Page 44 of The Lipstick Flip

My mom was passed out with a bottle between her legs. The thought was just there, suddenly, out of nowhere—like someone turning on stage lights. He was screaming. We were all screaming. And he had the belt. He was so mad that day.

The memory was so strong, pressing so hard into this moment, that I couldn’t tell if I was dizzy or sick or what, so I put a hand on the counter to steady myself.

“I’m not getting defensive,” Noah said. But his tone was slipping. The family-good-times vibe was almost gone, and in its place was the brittle, yeah, defensiveness that I remembered from too many Reynolds family gatherings.

“I just wish you could see you how I see you,” Tracy said. “You’re a beautiful young man. You’re so smart. You’re so talented. You could make so much more out of your life than…this.”

“I’m sorry you’re disappointed with how my life turned out,” he said. “Howie, maybe you want a drink or something.”

“I’m not disappointed, baby. I love you. I want you to be happy.”

“Sorry,” Noah said, hands on his hips, then hands tucked under his arms, then hands on his hips again. “I know you don’t—what about a Sprite?”

“I’m not disappointed because it’s not my life,” Tracy said. “If it were my life, I’d be disappointed. Because I know you can do so much better. But it’s not my life, baby. It’s your life. I’m not disappointed.”

Noah kept blinking those electric blue eyes. His shoulders curved, and he wasn’t looking at me. “Howie, could you help me get out the plates?”

You learned a lot about handling drunks when you were a cop. And you learned a lot more if you went to NA. When someone wouldn’t stop talking because they were high as a kite. When someone stood up to share and puked all over themselves, and then tried to keep going. When a man shambled in with shit in his shoes because he’d soiled himself walking into the meeting.

I moved to the cabinets, opened them one by one until I found a tumbler, and I filled it with water at the sink.

“Your father would help you,” Tracy was saying.

And Noah was talking to me in a low voice, “Howie, it’s fine, you don’t need to—”

I set the glass down in front of Tracy, and I picked up the gin and tonic. I grabbed the Bombay Sapphire next and the Fever-Tree.

“Hey!” Tracy said.

I leaned on the counter, looked her in the eye, and said, “Hello, beautiful.”

It was like a sharp turn; the anger that had been building in Tracy had a hard time changing course, and it lost momentum. “Howie,” she said, and she tittered. “What are you doing?”

“I’m cutting you off. Drink some water, and let’s have a nice dinner together on Christmas Eve.”

“But Howie, I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine. I’ve only had two drinks.” To my surprise, she suddenly looked like she was about to cry—embarrassment, maybe. And maybe a little panic.

“Sorry, babe, but you know how this works. If I overserve, they’ll take my license. We don’t want that to happen, do we?”

And now, because it was a game, because it was make-believe, she laughed. She touched my hand. “You’re so silly, Howie.”

“Drink your water.”

“You’re all being ridiculous. I’m fine, I’m perfectly fine. I’ve only had two drinks.” But she sipped her water.

“I was looking for a picture I used to have,” I said. “We took it out at Tahoe. We’re all holding our stockings, and you can see Noah’s ring. Do you remember that one?”

“Well, of course I remember,” she said, and it was tart, like maybe the question was really about how many drinks she’d had.

“Any chance you still have it on your phone?”

“Well, I don’t know, Howie. That was years ago.”

“Could you look?”

She tried to squint at me, and there was still that hint of a challenge. “Of course.”

“Great. Noah and I are going to finish dinner while you do that.”