Best Kept Secret

  Cadence didn’t sit down one night and decide that downing two bottles of wine was a brilliant idea.

  HER DRINKING SNUCK UP ON HER—AS A WAY TO sleep, to help her relax after a long day, to relieve some of the stress of the painful divorce that’s left her struggling to make ends meet with her five-year-old son, Charlie.

  It wasn’t always like this. Just a few years ago, Cadence seemed to have it all—a successful husband, an adorable son, and a promising career as a freelance journalist. But with the demise of her marriage, her carefully constructed life begins to spiral out of control. Suddenly she is all alone, trying to juggle the demands of work and motherhood.

  Logically, Cadence knows that she is drinking too much, and every day begins with renewed promises to herself that she will stop. But within a few hours, driven by something she doesn’t understand, she is reaching for the bottle—even when it means not playing with her son because she is too tired, or dropping him off at preschool late, again. And even when one calamitous night it means leaving him alone to pick up more wine at the grocery store. It’s only when her ex-husband shows up at her door to take Charlie away that Cadence realizes her best kept secret has been discovered. . . .

  Heartbreaking, haunting, and ultimately life-affirming, Best Kept Secret is more than just the story of Cadence—it’s a story of how the secrets we hold closest are the ones that can tear us apart.

  Also by Amy (Yurk) Hatvany

  The Language of Sisters

  The Kind of Love That Saves You

  WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Amy Hatvany

  “Anthem” copyright © 1992 Stranger Music Inc. All rights administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, 8 Music Square West, Nashville, TN 37203. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  First Washington Square Press trade paperback edition June 2011

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  Designed by Meredith Ray

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Hatvany, Amy.

  Best kept secret : a novel / Amy Hatvany.—1st Washington Square Press trade pbk. ed.

  p. cm.

  1. Women alcoholics—Fiction. 2. Single mothers—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3616.E358B47 2011

  813’.6—dc22

  2010038165

  ISBN 978-1-4391-9331-0

  ISBN 978-1-4391-9333-4 (ebook)

  For Scarlett and Miles

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Resources

  Ring the bells that still can ring

  Forget your perfect offering

  There is a crack in everything

  That’s how the light gets in. . . .

  —“Anthem,” Leonard Cohen

  One

  Being drunk in front of your child is right up there on the Big Bad No-no List of Motherhood. I knew what I was doing was wrong. I knew it with every glass, every swallow, every empty bottle thrown into the recycle bin. I hated drinking. I hated it . . . and I couldn’t stop. The anesthetic effect of alcohol ran thick in my blood; the Great Barrier Reef built between me and my feelings. I watched myself do it in an out-of-body experience: Oh, isn’t this interesting? Look at me, the sloppy drunk. It snuck up on me, every time. It took me by surprise.

  I tried to stop. Of course I tried. I went a day, maybe two, before the urge burned strong enough, it rose in my throat like a gnarled hand reaching for a drink. My body ached. My brain sloshed against the inside of my skull. The more I loathed drinking, the more I needed it to find that sweet spot between awareness and agony. Even now, even though it has been sixty-four days since I have taken a drink, the shame clings to me. It sickens my senses worse than any hangover I’ve ever suffered.

  It’s early April, and I drive down a street lined with tall, sturdy maples. Gauzelike clouds stretch across the icy blue sky. A few earnest men stand in front of their houses appraising the state of their lawns. My own yard went to hell while I was away and I have not found time nor inclination to be its savior.

  Any other day I would have found this morning beautiful. Any other day I might have stopped to stare at the sky, to enjoy the fragile warmth of the sun on my skin. Today is not any other day. Today marks two months and four days since I have seen my son. Each corner I turn takes me closer and closer to picking him up from his grandmother’s house. For now, it was decided this arrangement was better than my coming face-to-face with Martin, his father.

  “What do they think will happen?” I’d asked my treatment counselor, Andi, when the rules of visitation came down. My voice was barely above a whisper. “What do they think I’d do?”

  “Think of how many times you were drunk around Charlie,” she said. “There’s reason for concern.”

  I sat a moment, contemplating this dangerous little bomb, vacillating between an attempt to absorb the truth behind her words and the desire to find a way to hide from it. I kept my eyes on the floor, too afraid of what I’d see if I looked into hers. Two weeks in the psych ward rendered me incapable of pulling off my usually dazzling impersonation of a happy, successful, single mother. Andi knew I was drunk in front of Charlie every day for over a year. She’d heard me describe the misery etched across my child’s face each time I pulled the cork on yet another bottle of wine. She knew the damage I’d done.

  “Cadence?” she prodded.

  Finally, I managed to look up at her round, pretty face. For the most part, I like Andi, except when she suggests I might be wrong about something. In the two months I have known her, this has happened more often than I’d like.

  She met my gaze and smiled softly. I didn’t respond, so she spoke again. “Try to think about it as what’s best for Charlie.”

  “Isn’t it best for Charlie to see his parents get along?” I asked. I’ve read enough adv
ice books on how divorced parents should act in front of their children to feel pretty confident I was right about this one. I longed to stand before Martin and put on the face that said everything was okay. I wanted to prove to him that whatever darkness had reared its ugly head inside me had subsided; I had it back under control.

  “Yes, seeing you getting along would be best,” Andi conceded. “But it’s not realistic. Martin just filed to take custody away from you. Your emotions are running insanely high. Even with the best intentions it would be hard not to confront him.”

  “I don’t want to confront Martin,” I said. “I just want to talk to him. Explain that I’m better. That I’m getting help with this . . . problem.”

  “Pleading your case is just going to stir up a bunch of negativity. Charlie is five years old. Even if you manage to restrain yourself from fighting, he’s smart enough to pick up on facial expressions and the tone of your voices. You don’t want to upset him.”

  “I could fake it,” I said. I knew it wouldn’t take much. When we were married, Martin and I fought and then went to bed with an invisible force field between us. In the morning, I gave him a smile, a kiss, and then made a pot of coffee and his lunch. Shape-shifting into what made Martin happy was something I already knew how to do.

  Andi looked at me with her gentle, tigerlike topaz eyes. “Have you considered that maybe ‘faking it’ is what got you here?”

  I was eight months pregnant when Martin and I decided I would leave my reporting job at the Seattle Herald. I’m not sure where I got the idea that working from home while taking care of an infant would be easy; I guess I thought freelance writing would grant me flexibility and plenty of free time to be with my son. Of course, after spending three years juggling the incessant demands of both self-employment and motherhood, I realized there was nothing easy about it. There was one person in charge of my day, and his name was Charlie.

  “Mama!” he said, jumping on my bed one morning in May, a few months before he turned four. “Time to wake up!”

  I groaned, rolled over beneath the covers, and peeked at the clock. Six o’clock on a Sunday. Oh, sweet Jesus. “Charlie, honey, can you go back to bed? It’s too early.”

  “No, it’s not!” He bounced on the mattress, jarring my throbbing head. Finishing off that bottle of merlot had been a bad idea. Since Martin moved out the previous November, my usual limit was one glass, maybe two a night, and then it was only to help me sleep. But then the night before, with Charlie already down for the count, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to enjoy another glass while I worked. When the contents of my cup grew low, I splashed in a little more to top it off. Before I knew it, there was none left to pour.

  Now, I propped myself up on my elbows and looked at my son through scratchy, dry eyes. He was starting to lose his babyish looks—his dark, wispy curls were mussed, his cheeks were pink, and his ears stuck out from his head like a chimpanzee’s. My little monkey.

  “Do you want to cuddle with me for a while?” I asked, hoping he’d take the bait.

  “No!” Charlie said. “I want pancakes. And yogurt.”

  I flopped back down and threw my forearm over my eyes, causing the pain to ricochet like a bullet beneath my skull. If I didn’t do something for this headache soon, it would take over and I’d never get anything written today. I had barely started my article on the Northwest’s Top Ten Bed-and-Breakfasts for Seattle magazine, and while it was originally due the week before, I managed to sweet-talk the editor into extending my deadline through tomorrow. I couldn’t afford to screw up and not get paid.

  Charlie pushed me playfully and giggled. He was not going to give up.

  I sighed and forced myself to rotate up and out of bed. The room spun around me, so I kept my eyes closed and took deep breaths until it passed. Ugh. I felt awful. I hoped I wouldn’t be sick.

  “Pancakes!” Charlie hollered, and I cringed, clutching my forehead with one hand.

  “Shh, honey. Mama has a headache.”

  He leapt off the bed and sped down the hall in his Spider-Man pajamas. The noisy clamor of cartoons quickly echoed throughout the house.

  I trodded after him, my bare feet slapping against the hardwood floors. I wondered when I had changed out of my jeans and into my pajamas the night before; I didn’t remember doing it. I must have been really tired, I thought hazily. I’m really not getting enough sleep.

  In my tiny, black-and-white, fifties-style kitchen, I immediately went for the super-size bottle of Advil on the counter and shook four out into my hand. I popped them into my mouth and used my cupped palm beneath the faucet to splash them down with a water chaser.

  I fought with the coffee filters for a minute, but soon managed to get a pot brewing, throwing in an extra scoop of aromatic grounds for a super-charged medicinal kick of caffeine. Charlie raced in from the living room and threw his arms around my legs, squeezing them tightly.

  “I love you, Mama,” he said.

  “I love you, too, Charlie bear.” I hoped my voice didn’t sound as weary as I felt. I reached around and cupped my hand against the curve of his head.

  He let go of me, padded over to the refrigerator, and grabbed a strawberry yogurt from the bottom shelf. I kept most of his snacks within reach so he could get them himself. I’d read somewhere that giving him tasks like this to accomplish on his own would encourage his self-esteem. It also reduced the number of things I needed to do for him each day from one hundred to ninety-nine.

  “Did you turn off the TV?” I asked absentmindedly, then realized the sound of cartoons had ceased.

  “Yep!” He sat at the chrome-legged, black Formica kitchen table that put in double duty as my desk. The house was too small for an office, so my laptop and printer took up one end of the table, and at meal time Charlie and I took up the other. It was all the space I needed, really, since most of my work was done online and over the phone.

  “Let me get you a spoon,” I said, reaching into the silverware drawer and setting the utensil on the table. “Eating yogurt with your fingers isn’t such a hot idea.”

  With an impish grin, he wiggled his fingers threateningly over the open cup.

  “Don’t you dare,” I said. Too late. He dropped his fingers in the creamy pink yogurt and scooped a bite into his mouth.

  “Charlie,” I said, exasperated. “No.” I snatched a dish towel from the counter, took him by the wrist, and wiped his hand clean. I gave the bottom of his chin a gentle pinch. “Don’t do that again, okay? You’re a big boy. You know better than that.”

  “Okay,” he said. He dutifully picked up his spoon and began to eat. My head screamed at me to go back to bed, but I knew it would be impossible.

  While I inhaled my coffee from a black, soup bowl-size mug, I zapped a few frozen pancakes in the microwave. When they were done, I cut them up into bite-size squares and served them to my son. I nibbled on one without butter or syrup, hoping the carbs would take the edge off my nausea.

  “All done!” Charlie said, pushing away from the table and jumping down from his chair. “Want to come play with me?”

  I smiled at him. “I need to work for a little while. Can you watch TV quietly?”

  “But I want you to play,” he whined, yanking on my hand.

  I took a deep breath, then exhaled. That was that. As always, work would have to wait for his nap time. I knew spending time with my son was more important, but the money I’d received in the divorce settlement wasn’t going to last forever. If I watched my pennies and pulled in at least a little bit from freelancing, it would be enough to live on for a couple of years. Martin paid child support to cover basic things like Charlie’s clothes and food, but in order to survive on my own long term, I needed to step up my professional game. Something that was difficult to do, considering I wasn’t all that crazy about freelance journalism in the first place. After I left the Herald, my career had morphed into a matter of convenience rather than a passionate pursuit, but it was all I knew how to do. So for the t
ime being, I didn’t have a choice but to make it work.

  “Mama!” Charlie said, jerking on my hand again. I allowed him to lead me into the living room, a small space made to look even smaller by the arrangement of an overstuffed khaki love seat and two matching, comfy lounge chairs with ottomans. There was a flat-screen television hanging above the river-stone fireplace—an indulgence Martin encouraged before he moved out, a purchase I reluctantly grew to enjoy. The built-in cherry shelves on each side of the fireplace were stuffed with my books, a few candles and pictures, but mostly Charlie’s toys.

  He let go of my hand and ran over to the enormous pile of brightly hued Duplo blocks that already lay in the middle of the tan, skeleton leaf-imprinted area rug. He sat down and gave me a toothy grin.

  “Here,” Charlie said, holding out a single red block. “This is yours. Mine are the rest.”

  “Okay,” I said, walking over to join him on the floor. The combination of Advil and caffeine had finally kicked in—the elephants tromping through my head began to slow down. I took the block from him. “Where do you want me to put it?”

  “I’ll do it,” he said, snatching the toy back immediately.

  “Okay,” I said, smiling. “Gotcha, boss.” I watched him play for a few minutes, amazed by the intensity of my feelings. No one told me that the love I’d feel for my child would be so pervasive and consuming. Charlie came howling from my body and in an instant, my own soul was woven into his so completely it became impossible to extricate one from the other.

  “Here,” my son said again, handing me another red block. He pointed to the top of the tower he had built. “Put it there.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, setting the block where he wanted it. “Like that?”

  “Good job, Mama,” he said, patting me on my knee with his plump hand. He suddenly jumped up and launched himself full-force into my lap, pushing me over onto the floor with his arms around my neck.