Part 6
A car is there to meet them. Not Momma, or her brothers-she'll see them back at the house, she guesses. But there's always been someone helping out at home, given Momma's difficulties, so she is not surprised she's been met. She notes that it's a different someone than the last time she was here. Big Daddy and Momma combined had always been employers from hell, and turnover was high. Best she can tell, Momma seems to be carrying on the proud tradition just fine on her own. But Cooper seems a little squirrelly from how damn hot it is, and she's relieved they don't have to muck around with renting a car and wrestling with their luggage.
"You have a name?" she asks the driver. He's skinny and old as Methuselah, but he's polite and greets them with a sign bearing her name, and a courteous nod.
"Mr. Avery," he says.
"There a missus?"
"Back at the house, ma'am. Dinner's a-waitin."
Of course it is. Coop's not the only one who pushes food when he's nervous and doesn't know what to do about it. Cooper nudges her arm. "M'am?" he snickers.
"Best get used to it, Coop, it's Southern manners here. You got anything to drink, Mr. Avery? Mr. Friedman here ain't used to the weather."
He's stowing their bags in the trunk of a town car. "Mini-fridge on the passenger side. Vodka, soda water, orange juice."
"Just the juice, thanks," Cooper says, a little too firmly. He's sensing that her stress level is climbing again, and he's apparently designated himself her sponsor, in Amelia's absence. If she's inferred correctly from Mr. Avery's inventory run-down, there won't be enough of the juice or the water for drinking it straight, but she supposes the 'missus' Avery spoke of -Momma always did like hiring matched sets- has outfitted the kitchen back home for any guest-related contingency. And she's willing to let Cooper's hovering slide for now, so long as he doesn't make a nuisance of himself about it...
"Pansy west-coaster," Avery teases.
"You betcha," Cooper agrees with a good-natured nod. "Cooper Friedman."
"Mr. Avery. Like I said."
And that's it for conversation. Mr. Avery loads his stolid, wrinkled self into the front seat, presses a button. A screen rolls up and leaves them to their own devices. She spends most of the ride to the house with her eyes closed, her sweaty hand squeezing Cooper's steady one, and her thoughts trying very hard to stay away from what awaits her back at home.
The house is as beautiful, as white and as massive as she remembers. Her arm is twinging a little, more from stress and travel fatigue than anything else, but she's grateful to have good old-fashioned hired help for a change to handle the bags for her so she doesn't have to confess her weakness to Cooper right now. They enter the house, and it's empty.
"Duke? Landry?" she asks.
"Gettin' dressed, I'd wager," Avery says. "I called ahead. Told 'em we're arriving."
"And Momma?"
"Gettin' dressed too, I'm supposing. The missus ain't down here, so I'm guessing she's up there helping.'"
"Which means she's drunk already," she whispers to Cooper, feeling something tighten in her gut. "Damn. I'm supposed to be here for her birthday. That's a happy thing. Why is she making this hard?"
He squeezes her hand again, notices the limpness in her fingers when she squeezes back. "Babe?"
"It's fine, Coop. Suppose we should be dressing too. You did bring some fancy stuff?"
"This way," Avery says. He's still wearing his poker face. If he overheard any of their conversation, he isn't showing it. He leads them to what was her childhood bedroom, although of course it doesn't look it anymore. It's a guest room now, done up in overblown chintz and flowers and white everything. But it's spacious, and it has a door that locks and its own bathroom. She moves in that direction, but Coop stops her, draws her onto the bed beside him. Then he takes her hand and begins palpating it gently, moving up her arm as he goes. He finally drifts down to her fingers again, puts her hand in his.
"Squeeze," he says.
She squeezes, and he nods, then rests her palm on his. "Now, flex your wrist."
She flexes it up and down. Her fingers tremble and she can't quite control the descent.
"Is it hurting?"
"Only a little. It's been a long day, Coop. I'll be fresher in the morning."
"And I'll check it again. The bones feel fine, if that's any consolation. Everything is setting properly. If I were you, I'd wrap it, though, before we go back downstairs."
"Hell, no."
"Won't hurt as much if you brace it for a couple hours."
"I'm a little tired from the travel is all."
"I know you are. I'm only saying, if you wrap it, you'll make that one thing easier to bear until you get your strength back. And if you'll be dealing with any other stressors tonight, you might be grateful for that relief..."
"Wrapping it will just create a stressor, though. They'll all ask about it."
"So? You tell them you have an injury that flares up when you're tired, and it's easier for you to wrap your hand."
"We don't do it that way here. Coop, the thing about Momma is, she's not...she's...how can I explain this to you...you understand anything about addiction? About how it starts?"
"Well, there are substances such as drugs and alcohol that have addictive properties. And some individuals are very chemically sensitive to the..."
"No," she says. "Look at me, Coop. I'm an addict. In recovery, but still. And I'm young for it. It ain't just a chemical thing. Sure, the biological stuff won't kick in without the exposure in the first place, but something happens to precipitate that. Some pain-probably a real one, at first-some hole you're trying to fill. That stuff was around me. That inclination to use it as a coping skill was around me too, and it came from somewhere, Coop. It came from her. And that's affected how I've dealt with every aspect of my life. I know what they say about me, at Saint Ambrose. Maybe not now, so much. But I know what they say. I know where it came from. It came from her. And she's my momma and that makes her real important to me, but it's all tangled up because I know where it came from, Coop. And I'm bracing myself because I know that when I'm around her, I'll feel it again."
"I'm here for you," he says. "I know you hate it when that's all I have to say, but Charlotte, I'm doing the best I can and it's all I have right now. I'm here for you."
"Don't need you here now, need you here later. After she's spent a drunken meal telling me how pale and tired I look and that all I need is a stiff drink and a romp in the hay."
"Noted. Will she really say that to you?"
"She's probably high as a kite right now, so yeah, she will. No inhibitions, right? Look, it's not all as one-sided as you might think. I'm a trigger for her too, you know? The baby doll girl she longed for what with all the brothers, but I always liked HIM better. A tomboy like my brothers, and Big Daddy's pet. By the time I was old enough for her to like me a little more, I'd left home and barely looked back. She's a trigger for me, but lord help me, I'm a trigger for her too. It's all tangled up, like I said."
"I love you."
"I know you do. Well? Let's do it."
The brothers are pale and blond like she is, and already have drinks in their hands. They are both wearing khakis and sweater vests and they greet her with stiff, formal nods. She returns the nods just as gravely and stiffly, already slipping into role.
Her mother makes a grand entrance a few minutes later, tottering a little on garish heels, lips and nails done up in fire-engine red, body squeezed into a pale pink dress that exposes a little too much skin for someone her age.
"Charlotte!"
"Momma. Happy birthday."
"Thank you, darling. Step back. Let me look at you."
She twitches a little, but lets Momma grab her hand and spin her around. When it's over, her mother has smoothed back some of the sparkle and is shaking her head.
"They got no home cookin' there in California? You're skinny as a board, my dear."
"Momma, I'm fine."
"And you're wearing the hair straight again? I can't say it's a style that flatters you, especially."
"Momma, may I introduce you to Cooper Friedman. He's been here before, but I'm not sure as you've met him formally."
"Friedman. That a Jew name?"
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. King," he says.
"You may call me ma'am," her mother retorts sharply. "And what on earth kind of home you been keeping for her, young man? She's pale as a polar bear, and looks about as happy. You been treating her right?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Well, it's sure not showing. You need to start making a better impression, young man. I'll be watching you, these next days. You see that you act proper, you hear me?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Well! Where on earth did the missus go? I need a drink, and I can see that Landry is almost crying for a refill. Young man, do you prefer a whiskey or a scotch?"
"Water is fine," Cooper says.
"Now, what did I tell you?"
He sighs. "All right. A scotch then."
"Good man. And Charlotte, let me see. A whiskey girl like your father, weren't ya?"
"Water," she says. "Please."
"Right, right, I'm just your momma so you don't need to make any effort with me like your man does. All right , Miss High and Mighty, no evil alcohol for you. Ah! Missus Avery, at last. The young man and my son will have a scotch, please. And I'd like a refill."
"Ma'am, the bottle's done," Mrs. Avery says.
"Well, open another. We do have a cellar full."
"Very well. And your daughter?"
"She'll fend for herself, as she always does. See to the drinks, Missus Avery, for those of us who are partaking."
Cooper squeezes her hand again. For his own comfort, this time.
She thanks god for Southern discretion. Dinner passes in a blur of small talk. She lets Cooper do most of it, sharing snippets of their life with her family. They are very generic snippets and, like true repressed Southerners, none of them pry too deeply to ask for more. By the time desert rolls around, the day's events have caught up with her, and she's exhausted. And her hand is hurting more than just a little now. She can barely manage the fork.
"Charlotte?"
"Yes, Momma?"
"You look like you're positively gonna keel over, right here at the table. I can't possibly contemplate..."
"I'm fine, Momma. Just tired. It's been a long day."
"But don't you have a lot of those? Bein' a fancy doctor and all?"
"I'm still allowed to be tired!"
"Well, fine. No need to get snippy with me, young lady, I'm your mother and I hardly deserve to be spoken to in that tone of voice."
"You're right. I'm sorry."
"Of course, if you'd had a drink like the rest of us, you would've perked up some."
"I'm not drinking these days."
"Why ever not? Thought it was just pills you stayed away from."
She glances at her brothers, who are studiously ignoring them and attacking their deserts with interest bordering on desperation. "Momma, I'm not talking about this with you right now."
"Well, fine. And I see my desert ain't good enough for you either. Something wrong with my tiramisu?"
Yes, she wants to answer. What's wrong with it is, they're serving it with wedding silver that weighs a hundred pounds more than the regular kind, and she's still doing physio for a wrist that snapped in two places and an arm so broken that it needed surgery, so she doesn't think she can manage it right now. And on top of that, she's been flying all day, and she's been swimming in stress hormones, and she so exhausted she can barely see straight...
She picks up the spoon, tries to cut into a corner of the tiramisu. She hits a crunchy part, feels her finger twinge and the spoon falls out of her hand with a clatter.
Momma presses a hand to her mouth. "Charlotte!"
"Well, I told you I didn't want any!"
"Charlotte, you may now be excused," her mother says in the icy tones of someone utterly pushed to the limit. Cooper rises too, and her mother goes sugary again. "Now, young man. Sit, enjoy the tiramisu."
She wants to say something, wants to tell Coop she needs him right now. But she knows that normal people can manage for a few minutes without their boyfriends there. How can she explain that these are special circumstances without telling her mother what's really been going on? Coop looks at her, and she shakes her head. Then retreats, alone, to the bedroom, locks the door and throws herself down on the bed, submitting to the tears.
I don't usually comment inside a fic like this, but I wanted to take a moment to sincerely thank everyone for the feedback so far! I treasure every comment, and I love how detailed some of you are in your feedback, both constructive and otherwise. I think you'll like the direction I go in with this this-next chapter, you'll see a softer side of Momma, and there is stuff coming up with the brothers too. And of course, lots of Cooper! Anyway, thank you for reading and commenting. I am posting about a chapter behind of what's written, so there's more on the way very soon!