would scorch her feelings and ruin your friendship and it’s the one thing in the whole wide world you couldn’t stand. You love Sunny way too much and have for way too long to feel any differently, to feel in love. You don’t know why, but it’s not there. It’s something just as strong, maybe stronger. You say, “some people are meant to be just boyfriend and girlfriend. But others are meant to be best friends.”

  “Best friends,” says Sunny, seeming to perk up. “Nah.”

  “You don’t wanna be my best friend?” you ask, pretending you’re hurt.

  “You mean it?” she asks.

  “Forever and always,” you say.

  Sunny sighs and leans against you for a minute. You feel comfortable and happy and you put your arm around her and you sit there, pondering love and life and golden retrievers and Jack Russells.

  Then Sunny straightens. “Don’t get all mush-brained on me,” she says. “That’s probably why I kissed you in the first place—the mush factor of summer.”

  “And I thought it was my unique sense of style,” you joke back.

  Sunny rolls her eyes. “I’ll give you unique,” she says.

  You laugh. “You’re the one who dreams of personalized bowling shirts,” you say.

  And Sunny laughs.

  It feels so good.

  Best friends.

  Later

  YOU ARE NO LONGER hanging out in the parking lot of the grocery store.

  You actually went in and bought cleaning supplies.

  However, you no longer feel the need to KEEP BUSY in a PRODUCTIVE WAY.

  You are now watching a bad flick, in which a monster from outer space is taking over a movie set.

  You are debating the difference between science fiction and horror.

  You wonder why teachers never give these questions as assignments: describe your summer vacation in terms of: a) a horror movie or b) a science fiction flick.

  You would like to point out that summer vacations exist only in the minds of children and teachers. You personally have had far too much work to do this summer.

  And you don’t mean the bookstore.

  The movie will have a happy ending. The bad guy will get turned into monster mash.

  You are rooting for the monster to go on to become a movie star and then president of the united states, just like Ronald Reagan!!!

  Does your summer have a happy ending?

  Hard to say. Not definite. No screen kiss fade to credits.

  As first kisses go, for example (you are not counting that time in third grade) this was fairly unsuccessful. You will need more lip-lock learning.

  Later.

  And not with Sunny.

  Some things are like that. Some things end, roll the credits, everybody lives happily ever after. You believe this is true even in real life.

  Sometimes.

  Occasionally.

  But you, Duckster, know that you are not John Wayne. You are not that kind of hero and you don’t get that kind of ending, at least not this time.

  You and Sunny have this kind of ending: your friendship endured. Maybe it will be stronger, better.

  Or maybe not.

  Meanwhile, you’ve both just agreed that enough has been said, and no more needs to be done. T
ime to let it go. Time to let it slide.

  It’s like a piece of your back story. Maybe someday you’ll look back and laugh.

  Or not.

  Only time will tell.

  You just have to go with that.

  Sept. 4

  9:00 a.m.

  School looms

  Like, practically tomorrow, if you don’t count Sunday.

  Why, wouldn’t you count Sunday?

  Don’t get into religion now, Ducky.

  It makes people uncomfortable. Even more uncomfortable than talking about sex.

  You don’t feel comfortable with either subject, so moving right along….

  Busy, busy, like, you know, busy.

  Let’s count Saturday, anyway. You know how you feel about Saturday.

  In just a few hours you, Ducky, will be the Saturday-night party animal.

  Why yes. You are having a party. At your house. With your parents’ long-distance permission.

  When you talked to them, you listened while they discussed the Greek influence in Roman mosaics and the confluence of cultural cross-fertilization.

  You thought this sounded like either sex or gardening but you had sense enough to keep your mouth shut. You heard the strangled sound Ted made and knew he was trying not to laugh.

  Then your mother mentioned the possibility that she and your father might try a cooking class vacation.

  “Sounds great, Mom,” Ted said in his “Sincerely Your Son, Ted” voice.

  “Mmm,” you said. “Speaking of cooking, Mom, I’m thinking of cooking up a back-to-school get-together for my friends.”

  “How nice,” said she.

  “What sort of party?” asked your father, not to be fooled for an instant by soft words and creative segues.

  “Just a few friends,” you say.

  “Define a few,” your father says.

  “Eight to twelve.”

  In fact, if you are able to muster twelve friends, you’ve got friends you didn’t know you had, but you don’t want to explore that with your parents or Ted.

  “That sounds nice,” your mother says, heading off further interrogation. “You’ll be there, won’t you, Ted?”

  “Count on me,” Ted says heartily, in that same voice.

  “I thought we could cook out,” you let slip, before realizing you are venturing into the land of too much information. Your mother says, “Be careful. Wear oven mitts.”