Leap by Jodi Lundgren Page A

p.m. with a change of clothes and a toothbrush in my knapsack. When I rang the bell, Mrs. V. opened the door, wearing a tracksuit. Her bloodshot eyes and blotchy face made me flinch. She slurred her words. “Whadisit? Are you the paperboy? Come to get paid? Where’s the paper? Can’t get paid if you don’t bring the paper!” She squawked a laugh. She was clutching a tumbler of amber liquid and ice cubes. When she saw me looking at it, she thrust it up in a toast. A bit of Scotch (?) sloshed over the side and I smelled alcohol. “Cheers, Natalie!” So she had recognized me.
    A lit cigarette hung from her other hand. I’ve suspected for years that Sasha’s mom smoked—underneath her Estée Lauder perfume, her pores exude the stale smell that I’ve noticed on other smokers. But I’d never actually caught her in the act.
    She sucked hard on the cigarette and squinted. She shifted her weight unsteadily and leaned on the door frame. She looked at me over the rim of the glass and her eyes sparkled. Something funny hung in the air, and despite myself, I started to return her smile.
    â€œSo whatcha doin’, Nat? Sniffin’ around for my son like a bitch in heat?” She raised the tumbler and sipped.
    The words stunned me. I couldn’t move.
    From behind her came an outraged cry. “You are not my mother! Get out of my way, you stupid drunk!” Sasha shoved past her mother and slammed the door.
    The door opened as Sasha pulled me down the steps. “If you’re not my daughter, I guess you won’t be getting free room and board here anymore.” She called Sasha an ungrateful bitch.
    We walked. As if with one mind, we fell into step with each other. We walked in silence; no words were necessary, or possible. We walked together; separating was unthinkable. We walked to the water because it was the only place to go. We walked until we were tired and then we sat on the beach and watched the surf.
    After a long time, Sasha found a stick—half bat, half paddle. She collected stones the size of golf balls and stood at the water’s edge. She threw them up and hit them one by one. She swung so hard I worried for her shoulder. Eventually, the stick snapped in two, and she flung the bottom half out to sea. It twirled like a propeller, fast as it rose, lazily as it sunk and then smacked the water. She turned and approached me, studying her palms. She looked up and shrugged. “Splinters.”
    I fought an impulse to touch her fingers and kiss them better. Memories were falling into place. When Sasha and I used to hang out in her room and her mother called us from downstairs, she yelled louder than she had to, sounding harsh and annoyed. When I phoned on weekend mornings, Sasha often said she couldn’t talk to me because her mother was sick. A couple of times lately, Mrs. V. sounded vague and slurry on the phone, and later on, Sasha said she didn’t get the message.
    This is the twenty-first century and I know about alcoholism. As the Health teacher said, it’s an illness, people are biologically predisposed towards it, it’s not their fault, it needs to be managed, you go to AA, take medication, etc. etc.
    But this was my best friend’s mother .
    â€œHow ’bout pizza?” I said.
    â€œPacific Rim?” Sasha raised her eyebrows with the hint of a grin. Pacific Rim pizza was downtown. Our mothers didn’t like us to go downtown by ourselves at the best of times, but they forbade us to go without telling them. Our mothers .
    â€œYou’re on,” I said.
    We widened our strides and swung our arms.
    As we ate slices of artichoke-heart and sun-dried-tomato pizza, Sasha filled me in. Her mom has always been an alcoholic, but she managed to stay sober for years at a time when Sasha and Kevin were growing up. Lately, she has relapsed more and more. She has sold hardly any houses for months. Her dad wants to move out but