Chapter 21 Ravenna, Italy #2
“Sagey!” she cries out, hurrying out of the main bedroom on the left.
She looks energetic, and that’s great because now I know the bomb she’s going to drop on me can’t be that she’s sick.
She has a new haircut with highlights in it, and it takes about ten years off her.
She’s also toned-looking in a top that bares her shoulders and arms, like she’s actively been at the gym and not just taking her usual walks.
She hugs me, and Pri comes in, and we’re all chattering, talking half over each other, happy as hell.
Pri orders room service, and she knows what I’m allowed to eat during race week, so that’s a big help.
Mom and I go to the sofas near the huge windows that look out on the beach and she opens her straw carry-on and starts pulling presents out.
She always brings presents, like I’m a little kid.
There’s a pair of socks with kittens on them that say THIS GIRL TAKES NO SHIT.
There’s a Toblerone bar, which she apologizes for since she knows I can’t have sugar this week.
And there’s a book, a PostSecret collection, which is a fun nostalgia trip because I used to read that blog all the time when I was younger, and she remembers.
There’s nothing quite like a mom to hold all your details sacred.
Over dinner I ask her what the big news is, and she waves it off, saying, “Oh, we have plenty of time for that.” We’re having fun, Pride and Prejudice is playing in the background and personally I’m not nuts about sappy romance, but it’s a fave for Mom and Pri, and I concede that a young Colin Firth looks hot in a wet shirt.
Mom offers to sleep next to Pri so she doesn’t “disturb my rest,” but I know she’s probably not gonna tell me the news until we’re sitting quietly in the dark, so I ask her to bunk in my room. The bed is huge, so I tell Pri she should stay too and we’ll do a girlie sleepover.
Once we’re all settled under the sheets, me in the middle, Mom says, “Sagey, don’t be mad at me, but I’m divorcing your father.”
I blow out a relieved breath. “Oh my God, is that all? You had me worried as fuck. And frankly, it’s about time.”
“Is it because of the cheating?” Pri asks, and I flop an arm to give her a smack, which she responds to with an indignant, “Ow! Jesus!” before smacking me right back.
Mom chuckles. “The cheating didn’t help.
But that wasn’t the breaking point. And I’m concerned about tainting your view of your father, so don’t be too hard on him, but…
” She sighs. “I’m disappointed with how he’s handled Julian’s…
problem. And things came to a crossroads where our differences are now irreconcilable. ”
Pri and I are both frozen at the mention of Jules. It’s silent for a half minute.
Finally Mom says, “I do know, girls. About his opiate dependence. There’s no shame in it. I just want to help. But your father’s been spending recklessly for years, Sage. And I don’t fault him entirely for that, aside from the fact that so much of it has been spent on other women.”
“Wait,” I interrupt, “are you guys broke?” I think back to all the art pieces that were gone last time I was at home, and how Mom said she’d sold them because she wanted to “declutter.”
“‘Broke’ is too strong. But eighty percent of the assets we had five years ago are gone.”
I cover my face with both hands. “Fuuuuuuuuck…”
“Honey, it’s not a big deal. But your brother has depleted his trust fund with travel and…
well, his illness. So he asked us a month ago if we could pay for this treatment center, a place in Switzerland, very expensive but excellent success record.
I said of course, but because of our financial situation, we’d have to downsize the house to fund it, which—”
“Mom! I grew up there!” I protest. “Why didn’t you just ask me to help?”
“I’m guessing you have helped. Right?”
There’s a pause where I make a kind of noncommittal grumbling noise.
“Last I heard from your brother,” Mom goes on, “he told me he’d found ‘a place that would take him’ and would be out of contact for a while. Then when Priya picked me up today she said Julian is ‘climbing in Switzerland,’ and… I can put two and two together, girls.”
“Sorry for lying,” Priya mumbles.
Mom reaches across me and gives Pri a pat. “It was sweet of you to protect him, honey. And me too.” She turns her head my way. “Sage?”
“Yeah, I paid for it,” I admit. “It’s fine—no big.”
She reaches to squeeze my hand. “You’re a good sister.” Her voice is rough with emotion.
“I’m not, really. And everything’s taken care of, so please don’t sell the house.”
There’s a huff of bitter laughter. “Oh, we didn’t.
Your father told Julian we’d do no such thing.
That it was his fault he’d ‘made poor choices,’ which not only isn’t fair but is also very ‘pot calling the kettle black.’” She folds her arms with stubborn resolve.
“That was it. I told Matthew, ‘For God’s sake, I’ve put up with enough, you can give me this,’ and he wouldn’t budge, so the day your brother got on a flight for Melbourne, I went to a divorce lawyer. ”
I rub my face with a long groan. “Why is Dad such a dick?”
“He just doesn’t understand this issue. But he was a good father while you kids were growing up.
I think he’ll come around, but that doesn’t mean I have to stick with the marriage.
I’ve been unhappy for more than a decade.
It’s not like I have limitless time—I’m in my mid-sixties.
I’d like to… you know, maybe date and whatnot. See what’s still out there for me.”
Priya reaches across me for Mom’s hand. “Good on you.”
“Agreed,” I add, squeezing their clasped hands. “But I thought Jules didn’t tell you guys. I asked him point-blank, and he was like, ‘I don’t wanna worry Mom.’”
“Oh, Sagey,” she says in a tone of indulgent amusement, “he didn’t want to worry you. Can’t you see that? Julian thinks the world of you, and I’m sure he figured if he told you what happened, you’d be angry with your father. He was protecting you.”
“Psh! ‘Protecting’? He does not think the world of me. I know it hurts your feelings that we’re not all nice to each other like The Waltons or something, but… yeah. No.”
Mom is quiet for a long time. Then she rolls on her side toward me and props on one elbow. “I don’t want to make you feel bad, honey, but your brother carries so much guilt since you got sick in Thailand. He’s never forgiven himself, even though he did everything he could.”
We’ve never, ever talked about this, so I’m taken aback, and instantly so pissed about her defending him that I almost launch into a He left me to die rant, but instead I just sputter, “Everything he could?”
“My God, yes. He and that young man he talked to on the trail—a boy from Germany—they went back and hunted all over. Checked other routes and asked everyone they met up with, and… nothing. So when he rushed to get your father and tell him what’d happened and they went back to search again, a lot of time had been lost. It was your father who thought of looking off the trails, in case, well, you know.
He thought you might’ve been attacked. Then they found you unconscious, and good lord, honey—your brother has never stopped berating himself, ‘If I hadn’t walked away, if I hadn’t wasted time looking in the wrong places… ’”
My body is flooded with a cold, numb prickling, I’m so stunned. I can barely breathe.
Julian came back for me right away?
I’ve always assumed he fucked off without a backward glance, and no one gave two shits until he showed up without me, and it was my parents who’d insisted on going back to look.
“I can’t tell you how often I’ve told him to talk to you about it,” my mom goes on. “Or even a therapist! But he’s too ashamed.”
The cold shock breaks in me, my heart is hammering, and with a keening sound I don’t even recognize as being made by me for a few seconds, I roll onto my stomach, sobbing as eleven fucking years of anger dies and is sluiced away by the worst fucking grief.
I’ve wasted nearly half my life hating Julian, looking down on him, being resentful and competitive and just plain fucking mean, and it was for nothing.
And both Mom and Pri are there for me, confused as fuck but comforting anyway, hugging me as I weep my stupid heart out.
I can’t tell them why it hurts so bad—I hate myself too much.
I think of all the times I was horrible to Jules, and meanwhile he was moaning to Mom about how he’d never get over the guilt of almost killing me.
What if we’d been close, that night in the kitchen months ago?
What if I’d been a good sister, and when I saw him putting that shit up his nose, I’d first yelled at him—because, yeah, obviously I’d be mad—but then I’d hugged him and begged him to stop hurting himself?
If I’d been understanding and supportive and compassionate and real?
Instead I made fun of him, shamed him, and when I paid for his rehab, acted grouchy about it.
With all the reading I’ve been doing on addiction and recovery, I understand it so much better now.
I’d been convinced of all these unfair and straight-up inaccurate things, like that Julian just didn’t have the “grit and determination” to get his shit together.
Learning about the psychology of addiction and the medical reality of his physical dependence, I was finally able to see that success or failure in recovery isn’t about “willpower,” or what type of person you are.
The primary difference is that those who succeed have a support system.
I couldn’t win races based purely on willpower or mental toughness.
There’s an entire team of people devoted to making my success possible.
Julian needs that too. And just like being shamed for making errors during a race wouldn’t help me to do better next time, I can’t use that approach with my brother’s illness.