A Season for Fireflies Read online

  Mom tries to stand. She reaches for the wine bottle and glass, but I move them out of her way. “Mom, stop it. You can barely walk.”

  “I’m fine!” She snatches the bottle.

  “No, you’re not!” I cry, and grab for it. Her fingers let go easily. She doesn’t fight me on it, just takes the glass she just poured, which I didn’t think to grab in time.

  She makes her way out of the kitchen with the glass in her hand, and what sucks is that I have to let her. If I don’t, she could get all the way upstairs, realize she wants some wine, and try to come back downstairs—and she is not in good enough shape for that. I fight the urge to help her, because she seems so intent on doing it herself. She’s moving too fast, her shoulder hits the doorframe, her head ricochets, and it all seems to happen before I can react. There’s a hard thud and she falls, smacking the back of her head on the floor. The glass clatters and rolls away, the wine spilling everywhere. At least the glass doesn’t shatter.

  “Aw,” she moans. “Ow . . .”

  I pick up my cell to call Bettie, but see May’s name on the screen calling me instead.

  “Penny. Where are you?” May hisses. “What’s going on? Is it your mom? Penny, is it?”

  Mom drools on herself a little, so some white syrup spit-up dribbles onto her blouse. I pull her up from the floor by her elbow. “I’ll be there soon, May. I’m sorry. Tell Taft.”

  I hang up and dial Bettie’s number. I wish Dad were here. Mom isn’t as bad when Dad is home.

  “Come on, Mom,” I say, and try to help her stand as the phone rings on the other end. She does stand a little, relieving her body weight from my arms. “You can do it.”

  Mom’s legs slip, but with my help she pulls herself up and stumbles to the stairs. She struggles against me. “Stop!” she yells. “Give me my wine.” Her eyes focus, her eyebrows are angular and V-shaped.

  Bettie’s voice barely touches the air when I cut her off. “Bettie. It’s my mom. She’s—”

  “I’m coming. I’m coming,” she says, and hangs up.

  “My drink. Where is it?” Mom says, though it’s slurred.

  “Sorry, but there isn’t any left,” I lie, and we make our way up the stairs. Mom leans on me, but I push her forward so she doesn’t fall back.

  “You broke the bottle . . .” Mom starts, but doesn’t finish. When we get to her bedroom she collapses onto the bed and crawls on all fours toward her pillows.

  “You’re so difficult,” Mom says as she slumps against them. She’s frowning, her eyes are unfocused. She always says I’m difficult. “You’re too much” is her favorite expression.

  “The stress of your endless demands.” Some spit flies out of her mouth into an arc in the air.

  “What are you talking about?” I say.

  “Always so demanding.”

  There’s that word again.

  “Relentless. You just need me all the time.”

  “I have rehearsal,” I say, trying to stop her tirade. I back away toward the stair landing.

  “Fired because of you. Drink because of you.” A little spittle flies out again. “If you weren’t so difficult, I wouldn’t have to relax. I just need five minutes to myself,” she mumbles. I want to defend myself—want to tell her she’s wrong. But then I think about how each time we fight about something stupid—clothes I need for school, rehearsal schedules—she gets a headache and has to go lie down. She always grabs a bottle of wine on her way. Is it me? Did I really drive her to this?

  Somewhere inside my head, a voice whispers . . . yes.

  “Penny?” Bettie’s voice rings out from the kitchen.

  Mom’s eyes are already closed and she’s curled her knees to her chest. She’s mumbling but I can’t hear it, thank god.

  I pass Bettie on the stairs. She stops me with a strong hand on my shoulder.

  I don’t want to look at her watery blue eyes or her unkempt, off-hours hair. I really don’t want her to see me right now. “Is she okay?” she asks.

  I search the fibers in the carpet beneath my feet to try to answer that question.

  “I have rehearsal,” is all I get out. Bettie reaches out to me, but I pull away. “Is it okay that I go?” She answers me with an “Of course,” and I will thank her for this help, not at all in her job description, in my usual way. A small note and doing extra chores.

  I walk to my car and place my theater bag in the passenger seat.

  If you weren’t so difficult.

  I illegally drive the 2.1 miles to school.

  Because of you.

  It’s warm out and twilight threatens the sunny Saturday afternoon as I walk into the theater.

  “Penny!” May calls from the stage.

  “We’re saved!” Panda cries, and everyone laughs. I search for Wes briefly but I don’t see him. Everyone is in costume.

  Taft flies down the aisle at me, curls bouncing.

  “Hallway,” she says, and points at the door I came through.

  When we’re on the other side of the door, Taft crosses her arms. “What is going on?”

  There are crisscrosses in the pattern of the linoleum beneath my feet.

  “What happened? This isn’t like you, I’m worried,” she presses. “We’ve all seen the news. Is everything okay at home?”

  I look up into her eyes, but don’t have the words to say what’s happened. I am glad Bettie’s helping to pick up the pieces now. But it won’t end there. It will still be tech week, then performance, and Mom will still think I am demanding. She’ll come to the performance drunk. Panic rushes through me and I take a rattled breath but don’t want to explain.

  “Well, I can’t make you talk. But you need to keep me posted, Penny. Especially if you are going to—” Ms. Taft pauses and seems to choose her words carefully. “If you can’t make it here on time.”

  I just need five minutes to myself.

  “Forget the costume for right now, let’s run it through the Beatrice and Benedick scene from yesterday.”

  A few moments later I stand onstage. May, as Hero, has just exited the stage and stands down at the first row of seats. Mr. Hill, our physics teacher and resident tailor, fixes something at the elbow of her costume. She’s frowning at me because I haven’t told her what’s wrong, even though she basically already knows, just like everyone else.

  “Okay, places,” Taft instructs.

  I close my eyes, try to steel myself for the love I’m meant to feel in this scene. As Beatrice, I have to let the audience know that, even while I come off as cold and disdainful, it’s all just an act so no one will know the truth, that deep down I love Benedick.

  “Ready with the spotlight, Panda?” Taft calls.

  “I’ve got a faulty switch up here,” he calls back. “We need to get to the fuse box.”

  Taft sighs. “It’s always something,” she says, and her heels clip on the stage as she makes her way up to the light booth.

  I stay on my spike mark because I know Taft needs me to be in position for the spotlight. I cross my arms over my chest. In a few minutes, I’m supposed to dance and skip around the stage—in love.

  Wes stands in the wings. He’s got on a flowy white shirt as part of his costume but Taft has let him wear his jeans instead of the tights and breeches.

  Our eyes meet.

  I imagine myself on the stage, in front of everyone as Beatrice, skipping and crying out, “Benedick, love on; I will requite thee, taming my wild heart to thy loving hand!”

  We share a smile, one that I put on for his benefit. When I look away to the empty auditorium, I whisper a different one of Beatrice’s lines instead:

  “For truly, I love none.”

  The Elizabethan English feels forced. I don’t want to be on a stage right now. I don’t want anyone to look at me. To guess how I am feeling or what might be happening at home.

  “Penny.”

  Wes is next to me.

  “You okay?” His voice is full of concern. I don’t say anything w
hen he steps closer to me. Instead, I focus on his lips. They’re beautiful, actually. I suppose if I let myself, and we were alone, I could lean over, kiss him, and then I wouldn’t have to think of something to say. He would know how I feel.

  He wipes his mouth. “Is there something on my face?”

  I shake my head and pull back.

  “Penny, say something. It’s not like you to be quiet,” he says. I’m grateful for the loud chatter from the cast in the background, filling the silence.

  I clear my throat. “I’m just tired.”

  May comes up the stairs to the stage too and has to lift the heavy material and hem of the skirt. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  May rolls her eyes.

  My cheeks warm. I don’t want to have to tell them how bad it’s gotten and the terrible truth Mom confessed tonight. My friends have always joked with me, called me “drama queen” or “intense.” I thought we were just kidding around, but maybe—maybe they were right. Maybe Mom is right.

  “What happened tonight? And don’t tell me that everything is fine when we both know it isn’t,” May says. “I’ve seen the news. We all have.”

  Even though it’s air-conditioned in here, I’m burning up.

  “Is it the play?” May says.

  “Is it your lines?” Wes counters.

  She’s not talking.

  Why isn’t she talking?

  I don’t know.

  You look like you’ve been crying. Have you been crying?

  They ask me question after question but none of them are the right one. I’m afraid if I open my mouth to answer even one of them, I’ll break down. And that would be the worst possible thing. I’m an actress so I don’t have to show people the real me.

  “I don’t want to talk about it!” I snap. They both flinch. Wes digs his hands in his pockets with a nod to the floor. I glance out at the audience—everyone is looking at me. The chatter has stopped.

  “What do you want to talk about?” he says. His eyes are on me. I want to ask him why he’s been avoiding me. I want to ask him what he meant with the star projector.

  When I glance behind me at the wings of the stage, Richard, dressed as Claudio, is watching us. He turns away and pretends to be inspecting a thread on his costume.

  What am I going to do? I don’t know if I can call Bettie every single time. What if Bettie up and quits? Dad’s at work most of the time and when he’s home, he pretends everything is normal. I can’t do this alone.

  “Tell me,” May insists. “You have that look in your eye. Like you had a fight with your mom.”

  She can tell just by looking at me? What if everyone can tell? What if I get up on stage and the whole audience knows? I have a look in my eye that gives away when I’ve had a fight with Mom. I’m off the stage. I rush down the stairs to the carpeted aisle and up to the hallway.

  “Penny!” Taft and May call nearly in unison.

  “Where is she going?” Taft cries from up in the lighting booth.

  I run down the hallway toward the exit. Once I get out of the double doors to the parking lot, I hear them slam open again and Wes’s heavy footsteps following behind me.

  I stop next to my car. I can’t be on a stage, out there, exposed in front of everyone. The thought of telling them about Mom makes a burning hole in the center of my belly. I just want to hide, where my secret is safe, tucked under the muscles. Hurting only me.

  I shake my head at the reflection in my car window. Wes walks up behind me.

  “You are acting like a psycho,” Wes says. I turn to face him.

  “Why did you ignore me this week?” I don’t mean to blurt this, but it just rushes out.

  He shoves his hands in his pockets and I know what this means.

  I can feel the heat in my cheeks and there’s a point in the center of my chest that’s pinging. Tears make my nose tingle and I try to stop them by taking deep breaths.

  “Berne, you’re killing me,” he says, but I hate the tone in his voice that I can’t identify.

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t ignore you.”

  “Then what’s going on?”

  “I’ve been trying to figure out a way . . .” Wes’s voice trails off. I look up, waiting for him to say something, anything. Maybe I can tell him what’s going on. He could dig deep, into my bones where my secrets are hiding, if he wanted. I might be able to pry myself open for Wes.

  “I haven’t wanted to be just friends for a long time, you know that,” he says quietly, and his blue eyes lift to mine.

  But then I think, if we got together, he would come over much more often. Wes would see firsthand how bad it is. He’d feel sorry for me or worse—he’d agree with her. No way. It’s too much.

  “Say something,” he says.

  “I gotta go,” I say quickly.

  “Go?”

  “I can’t,” I say.

  “Be with me?” he says.

  “No, I mean—be in the play.”

  I don’t continue because May shoves her way out the doors of school, in full costume, and rushes to us, her long black hair flying behind her.

  I turn to open the door to my car, fumbling my keys. They drop with a hard clang to the ground. When I pick them up, May is next to us.

  “Penny is apparently quitting the play,” Wes says with a shake of his head. His cheeks are flushed. “A week before opening night.”

  “I just need to think this through,” I say.

  “Are you on drugs?” May cries. “You’re quitting the play. You are the play!”

  “It’s too much,” I say.

  “Penny Berne. You’ve done theater since you were six years old. And now you’re quitting. For no reason.” With sharp movements, she pulls her hair back in a long black ponytail. I’ve never seen May so furious. Her small features seem to transform when she’s angry—they become hard angles. May always gets angry right away when something happens she can’t control. But this is different. This is my problem. I’m the cause of the problem.

  May crosses her arms over her chest. “Maybe you should actually tell someone what’s wrong,” May says. “You’re being really selfish, Penny. Keeping your secrets and acting like everything is fine. And then you come here like a complete freak—”

  “May, stop,” Wes scolds.

  “She’s right,” I croak.

  “You’re damn right, I’m right! So keep your stupid secrets. Have fun telling Taft you’re quitting a week before opening night. That should go over real well. Excuse me, I have to go learn Beatrice’s damn lines, so I can be your understudy.” May stalks away and my bottom lip trembles like I’m five so I turn away and get into my car. I don’t look at Wes, can’t look at Wes, so I get in my car and head home.

  Dad’s car is in the driveway right next to Mom’s. It’s dark in the kitchen; all the wine and remnants of Mom’s spill have been cleaned up. I don’t know when Bettie left, but it’s clear she made it look nice in here.

  “Penny.” Dad calls my name from the living room. I step across the kitchen to where he sits on the couch with a mug of coffee. He gestures to the love seat across from him. “Bettie told me what happened tonight.”

  I wonder how much Bettie heard when Mom was yelling at me, but Dad continues, “I need you to sit down, kiddo.”

  I do. I’m exhausted.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “I can’t take it anymore, Pen. And neither can you. So,” he says, and takes a deep breath, “when your mom gets up, I’m going to take her to the hospital.”

  “Is she okay? Did she fall?”

  “Not that kind of hospital. Your mom needs to get herself better. The combination of the pills she takes and the alcohol she drinks make it dangerous for her to be left alone. Especially with you.”

  “You always said there was nothing you can do.”

  “It’s not good for you to be in this environment,” Dad says, and it almost sounds rehearsed, like he’s been prac
ticing this conversation. “I can’t always be here with work, and Bettie shouldn’t have to be responsible for Mom.”

  I want to guess where he’s going but I can’t. “I’m going to insist that we bring Mom to a rehab facility.” Dad rests his elbows on his knees. That’s how he sits during business calls.

  Rehab facility. The words settle in my head. I don’t even know what it entails exactly, just that it’s where people go when they need to get off drugs. I know things are bad, but I’ve never thought this might be real—that she could be an alcoholic.

  “She doesn’t even drink all the time,” I say, and I hear myself making the same excuses Dad does whenever I bring up her drinking.

  “I know, Pen, but it’s enough.”

  I swallow hard. My throat is sore from my fight with Wes and May. “She’ll never agree.”

  Dad exhales deeply and wipes his hand over his bald head. He cleans his glasses when he says, “She has to. If she wants to be a part of this family.”

  “You’ll just kick her out?” My voice breaks.

  “Do you want her falling down? Hurting you?” He doesn’t even know that this is my fault. She wouldn’t be drinking if I wasn’t so dramatic all the time, if I wasn’t so endlessly demanding.

  “Maybe I can help out with chores more? I quit the play, so I’ll be around more. I can help Mom with some stuff around the house. I can get Bettie to take me to get clothes or supplies or whatever. I won’t be as stressful.”

  Dad shakes his head at his hands folded on his knees. His voice softens and he says in a low voice, “You think this has anything to do with you?” I nod. “It’s really important she gets help, hon. She’s sick.”

  “Arthur?” Mom’s ragged, sleepy voice calls from upstairs. I don’t want to be here to see this. I can’t. Dad gets up to go to her. “Penny!” he calls, but I’m out the door.

  I drive fast through the neighborhood just as the streetlamps pop on. They light the way like torches to my dock, the one I go to whenever I need a minute to get my head on straight. The summer air is thick and humid. I zip past the bait and tackle shops, the Greenwich Boat Company, and the broken and dismembered carcasses of motorboats in the yard. I finally turn onto Main Street faster than the speed limit, pull into a parking spot, and when I get out, I walk fast through town.