Girl in Pieces

Linus says, “That’s so great,” and claps her hands. She pauses. “I’ll bet Riley is psyched.”

I busy myself with the mop bucket, wringing out the grimy liquid from the mop. “Yeah, he’s super excited.” I keep my head down, in case the lie is written all over my face.

“Mmm.” Linus gets quiet. She scrapes the grill slowly. “I see. So how much is he up to these days?”

“Excuse me?”

“How much is he drinking? Some of his prep work has been a little, uh, a little sloppier than usual.” She pushes a bucket of scrambled tofu to me and I peek inside. Ashes are dotted along the ridges of the puffy yellow hills. I’m ashamed for him, even though I know I shouldn’t be. And I’m ashamed of myself.

He’s usually asleep when I get to his house, if he’s there, splayed on his velvet couch with a book across his lap, a lit cigarette still drooping in his fingers. The bottles disappear more rapidly from beneath the sink, are replaced just as rapidly. He seems to have stopped preparing for the Luis Alvarez benefit in the summer, the guitar in its case in the corner. The notebook of lyrics and sheet music is shoved under the couch. Sometimes he looks at me as though he can’t place me. I’ve started to come in and watch him and smoke his cigarettes until my own chest feels sooty and clogged. Once, his hand on the screen door as I went off to work, he looked at me and mumbled, “I miss you being here with me at night. Hard without you.” And that felt good, but sad, and those things tug-of-war inside me until I want to bury my head in the dirt.

I avoid Linus’s eyes.

“Charlie, I am an old, sober drunk. I’ve known Riley now for six years and I know his schedule.” She takes a deep breath. “He’s in a downward slide and in that slide, we users will take everybody we can down with us. Because if we land in shit, we don’t want to be alone in the shit.”

I stare at her. Linus, who’s always helping people, always cheerful, an alcoholic? I guess that’s why Temple never pours her anything to drink at night, now that I think about it. I try to picture her like Riley, but I can’t. And what she says kind of pummels me, about him taking me down with him. I tighten my grip on the mop, looking at the dirty water in the bucket, like I can find some answer there.

She says, sadly, “Listen, I don’t know much about you, and I don’t want to pry, and I also don’t want to judge, but staying with him is only going to be hurtful to you. I just have to say it. Can you see that, honey? Like, really see it?”

I jam the mop in the bucket and grab the broom, trying not to cry, because I know she’s right, of course she’s right, but I try to concentrate on my work, to push the anxiousness away. The band tonight was some sort of polka-punk trio who spewed confetti, and little bits are strewn everywhere. The tables in the seating area have been wobbly for so long, the newspaper underneath the legs is frayed and greasy-black. I should replace it soon.

“He’ll be better. I know it.” I avoid her eyes, swipe at my own like it’s just sweat and not tears. “I can help him. You shouldn’t just give up on people.”

“Charlie,” Linus says glumly, “I’ve been in recovery for years. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that, I’d be a rich woman, and not working in some half-ass coffeehouse.”