Whiskey at Midnight, page 14
It’s nice, letting someone know the details of her life. All of the ramblings that occur to Emma when she’s stocking or sitting in a particularly boring class. It’s only when she’s meeting Cam for coffee and listens to Cam talk about her day, beginning with her car having trouble starting, that the parallel between her talking to Wren and Cam talking to her becomes obvious. When did she start needing to talk about her day? Sometime between Wren fucking her senseless and Cam rejecting her for the fifth or sixth time.
Emma drops off Wren at the airport, after exams and before Christmas time proper. Wren had told Emma that she didn’t need a ride, that she could just take a cab. But then their fucking the night before felt like a goodbye, the way Wren went down on her like all those times in the shower, when Emma was crying her eyes out. And there was the way Wren didn’t look Emma in the eyes before she kissed her. So Emma insisted, in the end, that she would drive Wren, force Wren to say goodbye.
Emma turns to Wren after parking. Wherever Wren’s family lives, because she hasn’t told Emma, must be in a warmer climate since Wren is wearing a tanktop underneath her jacket. Wren carries only two small, ragged bags that have seen better days.
“I’ll text you, while you’re gone,” Emma says, her hands still on the steering wheel.
“Okay.”
Wren sits in the passenger seat, her seatbelt off, and her hands holding onto the straps of her bags. Her grip on the straps is strong enough for her knuckles to go white. She has no idea how to do any of this, Emma thinks.
“I got you something,” Emma says. She twists around to pull the gift out from the backseat. She’d hidden it under a coat.
As expected, Wren rolls her eyes when she’s handed the gift, quirks her lips up at the sight of the Santa wrapping paper. She opens it carefully, pulling at each flap of paper until it’s completely unwrapped, the paper intact. She stares down at the box for a moment before pulling it open and holding the bracelet up to inspect it. She traces a finger across the engraving, her face hidden by her hair falling forward.
“Thank you,” Wren mumbles and puts the bracelet on her right wrist. Despite the number of bracelets already hanging from her wrist, the new one stands out. Wordlessly, Wren places the wrapping paper on the center console, along with the box, and reaches into one of her bags to pull out a gift. She hands it to Emma unceremoniously.
The gift is hard, but not a box, and wrapped in shiny blue paper. Emma rips into the paper, like she always has, and throws it into the backseat when it’s in shreds. She’s left holding a picture frame. Inside is a picture of Emma, sitting on the hood of her car, from the day she picked up Wren from work. The sun makes her hair look almost golden. Emma isn’t vain, has never thought that she’s a beauty queen, but she looks so beautiful in the picture that she can’t seem to look away.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
Wren clears her throat and that’s what makes Emma look away from the picture. The expression on Wren’s face makes Emma think she’s missing something, some hidden message, but just as quickly the look is gone and Wren has closed the distance between them to kiss her. The kiss is long, needy, and desperate. Everything that Wren has not been lately.
“I’ll see you later,” Wren says as she pulls away, her hand already on the door handle.
“Yeah, see you.”
Wren pauses when she’s got her bags out of the car. Her arm rests on the door, ready to shut it behind her. “Hey,” she says. “Have fun.” She walks away without looking back.
Two days before Christmas, Cam calls up Emma and says that Mark suddenly has to be out of town and they should spend the holiday together. It’s better than sitting at home alone, or hoping for Reese and Taylor to be working. Emma buys a ham and cookie dough, picks up some wine at the last second. She has an extra stick-on bow from someone’s birthday earlier in the year and attaches it to the wine bottle.
Cam arrives carrying an overnight bag. “I hope I’m not being too forward,” she jokes.
They drink wine throughout the day, nibble on crackers and cheese. Cam tells Emma stories from her childhood while Emma cooks. “I’m only good for salads,” Cam explains. “And wine refills.”
Spending a holiday with someone turns out to be a great way to bond. Cam is afraid of sharks, has been since she was a young girl. No one in her family is sure where the fear came from. Emma admits that she faked a fear of clowns to fit in during high school. Cam finds this so ridiculous that she laughs until tears spill out and her hand touches Emma’s arm.
After dinner, they get good and drunk, as Emma’s family would say. Emma slips away long enough to call her family to wish them a Merry Christmas and to text Wren, who doesn’t text back. Cam doesn’t take the time to get in touch with her family. She says they celebrate Christmas Eve and she’d gotten the calls taken care of then.
Since they’re inside, away from the cold weather, Cam changes into a tanktop and a pair of shorts. Emma’s pajama pants have squirrels on them and her shirt smells of Wren somehow. With so much wine in them, Emma can only focus on Cam’s bare arms, the way they flex when she moves to pick up her wine glass from the coffee table. For once, it’s nice to have someone over at Emma’s apartment.
“I think I should come clean,” Cam says as she pours another glass of wine for them both. “Mark didn’t go out of town.” She pushes her hair back and the movement causes Emma to look at her arm again, where a bracelet with black beads is on her wrist.
“So…” Emma says.
Cam gulps and her eyes fill with tears. “We broke up.”
It’s probably the wine that makes Emma’s head spin. It’s probably also why it feels like she’s having trouble breathing. “What? Why?” Emma asks, accusation in her tone.
The tears are falling faster now and Cam looks around the room as if it will speak for her. A sob breaks forth and her shoulders shake. When she finally makes eye contact with Emma again, she shrugs. “I couldn’t dedicate myself to him,” she says.
This is so much worse than those nights long ago when Emma brought ice cream to Cam because a guy didn’t call back. Ice cream and bad TV won’t help this, can’t solve any of it. Cam looks small on the couch. She’s never looked small. She’s never looked so damn helpless.
“Please,” Cam whispers.
Emma doesn’t let her finish. She kisses Cam tentatively. Tears fall between their lips. Cam’s mouth opens to sob again and Emma deepens the kiss. Cam tastes of wine and salty tears and the ham from dinner. Cam pulls Emma to her, her hands clutching Emma’s shirt tightly. Through it all, until the tears stop, Emma kisses her.
Chapter Six
The woman who picks up Wren is a stranger. She has strawberry blonde hair and a small upturned nose like Wren’s. Her lips are full and a deep red. “I’m Ellie! So excited to meet you,” she says. Of course, Roy Mathis would send his new assistant to pick up Wren from the airport. The girl talks incessantly in the car about how Wren is going to love the sunshine, how the weather is supposed to be beautiful all week. And Wren could use some sun by the looks of it. Wren twirls her new bracelet around her wrist and ignores Ellie.
The Mathis home looks the same as ever. Bright yellow flowers circle around the front of the house. Roy’s stupid sports car is parked in the driveway. The sedan her mother drives and refuses to trade in is parked next to it. The gnome that Wren broke on her way to college lays in the same spot by a bush.
The house is quiet until Ellie walks in. “Did you miss the flowers out front?” she asks. As if Wren cares about what her mother cares about. On cue, Roy Mathis walks downstairs and thanks Ellie for picking up Wren. Ellie blushes, actually fucking blushes. She can’t be much older than Wren.
“How was the plane?” Roy asks.
“Fine,” Wren says. “I’m going to go unpack.”
Her room is unchanged. The sheets on the bed are a dark blue, probably washed just before she arrived. The candle she lit the last time she visited, during her freshman year, is still sitting on the nightstand. The only thing different is the stack of books on her desk. Books of poems by desperate housewives of the 1950s and 1960s that her mother has collected and a scrapbook filled with pictures of flowers. Wren leaves them alone.
She takes off her jacket, throws it onto the floor next to her bags. She has no messages on her phone. She puts her phone back into her pocket and leaves the room, closing the door behind her. The hallway is lined with pictures of various Mathis family members. Grandpa Mathis in his military uniform, back when he was young. Wren’s mother on her wedding day. Wren’s school pictures. Roy before he had money, when he had to settle for a ten dollar haircut. Wren follows the trail of pictures down the hall to her parent’s bedroom.
It’s two in the afternoon, but Wren’s mother is still in bed, huddled under a pile of blankets. The curtains are down to keep the sun out. A picture of Wren sits on the nightstand on her mother’s side of the bed.
“Mom?” Wren calls.
“Wren?” Her mother’s voice is muffled beneath all the covers. A small head pops out. “What? I didn’t know you were coming. Come here and sit.”
Her mother sits up in the bed. Her eyes have bags under them and her brown hair hangs limply. Wren tries not to show the revulsion she feels as she sits on Roy’s side of the bed.
“Your flowers look nice,” says Wren.
“Thank you, sweetie.” Her mother smiles, transforms for a moment into a younger version of herself. “But tell me, what have you been up to? How’s Steve?”
Wren kicks her shoes off and leans back against the pillows. The ceiling fan spins lazily. “Steve is Steve. I think he’s dating someone.”
“And are you?”
Wren’s eyes drop down to the bracelet. On the plane, she’d taken some of the others off, placed them in one of her bags for safe-keeping. “No. Sort of. It’s kind of fucked up.”
“Some of the best relationships are,” her mother says, sighing.
“We’re not--yeah, I guess so.”
It’s hard to look at her mother, so small on the oversized bed. It’s like looking at an alternate universe version of herself. Wren older and having fallen on tough times. It’s worse than a body marred with scars. After all these years, her mother’s cheeks have become sunken in. It’s the price for having Wren and being married to Roy Mathis.
There was a time when everyone in the house looked good. Wren raced around, her knees skinned. Days when makeup was still a foreign concept and smiles were freely given to all. Her mother’s lips were permanently stuck in a grin. Roy hadn’t developed a paunch, didn’t spend loads of money on hair products and tanning oils. His hair was full still instead of slicked back as it is now to hide the balding patch that most would never notice. When Wren closes her eyes, she can see it all.
“Lily! Lily! Come down here!”
Roy has mastered the art of interruption. His voice slices through the air, through the quiet moment between mother and daughter. Wren’s mother sighs and struggles with the covers until she is out and standing by the bed. She wears a pair of khakis and a brown blouse. At least she’s dressed for the day.
“Better go see what he wants,” Wren says. She follows her mother down the stairs, running a finger down the dusty bannister as she goes.
Ellie is gone. Her presence will only be missed by one Mathis. Roy stares at Wren when she lights a cigarette in the house, but then her mother is doing the same, despite having quit years ago, and all of the challenge in his face evaporates. They sit in the kitchen. Wren with her foot tapping against the wooden chair, Roy with his hand hovering over his phone on the table, and Lily with one hand holding up her chin, her elbow pressed against the oak table.
“The Mathis family together again,” Roy says. “Merry Christmas, Lily. I hope you like your surprise.”
Wren rolls her eyes.
Lily, partially hidden by the cloud of smoke in front of her, says, “Of course, Roy. Couldn’t have a better Christmas present.”
Wren doesn’t offer to help her mother tend to her flowers. She sits on the porch and smokes cigarette after cigarette while her mother kneels in the dirt. The sun beats down on Lily’s face and back. Wren watches. There’s not much else to do. She didn’t even pack her camera. Her mother expresses some disapproval upon hearing that Wren hasn’t brought any pictures to show off.
“How am I supposed to know how your pictures are going if you don’t show me?” she asks, wiping her brow with her arm.
“It’s just a hobby,” Wren replies.
She’s rewarded with a frown for that.
Emma texts her sometimes. She says she’s been working her ass off at work trying to impress Ed again. It seems to be working. Ed even gave her a thumbs up after one shift. She tells Wren it’s nice to have a break from school, even though it just reminds her that her semester of student teaching is about to start. The anxiety Emma feels is apparent through the messages. Wren responds in short bursts. One and two word replies when she has her phone on her. Emma never complains about the mostly one-sided correspondence.
Wren’s mother starts wearing bright colors on Wren’s third day at home. Rather than a moth confined in the large rooms of the house, Lily is like a butterfly flitting from the sunny kitchen with its bowl of fake fruit to the living room, covered in plants and paintings that feature streams. Roy watches the proceedings with an approving look. A man like Roy can’t help but look smarmy when he likes something. This is how Wren explains to herself the reason she keeps doing little things to annoy him. Things like leaving the television on in the living room all night, letting her fork fall onto her dinner plate with a clatter when she’s finished eating. Never enough for a confrontation. It’s high school all over again.
Lily goes over each page of her scrapbook with Wren. Daisies are her mother’s favorite. Lily’s hands shake as they turn each page. This is what life is like without Wren. Wrinkles and long mornings in bed and flowers.
On the third night, Wren keeps pouring drinks until Lily gets drunk. Roy is gone, having claimed to have an important meeting despite the holiday season. Wren’s mother takes the excuse easily, so used to his meetings.
“What’s it like? For you?” Lily asks. She stirs her straw around her cocktail, takes another greedy gulp.
“What?”
“Love,” Lily says.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Wren says. Her mother hasn’t finished the latest drink, but Wren tops it off anyway to distract her.
“Alcohol can’t get you out of everything, Wren. Tell me what it’s like for you.”
“I’m not in love. It’s not like that at all.”
Lily pulls the pack of cigarettes closer and takes one out, lights it. “When you think no one is watching, you stare at that bracelet like you love and hate it all at once. You touch it like it might burn you, like it’s a handcuff. But sometimes you smile at it. If you’ve ever done that with another gift, I’m a dead woman sitting here talking to you. So what’s it like?”
Wren lights a cigarette for herself, stares down at the table. “We’re not in a relationship. It’s not going to last.”
Lily coughs, rubs at an eye. “Yeah, yeah. You don’t do relationships and yet you’re in love. Stop avoiding it. I imagine you’re not the sunshine and daisies type. Are you tortured by love? Scared of it?”
“I don’t love her. I just care. And soon she’ll leave me for the girl she loves. That’s it,” Wren says.
“Her? Well, there’s a curveball.”
Emma sends fewer messages. Wren still checks her phone once or twice a day. Sometimes at the breakfast table, when she’s drinking black coffee and coaxing her mother to eat a bagel, she scowls at her phone. Sometimes it’s late at night when she’s the only one still awake and the covers on the bed feel like they’re strangling her. There are pictures of Emma on her phone. She looks at them when she’s in bed and Emma hasn’t messaged her. Emma laughing at a joke, Emma taking a shot, Emma lying in Wren’s bed. Wren places her phone firmly onto the nightstand, wills herself not to pick it up again. She does.
Wren walks into town to pick up a gift for her parents. She’s dressed in her usual attire: a tanktop, a skirt, old tights. Her boots are close to falling apart. No one dresses like her here. The old ladies who walk around the mall for exercise stare at her like she might bite them. Wren doesn’t react.
The stores in the mall are full of knick-knacks that look like they might break at any moment. She picks up a little bird’s nest, complete with fake bird and eggs. People actually buy this crap, she thinks. By the end of the afternoon, she has sweat running down her chest and arms. She carries a plain yellow tie for Roy and windchimes for Lily. If the chiming annoys Roy, even better.
Wren is wrapping the gifts when her phone buzzes. The message might as well say: I feel guilty. Emma is going to spend Christmas with Cam. Wren finishes wrapping the gifts, leaves her phone upstairs, and goes down into the kitchen. There’s still some vodka left over from the other night.
Roy sits at the kitchen table, his phone resting in front of him. It’s hard to leave it where anyone could pick it up when there are things you want to keep secret inside. He probably got Ellie a nice Christmas present.
Wren goes about making her drink and sighs when Roy motions for her to sit with him. It was bound to happen at some point. It always does.
“Your mother is doing so well right now,” Roy says.
“I wonder why.”
Roy shoots her a humorless smile. “You remember our little deal.”
