Tuesday noon
HER BROTHER PICKED UP AFTER THE THIRD RING, SOUNDING ANNOYED.
“OLIVIA, I’M AT THE BOOKSTORE. YOU KNOW I CAN’T GET CALLS HERE.”
“MR. TUTDIED.”
THERE WAS A NANO-SECOND OF SILENCE AT GRANT’S END FOLLOWED BY A LONG EXHALATION OF BREATH THAT WHISTLED THROUGH THE PHONE LINE.
“DEAD? HOLY SHIT.”
SHE WAS ON HER BED, HER HEAD PROPPED AGAINSTA BANK OF PILLOWS THAT MATCHED THE UP HOLSTERED HEADBOARD. “IT WAS ME WHO FOUND HIM. IT WAS AWFUL—LISTEN, GRANT? YESTERDAY, DID YOU SEE HIM?”
“NO. I NEVER GOT TO.”
OLIVIA SPOTTED A NICE JUICY HANGNAILON HER LEFT PINKIE. SHE RIPPED ITOFF WITH HER TEETH, SPATOUTTHE TAILOF SKIN, AND WATCHED A DOTOF BLOOD TURN INTO A TRICKLE AND SLIDE DOWN HER FINGER. “I had to talk to a cop, Grant.”
“What? Why?”
Was there a ring of alarm in his voice?
“Look, Olivia, you didn’t say anything to the cop about me wanting to see him, did you?”
“No.”
“If Mom and Dad find out I was in, the shit’ll hit the fan and—” He stopped mid-sentence and Olivia could hear him explain to a customer, “No, ma’am, paperback New York Times best sellers aren’t discounted, only hardcovers.” Then he said to Olivia, “Lemme call you from the stockroom,” and hung up.
She remained on her bed, eyes closed, both tired and wired at the same time. This past weekend her father had been in Quito on business, her mother at some spa where all you ate was seaweed. Grant knew Carlotta would squeal to their parents if he stayed home “unsupervised,” something strictly against rehab rules. So he spent the weekend up at Columbia with an old Chaps friend. Columbia—a neighborhood full of bars and dealers. Olivia didn’t understand why Grant couldn’t just wait for a weekend when one of their parents was home. But that was Grant for you; when he got something in his head, “later” was simply not a word in his vocabulary.
After years of bad-mouthing Tut, suddenly Grant had wanted to make amends. Making amends meant telling someone to their face every crummy thing you’d ever done to them, even stuff you only thought about doing, just like Carlotta at confession. Grant had already made amends to Olivia for what had happened last Thanksgiving. Grant on cocaine was scary, violent, somebody you wanted to stay far, far away from.
When she was little, he had been the best big brother. He made her feel protected. He laughed at all her dumb jokes. He’d take her to the movies or ice skating. And now he was almost exactly like the old Grant.
After getting expelled, Grant had been shipped off to some boarding school in Switzerland. That had been a total disaster. Yes, he got his high school diploma but he also came home with a heroin habit. But since living at Windward for the past sixteen months, he’d only had that one slip last Thanksgiving. Eleven months and two days ago. Now he was coming up on his one-year anniversary. An AA milestone, just like the first ninety days had been, only in Olivia’s mind, this one was a much bigger deal. If Grant could stay clean and sober for a whole year, then Olivia could stop worrying…or at least worry less. Her brother had no idea she marked off each day of his sobriety in her school planner. Nor did he know she’d stopped drinking—not even a sip of beer—or smoking dope.
At Al-Anon meetings, everyone kept telling her stuff like that was just a game she was playing with herself.
“Okay, you don’t drink or do drugs. Good. But it doesn’t mean your brother’s gonna stay clean,” a boy told her.
“It’s like moral support,” Olivia defended herself. “Grant doesn’t even know.”
The woman who ran the meetings was more understanding. “I know how you feel, Olivia. It’s like being on a plane and thinking that if you just concentrate hard enough on it staying in the air, the plane won’t crash…. It’s a false sense of control.”
The photo of her and Grant, the first time she’d gone roller blading, stared at her on the night table. She was seven, Grant ten. He was holding onto her hand while her free arm was outstretched, to steady herself. Grant had a great big “you can do it” smile on his face.
The phone rang, making her startle.
“Okay. I can talk now.” Grant went on to explain that he had spoken to Tut on Sunday and the plan was to meet on Monday. “Tut said to be at his apartment at one, but he wasn’t there. I hung around in Riverside Park, called him at home and at school, but Mrs. Mac answered so I hung up. I don’t know…I guess he forgot. I caught a seven o’clock train.”
“Seven? Why so late?” Immediately Olivia imagined Grant at a bar or in Riverside Park buying a joint, scoring cocaine.
“I—I meant I got back here at seven. I just missed the three-thirty train so I took the next one and grabbed dinner before signing in.” Then Grant said he had to get back to work and hung up, leaving Olivia, sitting cross-legged on her bed, sucking up the blood that kept pooling at the bottom of her pinkie nail.