“A few weeks ago. They want him to stay for six months this time.”
“Six? Why so long?”
“Oh, it’s the usual palaver of American prurience. He had a few spots of gout last year—”
“Gout?”
Her mother gave an exasperated sigh.
“He’s getting on, darling. That’s what happens to old men. And they’re saying he’s got some trouble with his liver, though I must say I haven’t seen any real proof of that.”
“Proof?” repeated Avery. “The doctor telling you, that’s your proof.”
Her mother gave her a tired look.
“Anyway, they say he needs longer supervision.”
“Jesus, Mom, why didn’t you tell us?”
“None of you ever called to ask!”
“Does your insurance cover it?”
“About half, but the other half is expensive. That’s why we’re selling the apartment. I appreciate your help with the mortgage, but no one lives there now, and we could use the money.” She picked up a dishcloth and ran it through her hands distractedly. “Though God knows, we’ve borrowed against it enough times it won’t be worth much to us now.”
Avery gave her an incredulous look.
“What do you mean no one lives there?” she asked. “I just told you Bonnie and Lucky are there right now.”
Her mother pulled the dishcloth in her hands taut.
“For how long? Lucky can’t be relied on to stay anywhere for long and Bonnie will be at some training camp or another within the year. And they’re adults! If they want to live in the city, they can find their own place.”
“You can’t do that to them, Mom!”
“Do what? Sell the home I own? I can’t live according to your wishes, darling. I have to do what’s right for me and your father.”
Avery pulled at the loose threads of the faded Moroccan tablecloth.
“First Nicky and now this,” she mumbled.
Her mother’s attention snapped to her.
“We let Nicky stay in the place for a fraction of the rent for as long as she needed,” she said. “We knew she was struggling with pain management on her teacher’s salary and—”
“But you didn’t see what was really going on. Just like you won’t with Dad.”
Her mother rolled her eyes.
“Oh, it must be hard for you,” she said.
“What?” asked Avery wearily.
“To be the only person in the world whose mother isn’t perfect.”
Avery snorted in annoyance.
“Aren’t you going to learn anything from what happened to her? Aren’t any of us? This family is so fucking…” She tried to think of a word that could capture the disastrous jumble of recrimination, addiction, and denial that lay at her family’s core. “Fucked!” she settled on.
“What happened to Nicky has nothing to do with this.”
Avery began to count on her fingers.
“Dad’s in rehab. I can’t drink. Bonnie wisely never started. Lucky is…Well, it’s a miracle she’s alive. And Nicky overdosed. Our family has a problem, Mom. A really serious problem.”
Her mother crossed her arms and paused. Avery could practically see the cogs of her brain whirring as she decided which tack to take between denial, delusion, or defensiveness.
“You want to be called an alcoholic so badly?” she began evenly.
“I don’t want—” Avery interjected but her mother kept going.
“I can’t stop you if that’s what you want to call yourself. You were a very brilliant and sensitive adolescent who got into some trouble with drugs. Does that make you an addict?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what that makes me.”
“I can’t say.” Her mother was speaking with slow, affected reasonableness. “That’s for you to say. But your father has gout, not to mention old age. Bonnie is a pillar of health. Lucky is young and a bit reckless, I’ll admit, but fine. And Nicky had endometriosis. She got on those drugs because none of the doctors knew how to treat her pain, the result of a medical system that does not prioritize research funding for women’s health. I hardly need to tell you this, Avery.”
So she had gone with good old straightforward denial. Classic. Avery had her rebuttal already prepared.
