17. Alina
SEVENTEEN
ALINA
TWENTY-ONE YEARS OLD
If you had asked me when I was eleven where I’d be at twenty-one, I’d tell you dancing on Broadway and still the apple of my daddy’s eye. If you had asked me when I was sixteen, I’d say a college graduate, teaching dance in my spare time, with Chase at my side. At eighteen, I’d have been positive I’d be an instructor at the premiere dance studio in Chattanooga, planning the wedding of my dreams to the boy who’s always owned my soul.
But life likes to throw curveballs, the changeup so extreme it spins you around and knocks you off home plate.
I reminisce on the notions of that young, naive, stupid girl, wondering what she’d think of the way her life turned out. I’m still living at home, taking care of the only parent I have left, one who can’t stand the sight of me because I’m the spitting image of my mama.
My weeks are filled with teaching dance at the rec hall and waitressing down at Patty’s Diner on Main Street to make ends meet.
Someone has to make sure the lights stay on around here.
If it were up to Daddy, we’d be destitute by now.
There are moments, glimpses of the strong man who raised me. The man who told me I could do anything, be anything, but those moments are stretched few and far between, lost in a sea of amber liquid and glass bottles.
It has a name, this affliction of his, but I never speak it out loud.
If I do, I’ll have to face the truth that another person in my life has failed to live up to my expectations. One more time I’ve been left on the outside looking in, no matter how hard I try to shatter the glass between us.
They’re all too lost in their personal demons to care about mine.
Maybe I’m the problem.
All that to say, there’s a new normal in the Carson family home.
The “normal” of starting the day with forced optimism.
Today will be the day things turn around.
Often, despite how hard I try to stay positive, it ends with a phone call from Johnny down at The Watering Hole, telling me Daddy is “causing a ruckus again.”
This morning—like every morning—Daddy looks haggard and worn. His skin is sallow, whiskey and heartbreak oozing from his pores. I plate his breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon, placing it in front of him at the kitchen table, before grabbing my mug of coffee, letting the heat of the ceramic warm my fingers as I slip into the chair across from him.
“Daddy, when are you gonna stop all this?”
He twirls his fork slowly, never looking up from his plate. Never responding.
At this point, I’m used to his silence. Between him and Eli, it’s a miracle I have any family left at all.
“Eli tell you he’s down in Florida now?” I try to change tactics.
Daddy grunts, reaching out to grab his coffee and chug it down.
“That’s right,” I continue like he responded. “Some big interview for a coachin’ gig at FSU. You think he’ll get it?”
Another grunt.
I tap my fingers on the table. “I reckon he will. Maybe him and Becca will run into each other, and she can smack some sense into him for never comin’ back home. You know she just left the other day to finish up her senior year out there.”
Daddy doesn’t reply, but he does scoot back in his chair, stand, and leave the room like I was never talking to begin with.
The first year after losing Mama was a blur.
Eli was drafted to play basketball in New York shortly after her funeral. His new superstar life got too big for his small-town family, and I quickly gave up hope of him even acknowledging our existence. But then he tore his ACL, ending his pro career before it ever really began, and the selfish part of me was dreaming he’d come back home.
Three years later, I’ve given up that silly notion, because Sugarlake hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Elliot Carson, and all Daddy and I get is an obligatory monthly phone call to “check in.”
In fact, the only person who gives me the time of day anymore around town is Jax. He’s steadily working on his daddy’s dream, restoring classic cars, and he’s gotten pretty well known for his work. But Jax doesn’t ease the loneliness that slithers around the deepest parts of my soul.
Right now, we’re sitting at Mac’s Dive, like we do every week on my only night off.
“You know, I hear that’s a sign of sexual frustration.” Jax points his beer bottle at the shredded, soggy pieces of a Bud Light label I’ve torn apart on the table.
I give him a half smile, too worn out from wrangling Daddy back home last night to fake the energy for more. Jax doesn’t know how bad it is with him, because it’s embarrassing to talk about, and I know he’d rush in and try to help, take over to keep the burden from landing solely on my shoulders. He’s just a good person like that, and he’s the best friend I’ve ever had besides Becca, but I know he feels things for me that I can’t reciprocate, and letting him in on the darkest parts of my life feels like taking advantage of those feelings.
“You okay, sweetheart? You’ve been quiet all night.”
I squint my eyes. “You just think it’s quiet ’cause we don’t have Becca’s loud mouth runnin’ nonstop.”
He laughs and takes another drink, and half the women in the bar turn toward the noise. “That’s true, Sugarlake is quiet as hell when she’s not around.”
He catches the eye of a girl sitting next to me and tosses her a wink.
Jax is what you would call a player, and it’s truly fascinating to watch. He only has to smile their way, and it’s like open season, fresh meat they can’t wait to dig their claws into.
Between him and Becca, I feel like a nun in a convent.
I’ve thought about it, of course, giving in to the chemistry between Jax and me. It would be so easy, because things always are with him, but the last thing I want to do is ruin our friendship. He’s the only one on Earth who has seen the darkest, ugliest moments of my life and held them as if they were precious. So at the end of our night, when he has a girl on his arm and asks if I’m all right with him heading out, I encourage him to walk out the door, even though I can see it in his eyes that he’s just waiting for the moment I say no and ask him to come home with me instead.
The next morning, I head to the graveyard behind the church to visit Mama. I’ve always been freaked out by walking on the grass at cemeteries, something about stepping over bones of the deceased just seems downright disrespectful. But since there’s no other way to get to Mama’s grave, I grit my teeth and bear it.
Crouching, I lay the bouquet of fresh tulips in front of the shiny marble slab. I visit her once a week, and I always bring her favorite flowers, because I like to think she appreciates her remains being surrounded by things she enjoyed. I trace her name with the tips of my fingers, that familiar ache in my chest becoming more acute with every letter.
Gail Elizabeth Carson
Your life was a blessing, Your memory a treasure. You are loved beyond words, Missed without measure.
Sighing, I lie on the grass, staring up at the sky, and pretend she’s next to me. If I strain my ears, I can almost hear her whispering secrets of how to navigate this thing called life.
She was always good at that.
“Hi, Mama,” I breathe.
The breeze caresses my face and I smile.
“I miss you… so much. I’d give anything to have you here. You know, there’s still this hole inside me from the pieces you took when you left, and I don’t think anything on this Earth can fill it back up again.”
A knot forms in my throat, and I close my eyes, tears seeping out of the corners. No matter how much time passes, the pain never fades, you just learn how to live with it inside you, careful not to pick the scab.
“I don’t know if you’ve got any pull up there, but if you do…could you try to get Eli to come home every once in a while? We could really use him around here. I’m sure you know Daddy isn’t doin’ so well since you’ve been gone.” I shake my head, laughing. “I bet you’re sick of hearin’ me say the same things week after week, but I wouldn’t have to talk your ear off if you’d just give me a solution.”
I pause, listening, waiting with bated breath for a miracle.
But just like every other time I visit, a miracle never comes.