All Fall Down(69)
Author: Jennifer Weiner

I opened the bedroom door and almost bumped into my mother. As always, she had her face on—foundation and eyeliner and a gooey lipgloss pout. A studded black leather belt showed off her tinier-than-ever waist, and her French manicure looked just-that-afternoon fresh, but her expression was worried as she twisted her hands and looked me over. “Allison, are you okay?” she asked.

“Fine!” I edged past her, down the stairs. Had I remembered to defrost the chicken? Was there a vegetable I could cook to go with it? And—oh, God—had I said something to my mother after I’d taken all that Oxy?

“You seem . . .” She followed me down the stairs, impressively managing to keep pace with my half trot, even though I was barefoot and she was in heels. “You seem like you’re not doing well.”

“I’m okay!” I pulled a box of rice out of the pantry, along with a can of hearts of palm. The chicken was still half-frozen in the fridge. I put it in the microwave. “Really. Just, you know, lots of stuff with work . . . and I’m worried about Daddy.” Normally, changing the subject to my father would be enough to start the waterworks, but my mother was looking at me with an unfamiliar intensity, narrowing her eyes as she studied my face.

“You know,” she said, “if you needed to take a break . . . if you and Dave wanted to go away somewhere, I’d be happy to stay with Ellie.”

I blinked. Was this my mother? My mother, who could barely take care of herself?

“That’s really generous of you. But I’m fine. Like I said, just a little overwhelmed right now.” My mind was running on its typical three tracks. There was dinner to be prepared. There was work to be considered—I’d filed my blog post, but I still had to throw some red meat to the commenters, whom I’d been neglecting. And, as always, there were the pills to count, and count again. Did I have enough? Were there more on the way? Had I sent money to my Penny Lane account?

I shook my head. Ellie and my mother both watched me as I cracked eggs, shook breadcrumbs into a bowl, set the table, and preheated the oven.

“Ellie, let’s go play cards,” said my mom. They filed into the living room.

Everything’s cool, I told myself, vowing to apologize to Sarah in person and to be more present—or at least more awake—for Ellie. I am fine.

I heard the garage door creaking upward. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” Ellie chanted, sprinting toward the door. I wasn’t expecting Dave for dinner. Hadn’t he told me that he had some dinner thing to go to, some bash one of the big unions was throwing that he needed to attend? Or had that been the night before?

“Ellie, help me set the table,” I called. I could hear Dave’s low voice mixing with Ellie’s bright chatter, and then the two of them came into the kitchen with Ellie’s feet balanced on Dave’s shoes, clutching his hands and giggling as he walked.

“How was your day?” he asked.

“Fine! Busy!” I bent to check on the chicken.

“Mommy was sleeping,” Ellie announced.

“Mommy was tired,” I said, feeling grateful that Dave couldn’t see my face. I hadn’t told him about my run-in with Mrs. Dale. Ellie hadn’t, either. At least not yet. I knew better than to tell her not to say anything—that, of course, would guarantee that she’d go running to Dave with the whole story, about how Mommy fell down and Mommy got her dress all bloody and Mommy got put in a time-out by a teacher. My hope was that her typical five-year-old attention span would save me, and that events from the other day would be, to Ellie, as distant as things that had happened years ago.

“Do you know Mommy snores when she sleeps?” Ellie inquired.

“I do not!” I was smiling so hard that my cheeks ached as I cracked ice cubes into a pitcher, then gave the hearts of palm a squeeze of lime juice, a drizzle of olive oil, and a sprinkling of salt.

“You do too. And you DROOL. There was a whole PUDDLE underneath your face.”

“Tough day at the office,” I said, and turned to get the milk out of the refrigerator. When I shut the refrigerator door, Dave and my mother were looking at each other.

“What?” I said. Neither adult answered.

“What?” I said again, trying to sound happy, trying to look happy, trying to pretend I hadn’t spent the past five hours passed out in a puddle of my own saliva.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” my mother finally ventured.

“I’m all right,” I said. Smile still in place, voice still untroubled. Dinner in the oven. Blog post filed. At least, I thought I’d filed it. I would cut Ellie’s chicken, then I’d run upstairs just to double-check. And have another pill. “Everything’s good.”