When Would I Drink?
Just as I started giving in to the notion of being stuck forever in Pitcairn with Larry, something strange happened.
My mom called.
I could count on one hand the number of times my family had called since I’d moved out. She announced: “Your dad got a Fulbright scholarship!”
Not knowing what “Fulbright” meant, I completely ignored my dad’s unprecedented achievement and didn’t even ask why it mattered.
“Okay,” I said, pulling the phone away from my ear so I could reach my cigarettes.
“He’s going to be working at The Open University,” she said excitedly. “Near London!”
Again ignorant, I knew nothing about universities being open or closed. “Uh-huh,” I said.
“So we’re going to England. We’re leaving right after Christmas.”
“Okay,” I said again, frustrated. I had no idea why this should matter to me.
“We’re going to live in Europe for three months, and stay at a little house near the university.”
I lit my cigarette and waited. The trip she was describing sounded like a dream. I’d always wanted to go to England, listen to those cool accents and instantaneously transform into a London punk rocker. She talked about travel and London and a place called “Bath” which seemed like a strange name for a town. I was pondering the lame name when there was a pause long enough for me to speak, but I had no idea what to say so I stayed silent.
My mom took a deep breath. “We’d like you to come with us,” she said.
I was struck dumb.
My thoughts smashed into one another in my brain: I want to go to England! I can’t spend that much time with my parents. When would I drink? I’ve got to get out of here! I want to be part of a family again. I’ll never be part of that family again. I have to work! I can’t stand Larry. I want to go to England!
Finally I said, “Is Larry invited?” Because if Larry was going, that would be a no-brainer. I could never combine my two worlds for that long. I would have to stay in Pitcairn.
“No,” my mom said, prepared. “Tracy and Kelli aren’t taking anyone either. It’s just for family.”
Family, I thought wistfully.
“Can I think about it?”
“Sure,” said Mom. “We’re going to buy the plane tickets this week, so can you let us know by Friday?”
“Okay,” I said.
I thought and drank and thought about my parents’ offer. I talked to Larry about it. (“I don’t know why they didn’t invite me,” he’d said. “I am your fuckin’ family!”)
I talked to my friends at work about it. (“A Fulbright!” they’d said. “That’s so exciting!”) My boss said I could take all three weeks of my vacation time in January if I wanted to go to England.
I thought and drank and thought some more. Thursday after work – which was technically Friday morning – I got plastered.
On Friday I woke up hungover and irritable, as usual. I walked into the kitchen to chug some Diet Coke and stepped on something painful in the middle of the kitchen floor. Fuck! I removed the bolt from my bare foot and threw it at the wall.
I’ve got to get the fuck out of here, I thought.
I called my mom.
“I want to go,” I said.
“That’s great!” she said.
Her chipper voice made me wary of my decision, but it was made. I was going to spend three weeks in England.
A little voice echoed inside my brain: How will you drink?