Page 105 of We Used To Be Magic

‘No, no. All done here.’ He nods, glancing back at the grave. ‘Ready to head off?’

‘I guess,’ I say, hands firmly tucked into my pockets, and we head back for the path. ‘Maggie and Caroline are pretty cold.’

‘Right, of course,’ he says. Then, ‘Caroline said that it was your idea to come here today.’

‘Yep,’ I say, picking up the pace a little. ‘Thanks for having us.’

Shit. That sounded sarcastic, which is definitely not what I’m going for today. I quickly rack my brains for something nicer to say but before I know it, we’re back on the path.

‘The flowers look good,’ Caroline tells him. ‘Mum told me once that you nearly called me Violet.’

‘But then you were born and we realised that you were Caroline.’ Dad nods. ‘It was the same for Maggie. She was Lucy, almost.’

‘What was Ezra’s almost-name?’

‘Oh, Ezra was always Ezra,’ he replies. ‘We knew that from the very beginning.’

I think Caroline can tell that I don’t really know how to respond to that – she claps her gloved hands together, a muffled smack.

‘Food,’ she says decisively. ‘It’s gone twelve and I’m hungry. Who’s in?’

Dad glances at me. They’re all looking at me, actually.

‘Sounds good,’ I say and Maggie smiles.

‘Great. We’ll find a place,’ she says, taking Caroline by the arm and turning on her heel. Dad and I slope after them at a slight distance, dutifully accepting their less-than-subtle invitation to talk amongst ourselves. Take two on the wholebe-a-better-sondeal.

‘So – how are things?’ he begins, which feels like a loaded question. I don’t know how much he knows about the past few days.

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I’ve taken a break from work.’

‘Oh. Is everything all right?’ He frowns, sounding genuinely concerned –maybe because he is genuinely concerned, I remind myself.

Everything is not all right, no, but it’s starting to feel like it might be someday. I’m still at Caroline’s. I’ve been hanging out at the apartment while she paints, watching movies and helping Romy with dinner in the evenings. Caroline and I are both trying to quit smoking, too, which I think she’s finding harder than me – she’s been chewing her fancy paintbrushes so aggressively that there are flakes of paint in her teeth, sometimes. And I’ve stopped drinking, too, which is where I’m struggling. Alot, if I’m honest.

To put it plainly, I miss it. I miss the routine drinking offered, the ritual – I miss knowing that I had something to look forward to at the end of each day. I miss being able to soften my uglyfeelings and thoughts with it. I miss the taste, be it that of a bottom shelf vodka or a beautifully mixed cocktail. I even miss the feel of a wine glass or a whisky tumbler in my hand, and when I told that to Caroline, she started putting my soda into a gin balloon, which is another thing – I miss thesugar.Turns out there’s loads of it in booze, so now I’m drinking soft drinks all the time like a kid. I’ll probably be toothless before the year is out.

But I won’t miss the hangovers. The memory lapses. The puking, sometimes so propulsive that my throat would hurt for days afterwards. And worse, the shame, vague and formless and near-constant by the end. The idea that I could bid goodbye to all of that for ever is, for lack of a better word, intoxicating. I just wish I could be sure that it’ll be enough, because the prospect of being soberfor everis terrifying. A part of me wants to keep bargaining – to convince myself that I can start reining it in, now that I know how bad it can get. I’m the master of my own universe, after all, and if I really want a drink then I can just have one. I’m still young – plenty of people my age drink like I do, then they ease off as they get older. It’s normal. It’sfine.

The illusion of control is very appealing, I’m realising, when you lack the actual thing.

So I’ll drink my soda. I’ll read the books that Caroline bought me –The Recovering,The Outrun,The Trip to Echo Spring –all these sober books seem to start with a ‘the’, I’ve noticed. And I’ll take each day as it comes.

It doesn’t feel like such a good idea to relay all of that to Dad, though.

‘Yeah,’ I say instead. ‘Things are all right.’

‘Right,’ he replies, and I can sense his trepidation – the unwillingness to overstep. But it’s my turn to try and bridge the gap between us. I know that now.

‘And – I want you to know that I did think about what you said regarding the wholeNYUthing,’ I venture. ‘I mean – I’m still not sure about university, but I do want to get back into taking pictures, so – yeah. I’ll keep you updated how that goes.’

It might be the longest unbroken speech I’ve made to him in years. He looks distinctly startled by it.

‘Well – that’s great,’ he replies. ‘If that’s what you want.’

‘Maybe. I think it makes sense.’

‘So long as you’re happy. That’s all I care about.’

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