Chapter Two

Grace took her first sip of alcohol on February 12 in her freshman year of college. She was sitting alone in her old bedroom the day after her mother's funeral. Grace's eyes wandered aimlessly around the room. She was horrified when she noticed a six-pack peeking out from a pile of crap in the corner. She stomped over to it. Four of the bottles were empty. Grace whirled around and began a frantic search. Thirty minutes later, she had discovered three bottles of vodka, two bottles of cheap wine, another six-pack, a Costco-sized barrel of rum and a bottle opener. Almost half of the bottles were partially finished, and a few of them were empty. It seemed her mom had found a use for Grace's room.

Grace was suddenly furious. The numbness she had felt since she received the news that her mom had died from alcohol poisoning was gone. How dare her mother use her room for drinking? She had an entire house to ruin lives in; why force her addiction into Grace's space? What if it was one of these bottles that killed her? Grace crumpled onto the floor. She picked up an empty vodka bottle and threw it. The tinted blue glass shattered against her poster of Amelia Earhart.

Grace didn't realize she was sobbing until she was finished. Touching her wet cheek gingerly with left hand, Grace picked up one of the half-filled beer bottles with her right. Still dazed, she took a drink. She took another. Then another. Soon, three more of the bottles were empty and Grace wasn't angry anymore. She was numb. She was drunk.

Grace woke up the next morning with a pounding headache. She took in the empty bottles and broken glass quietly. She slowly hid each of the bottles, trying to put them back in the places her mother had chosen. She couldn't be bothered with the glass shards on the floor. Head still pounding, Grace snuck downstairs. She needed a lot of aspirin and some air.

Luke came over that afternoon. Grace was lying on her bed, pretending she didn't know her room was filled with alcohol.

"Grace," he said softly, standing at her door.

"Why are you here?" she asked just as softly.

"Breaking up didn't make me stop caring about you, Grace." Luke walked in and shut the door behind him.

"We had to break up, dork. I was going away to college." Grace refused to sit up and look at him.

"I know we did," Luke said as he sat down on the edge of the bed, as far away from Grace as he could get. Grace could only see his profile out of the corner of her eye. "I didn't come to try to get back together."

"Why did you come, then?" she asked, still focusing on the ceiling.

"Because your mom died. Because I'm sorry she hurt you again. Because I wanted to."

Grace finally rolled over to face him.

"She drank herself to death, Luke."

Luke just stared back. His hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach out to her. He sighed.

"Shit, Grace, I don't know what to do."

"Then don't do anything," Grace snapped as she jerked into a sitting position. "Why are you here? We broke up. We don't talk anymore."

Luke didn't say anything. Finally, he stood up. He turned to face her.

"Joan's going to be here tonight. She wants to see you. Let her in, okay?" He paused. "You guys haven't broken up." Then he was gone.

Joan did come over that night. She had ditched Chemistry 101 and driven four hours to spend the night crying in Grace's room. Grace was pissed, but at the same time she felt better. Joan was a friend.

xxxxx

Grace spent the rest of the week in her room. She only saw the Rabbi at dinner and when they happened to pass in the hallway on the way to the bathroom.

Grace had one small drink of wine on Friday. On Saturday, she hated herself and refused to go to Temple. On Sunday, she cleaned up the glass from the vodka bottle. This inspired her to have another sip of liquor, so she drank a third of a bottle of vodka. Or maybe it was more; Grace couldn't be sure. On Monday, Grace took some aspirin and hated her mother.

Adam showed up on Tuesday. He found Grace staring at a row of empty liquor bottles.

"Rove…" Grace said softly.

He just shook his head sadly.

"I can't do this. I can't have a dead, alcoholic mother," Grace said slowly.

"Please, Grace," he pleaded, "don't torture yourself. Get rid of the alcohol."

"I sure know how to do that," Grace muttered to herself.

"What?"

Grace looked at Adam as if she had just noticed he was there.

"Nothing," Grace lied, "I didn't say anything."

Adam clearly did not believe her, but he didn't push it. Instead, he gathered up the bottles and threw them in the trashcan under the desk. Then he picked up the trashcan and disappeared. He came back ten minutes later with an empty trashcan and coffee for the both of them. They drank the coffee in silence.

Before he left, Adam put hand comfortingly on Grace's shoulder and whispered "it gets better." Grace wished she believed him.