Page 121 of Sunday Morning
“Sarah? Eve?” Mom called from downstairs.
Thunk!
I rolled off the bed and hit the floor, scrambling to stand as I lost the towel around my head and the one around my body. Eve giggled, covering her mouth. Then I snorted as I snatched a towel off the floor and wrapped it around my waist.
“Sarah.” Eve pointed to my breasts, and I looked down.
“Oops …” I giggled again, pulling the towel over my breasts and stumbling across the hall to my bedroom.
“Sarah?” Mom yelled again.
Quickly closing and locking the door, I turned, pausing as I faced my bed, where Isaac’s guitar case lay with a folded note, my cream cowboy hat, boots, and the bag of clothes he bought me.
I looked around as though I thought he was hiding somewhere.
“Sarah?” Mom knocked on my door.
I scrambled to hide everything under my bed and shoved the note into my nightstand drawer.
“Open the door, Sarah.”
I held my arms out, fingers stiff like a cat falling from a tree. “Be cool,” I whispered to myself. If I could just stay cool, chilled, and calm, she wouldn’t know I was drunk.
“Hey,” I said, opening the door.
Mom grimaced. “Where are your clothes?”
The towel!
I dropped the towel in the process of hiding the guitar, and I forgot to cover up before opening the door.
Slapping a hand over my mouth, I laughed.
Mom stepped closer. “You’ve been drinking. You’re drunk.”
I shook my head, but I couldn't stop laughing.
“Go to bed right now. If your dad finds out, he’s going to be livid. This week has been unbearable for him. You, out of all people, should know that. This is disrespectful to everyone. I don't know what has gotten into you lately, young lady, but this has got to stop.”
“Welp, tell that to God. Maybe he should have thought about that before He let my friends die.” I tipped my chin up, making duck lips as if I had a valid point instead of an acute case of too much tequila.
“Sarah Elaine Jacobson,youare alive. If that’s not by the grace of God, then I don’t know what is.”
When the door closed behind her, I stepped back until the side of my bed hit my legs, and I fell onto the mattress, closed my eyes, and surrendered to the alcohol.
CHAPTER THIRTY
THE CLASH, “SHOULD I STAY OR SHOULD I GO”
At eleven thirty,I woke up to vomit.
At midnight, I woke to the sound of Eve vomiting.
At eight the next morning, I lifted my heavy head from my pillow when I heard my parents arguing. That was a first. They didn’t argue with us in the house.
There had been a lot of firsts that week. Then I remembered the guitar, and I cringed as both my head and my stomach protested upon sitting up. I opened my drawer and retrieved the note.
Take your time. Be vulnerable. Feel everything. Then find courage in the face of fear. I love you, Sunday Morning.