“I don’t know,” she said, turning back to Lucky. “Let me just put my judgmental cunt hat on and try to figure that out.”
“I called you a judgmental bitch, not a cunt,” said Lucky.
“Oh right, no offense taken then. Glad we cleared that up.”
At the corner of Lucky’s mouth, Avery saw the tiniest twitch of a smile.
“Do you need to pee?” Lucky asked, beginning to get up. “I’ll leave.”
“No.” Avery gestured for her to stay put. “You keep doing what you were doing. I’ll go.”
Lucky didn’t say anything to stop her, so Avery turned back to the door. With her fingers on the handle, she paused. What was she doing? She was the older sister; who was going to be the bigger person if not her?
“It sounded good, by the way,” she said. “What you were playing. I liked it.”
Lucky remained silent and Avery opened the door and slipped back out into the hall. Then she heard Lucky’s voice, low but earnest.
“Do you really think so?”
Avery pivoted and reentered the bathroom, closing the door behind her again.
“I do.” She nodded. “It’s been ages since I’ve heard you play anything.”
Lucky set the guitar beside her and gave Avery a long look, deciding if she wanted to explain.
“My new sponsor lent it to me,” she said eventually.
Avery could feel Lucky’s eyes alert on her, watching for her reaction. She had such a beautiful face, twitching and intelligent, like some lissome deer that must be coaxed, ever so gently, to eat from her palm.
“Your sponsor,” Avery repeated slowly, buying herself time. If this meant what she thought it meant, it was a delicate situation, and she didn’t want to mess it up.
“I met her at this meeting downtown,” Lucky said, trying to appear nonchalant, but Avery could see the effort it took. “I told her I used to play, and she said it might help my recovery to write how I’m feeling on it.”
Avery swallowed slowly. She could feel tears pricking her eyes.
“And has it?” she asked quietly.
Lucky shrugged. Avery stepped forward, trying to keep her voice level.
“Lucky, I’m so—” she began.
“Look, I don’t want to make a big deal out of it,” Lucky interrupted. “And I know you think I’m a fuckup and it’s probably too late or whatever. But I’m trying, okay? I’m trying.”
In England there was a saying used by football fans: It’s the hope that kills you. A loss is always more bitter if you let yourself dream of victory first. Low expectations, that’s how the Brits liked to live. Protectiveness dressed up as pragmatism. It was how their mother always operated. But Avery was American. She believed in hope, had eaten it for breakfast along with Frosted Flakes and local news segments about everyday people who jumped onto subway tracks to save perfect strangers. And nothing was more hopeful than sobriety.
But she was a realist too. She knew the facts: Addiction was a chronic disease for which there was no cure, only a daily reprieve, et cetera et cetera. Most people did not stay sober. Every AA anniversary meeting, she saw it: dozens of people taking chips for ninety days, a handful celebrating one to five years, a few for five to ten, and then a wasteland of double-digit anniversaries you’d be lucky to find one or two people celebrating. Where did they all go? Some got busy with careers and family and simply stopped going to meetings. Most drank again. Many overdosed or developed chronic conditions. Some died. Why Avery was one of the lucky few who’d gotten to stay this long, she didn’t know. She couldn’t quite believe she would be celebrating her own anniversary of a decade next week. Ten years. Ten had seemed about as attainable as one hundred when she was new. What she’d learned in that time was that few people stay. And most people never even make it into the room.
But some did. She had. By some miracle, Lucky had. And if addiction ran in families, maybe recovery could too. Oh, there it was again, ballooning inside of her, that great, childish, colorful, American thing: optimism. Maybe it will work for Lucky, she thought. Maybe she’ll be okay. She couldn’t help it; the maybes bloomed bright and strong like dandelions, those lovely and uninvited weeds that always find the cracks. She hoped and hoped and hoped.
“Lucky, stand up,” she said.
Lucky looked at her warily.
“Why?”
Avery tried to look serious, but she couldn’t stop smiling. She noticed suddenly that tears were rushing down her cheeks, hot and unchecked.
“Because I am about to squeeze the shit out of you.”
Lucky maintained her guard for a moment, then let her face break into her brilliant, lupine smile.
“But I didn’t do anything,” she said, standing up.
Avery wrapped her youngest sister in her arms and held her still against her.
“In my experience,” she whispered into the soft whorl of her ear, “the not doing is the hardest part.”
—
Avery and Lucky were still sitting in the bathroom discussing all things recovery—Had she started the steps yet? Was her sponsor really a British punk singer called Butter? Yes, the slogans were cheesy, but they came in surprisingly handy—when Bonnie padded into the bathroom wearing a pair of men’s boxer shorts and a Golden Ring tee. She saw them and started.
“You’re both here,” she said dazedly.
Avery let go of Lucky’s hand and smiled at Bonnie.
“Did we wake you?”
“It’s past five,” said Bonnie. “This is when my day starts. What are you doing?”
