Read Online The Corner of Bitter and Sweet by Robin Palmer - Free Book Online Page A

my fault. Like if I had been a better daughter, watched her more, and told Ben how bad things really had gotten with the drinking and pills, then I could have stopped it. If a drink (or five) would’ve done that, then I totally would’ve poured myself one. But I knew that the half hour (or five minutes) of peace I would’ve gotten would’ve then been followed by even worse fear and worry and regret. Plus, because I would be drunk, it would take that much longer to get back to a state of mind where I could then do something about it. Or at least think I could do something about it.
    Esme was at her book club, and even though the sun was just starting to go down, she had put every light in the house on because she thought it made it a happier place. But when I walked in, there was nothing happy about it. If anything, the space and quiet I found myself standing in the middle of brought all the anxiety that I had been pushing down since Mom left bursting to the surface.
    If I had been Olivia—or at least the old Olivia—I would’ve gone to the kitchen and started stuffing my face with any carb that wasn’t nailed down. Instead, I went straight to my bedroom. Out of habit I locked my door, even though I was the only one there. I went to my closet and took out the pillowcase on the left-hand corner of the floor. As I brought it to my bed and turned it over, four cans of Play-Doh, two Barbies, a Skipper, and a Ken (maybe it was the lack of hair, but none of the Ken heads gave off that rubbery smell that I loved so much) came tumbling out. Followed by some assorted random Colorforms, their smell long gone, that I couldn’t bring myself to throw out because they reminded me of the West Hollywood apartment and a time when Mom was happy and hopeful and had a glass of wine only on very special occasions.
    Picking up the red can, I popped the top off and brought it to my nose, closing my eyes as I inhaled deeply. I counted to five as I held it in my lungs, waiting for the familiar feeling of safety to wash over me, like when I wrapped myself in the blanket that Esme had crocheted for me, but nothing happened. It didn’t happen when I tried the yellow can, or even the blue one. Or with any of the Barbie heads. Instead, my heart beat faster as yet another anxiety attack kicked in.
    Nothing was working.
    Feeling even more anxious and uncomfortable than before, I went over to my desk and took my Nikon out of its case and walked into Mom’s bedroom. Back when we still lived in West Hollywood, she’d go through decorating magazines and tear out photos of bedrooms she loved, talking about how one day her bedroom would be in a magazine. And it had been. A bunch of times. Even though she’d been in rehab for a week her smell was still there—the musky smell of her Agent Provocateur perfume mixed with the tart citrus and sweet gardenia of the different body lotions that were scattered around the room. (“Let me tell you something, Annabelle,” she liked to say. “Sure, dental hygiene is important, but soft supple skin? Just as important, if not more so. I mean, if need be, you can buy new teeth, you know?”) I half expected her to come strolling out of her walk-in closet, wearing only her underwear. Even though it drove me nuts when she did that. (“Sweetie, the human body is a beautiful work of art,” she’d always say when I tried to convince her to put clothes on. “Especially before things start sagging.”) I would have done anything for her to do that right then.
    I walked into her bathroom. All sorts of makeup tubes and bottles and compacts littered the countertops, untouched since she had left. She had enough to open up her own makeup counter. Or at least work at one. Which, once she got out of rehab, might be the only job she’d be able to get.
    I aimed the camera. Snap . I loved the sound of the shutter opening and closing. There was something so purposeful about it. Something that said, I’m not sure why, but this