Bones and Roses Read Free

morning has burned off, giving way to sunny skies that has every outdoor table at the Bluejay filled. Housed in what was once a cottage—the orphan child of the Painted Ladies that line the block—it’s a favorite of locals and tourists alike, always packed even during non-peak hours. We were lucky to snag a table on the patio, under the grape arbor that forms a leafy canopy at one end. I bask in the warmth from the dappled sunlight.
    Mark Twain is quoted as having once said the coldest winter he ever knew was the summer he spent in San Francisco. The same could be said of Cypress Bay, a two-hour drive down the coast. This time of year the fog rolls in every morning like the tide, usually not burning off until midday. When I left my house at 6:30 a.m. to go to work, it was chilly and gray. Now it’s warm enough for me to have peeled off the sweatshirt and Henley shirt I’d been wearing over my tank top.
    â€œHow was the meeting last night?” Ivy changes the subject. She means the AA meeting I attended. When I was newly sober, I used to go to one a day, but nowadays I go to one a week. That I felt the need for more than my regular Thursday night meeting this week is clearly cause for concern. I could tell from her overly casual tone.
    â€œGood.” I don’t elaborate. What goes on in the “rooms” stays in the rooms. Ivy is well aware of this; that’s not why she was asking. She’s worried I’ll fall off the wagon.
    â€œYou didn’t return my call.”
    I extract a clump of sprouts from my sandwich before taking a bite. You’d think Cypress Bay was the birthplace of the alfalfa sprout from its prevalence in these parts—it’s the kudzu of crunchy land. I’d be happy if I never saw another sprout. “Yeah, it was too late by the time I got your message.”
    â€œI thought the meeting got out at nine.”
    â€œI went out afterwards with some friends,” I lie.
    â€œReally. Is that why all the lights were on at your house?”
    I narrow my eyes at her. “What, so now you’re spying on me?”
    â€œI was checking up on you. That’s not the same as spying. I was worried, okay? I thought something had happened to you.” I can’t say I blame her, after what I put her through during my Lost Weekend years. She was the first person to whom I made amends after I got sober.
    â€œI’m perfectly fine as you can see.” I spread my arms to show I have nothing to hide—as in no bruises from having fallen down while in a drunken stupor, no bandages from having slit my wrists.
    Ivy says nothing.
    I munch on my sandwich as if I hadn’t a care in the world, swallowing what’s in my mouth before delivering another whopper. “Today is just another day as far as I’m concerned.”
    She returns her sandwich to her plate and pushes her aviator sunglasses onto her head to look me in the eye. “It’s no use, Tish. I’ve known you since we were in sixth grade. You can’t fool me.”
    I shrug. “It’s been twenty-five years. Believe me, I’m over it.”
    â€œNo, you’re not,” she insists. “You’re only saying that so I’ll shut up. But this isn’t one of those fake-it-till-you-make-it things.” I hate it when she does that, quotes AA scripture she learned from me.
    â€œWhat do you want from me? Do you expect me to moan and wail?”
    â€œNo, but you could mark the occasion—you know, to get closure. Have some sort of ceremony.”
    â€œWhat, you mean like scatter her ashes? Visit her grave?” An edge creeps into my voice. “My mom isn’t dead, Ivy. She ran out on us.”
    She ignores my biting tone. “Tish, it’s time. You’ll never get past it if you don’t deal with it.”
    â€œI’ve dealt with it plenty, trust me.”
    â€œOh, really. Is that why you’re glaring at me like I just