Are you feeling hungry for a snack?”
Demeter stared at the crackers and peanut butter in her hands as if astonished to find them there. A knife for the peanut butter would have been nice, but Demeter wasn’t willing to take one step closer to her mother or the bottles she was emptying. The cabinet above the refrigerator was hanging open. Her mother must realize that Demeter had drunk the vodka and replaced it with water, and drunk the Dewar’s and replaced it with iced tea. Lynne Castle
did
get it, right? Somehow Demeter didn’t think she did. Her mother was living in outright denial about what was going on. Ignore the obvious signs that your daughter is an alcoholic, but please make sure she has a snack if she feels hungry.
This depressed Demeter all the more. And made her angrier. She retreated to her room.
Jake called. The first time was Sunday night at seven o’clock. Demeter was asleep, but Lynne Castle slipped a note under her bedroom door:
Jake called. He wants to speak to you.
Okay, wait. This deserved some thought. How long and how desperately had Demeter waited for a boy to call her? How many times had she fantasized that someone like Hobby or Jake would discover something in her that no one else could see, not even Demeter herself? Some latent, hidden beauty, some spark, some capacity for happiness, for joy?
Demeter didn’t harbor fantasies anymore. Fantasies were all distinctly in the past. Jake wasn’t calling Demeter so they could commiserate, so they could cry together or hold on to each other, say “Oh my God, what the fuck?” or celebrate how fortunate they were to be alive, present some kind of united front or wallow together in their survivors’ remorse.
He was calling for one reason, and one reason only.
Demeter refused to take his calls. Her mother couldn’t really insist, though she did try reasoning (“You might feel better if you talked to someone else who went through this with you”) and pleading (“Demeter, honey, please call him back, he sounded perfectly
awful
”) and begging (“Darling, please, he’s called half a dozen times today alone”). But Demeter kept refusing; she said she was too upset to talk about it at all. When Jake rode over on his bicycle and knocked on Demeter’s bedroom door and called out her name, she nearly buckled and let him in. How many times had she fantasized about someone like Jake sitting with her in her room, looking at her books, sneaking sips off whatever bottle she had hidden under her pillow, growing buzzed and giggly with her, reaching out to touch her hair? She did, after all, have great hair, chestnut-brown and thick, with a streak of natural blond in the front. He might let her put her hands on his back—he was forever asking Penny to massage his back, and Penny always refused, but Demeter would be glad to do it, wouldn’t she?
But no, sorry, no, she said nothing, she stayed as still as a corpse until Jake gave up and she heard her mother say, “I guess she’s just not ready.”
He wanted the coin from the bottom of the well. He was the only one who might suspect there even
was
a coin, or a well.
She wanted a drink, she
needed
a drink. On Saturday night, the one-week anniversary of the accident, Demeter was freshly struck by the reality of what had happened. It was as if she had beenwrapped in cotton batting in the interim—that was certainly probably the shock—and now, all of a sudden, she was exposed and vulnerable.
Penny Alistair was
dead.
Hobby Alistair, ninety miles away at Mass General, was lying in a coma.
Demeter couldn’t handle it. She yanked on her long, straight, thick hair and considered cutting it all off with a pair of her mother’s garden shears. That was something a crazy person would do, and Demeter was, now, rapidly approaching crazy. But no, not her hair, she didn’t have anything else to be vain about aside from her hair, and she was keeping it.
Try another tack, Demeter. She had a criminal mind,
Demeter stared at the crackers and peanut butter in her hands as if astonished to find them there. A knife for the peanut butter would have been nice, but Demeter wasn’t willing to take one step closer to her mother or the bottles she was emptying. The cabinet above the refrigerator was hanging open. Her mother must realize that Demeter had drunk the vodka and replaced it with water, and drunk the Dewar’s and replaced it with iced tea. Lynne Castle
did
get it, right? Somehow Demeter didn’t think she did. Her mother was living in outright denial about what was going on. Ignore the obvious signs that your daughter is an alcoholic, but please make sure she has a snack if she feels hungry.
This depressed Demeter all the more. And made her angrier. She retreated to her room.
Jake called. The first time was Sunday night at seven o’clock. Demeter was asleep, but Lynne Castle slipped a note under her bedroom door:
Jake called. He wants to speak to you.
Okay, wait. This deserved some thought. How long and how desperately had Demeter waited for a boy to call her? How many times had she fantasized that someone like Hobby or Jake would discover something in her that no one else could see, not even Demeter herself? Some latent, hidden beauty, some spark, some capacity for happiness, for joy?
Demeter didn’t harbor fantasies anymore. Fantasies were all distinctly in the past. Jake wasn’t calling Demeter so they could commiserate, so they could cry together or hold on to each other, say “Oh my God, what the fuck?” or celebrate how fortunate they were to be alive, present some kind of united front or wallow together in their survivors’ remorse.
He was calling for one reason, and one reason only.
Demeter refused to take his calls. Her mother couldn’t really insist, though she did try reasoning (“You might feel better if you talked to someone else who went through this with you”) and pleading (“Demeter, honey, please call him back, he sounded perfectly
awful
”) and begging (“Darling, please, he’s called half a dozen times today alone”). But Demeter kept refusing; she said she was too upset to talk about it at all. When Jake rode over on his bicycle and knocked on Demeter’s bedroom door and called out her name, she nearly buckled and let him in. How many times had she fantasized about someone like Jake sitting with her in her room, looking at her books, sneaking sips off whatever bottle she had hidden under her pillow, growing buzzed and giggly with her, reaching out to touch her hair? She did, after all, have great hair, chestnut-brown and thick, with a streak of natural blond in the front. He might let her put her hands on his back—he was forever asking Penny to massage his back, and Penny always refused, but Demeter would be glad to do it, wouldn’t she?
But no, sorry, no, she said nothing, she stayed as still as a corpse until Jake gave up and she heard her mother say, “I guess she’s just not ready.”
He wanted the coin from the bottom of the well. He was the only one who might suspect there even
was
a coin, or a well.
She wanted a drink, she
needed
a drink. On Saturday night, the one-week anniversary of the accident, Demeter was freshly struck by the reality of what had happened. It was as if she had beenwrapped in cotton batting in the interim—that was certainly probably the shock—and now, all of a sudden, she was exposed and vulnerable.
Penny Alistair was
dead.
Hobby Alistair, ninety miles away at Mass General, was lying in a coma.
Demeter couldn’t handle it. She yanked on her long, straight, thick hair and considered cutting it all off with a pair of her mother’s garden shears. That was something a crazy person would do, and Demeter was, now, rapidly approaching crazy. But no, not her hair, she didn’t have anything else to be vain about aside from her hair, and she was keeping it.
Try another tack, Demeter. She had a criminal mind,
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