“You’re one to talk.”
There was a chill in those words, and Catherine stopped rummaging through the pile of take-out menus she’d already collected and looked at Aimee more closely. “What do you mean?”
“Dad.” Aimee closed the refrigerator door with more force than necessary, and Catherine could see the tension rippling through her as she fought to hold back. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you dodging my question. Did you ask for any sort of help at all to fix things with him? Do you ever ask for help?”
“Aims… I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about this yet.”
“You can’t avoid it forever.”
“I’m not avoiding it. It’s just— none of this has been easy, with the launch, and your grandma, and then moving—”
“Just tell me this.” Aimee angrily shoved the paper bags into the recycling bin. “Did you even try? You guys were fine! We were a family! One little fight and you just walk out on us again?”
Ready or not, it looked like they were having this conversation right now. Catherine leaned her hip against the kitchen counter and folded her arms. “Honey, your dad and I… we did try. But we were apart for almost ten years, and… in that time, we both changed. Your father moved on.”
“But you were married for almost twenty years!” Aimee’s hurt was written all over her face, and it broke Catherine’s heart.
“I know, sweetheart. But we spent half of that time apart.” Catherine hated like hell that Aimee was learning that loving someone wasn’t always enough to make a relationship work.
“So, you just gave up on us.”
“Aimee. Aimee, no, I will never, ever give up on you. No matter what happens between your father and me, you are my daughter and I will always be here for you.”
“Sure, the way you’ve always been here. Except for that one time, for nine years.” Aimee walked out of the kitchen and Catherine followed her.
“Aimee—”
“You and Dad are both adults, and if the two of you can’t fix a relationship after being apart for so long, how am I supposed to be able to? How am I ever going to be able to trust that you’re really my mom again?”
Catherine paused in the kitchen doorway, searching for the answer. “It’s… it’s a different relationship, Aimee. I’m always going to be your mom.” It was a weak answer, but it was all she had.
“You know, this is supposed to be the most exciting time of my life. I’m going to college! It’s scary and fun and everything’s new—and instead of focusing on that, I’m stuck dealing with this shit.” Aimee crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t know why I came here. You don’t need me.”
“I’m not supposed to need you!” Catherine snapped. “That’s not how this works!”
“You don’t need anybody. You never have, have you?”
Aimee was parroting David’s words back to her. Had he been talking to her about Catherine? “Did you hear that from your father?”
“No! Mom, I’m not a child anymore. I can see things for myself.”
“That’s not fair—”
“Why did you come home if you were just going to leave again? It was easier when you were dead. Why didn’t you just die?”
Catherine smacked Aimee across the face. It was like watching it from outside herself, watching her hand fly up and back and not being able to stop it.
Aimee stared at her with wide eyes for a moment, and Catherine stared back, the stinging of her hand and the red mark on Aimee’s cheek the only evidence of what had happened.
“Aimee—”
“I’m going home.” Aimee snatched up her purse and headed for the door.
“Please, no, wait—” Catherine reached for her and Aimee whirled.
“Don’t touch me.”
For a frightened moment, Catherine didn’t know the girl in front of her, and thought she might strike back. Aimee turned and left without another word, leaving Catherine to stare at the closed apartment door.
Oh God, what have I done?
She sank onto the couch, horrified at herself, at her loss of control. At the way she’d hurt the one person she was trying not to hurt. David. I have to call him.
She scrambled for her cell phone and dialed David’s number. It went straight to voice mail, and she realized he was probably already talking to Aimee. “David, it’s Catherine. Aimee and I had a fight; she’s coming over there now. Please take care of her. And… and if she’ll listen, please tell her how sorry I am.” She hung up, too ashamed to tell him what she’d done.
You’re just terrible at relationships in general, aren’t you?
Catherine froze. Tom. “Leave me alone!”
I mean, I thought it was just me, but no. Now I see it wasn’t me at all. It was you, Catherine. It’s always been you. You’re the fuckup.
Without thinking, she found herself in the kitchen, grabbing a glass and the open bottle of chardonnay in the refrigerator. She filled the glass and went back to the battered secondhand couch in the living room, her hand flexing against the fading sting. One glass helped a bit. Two, and she felt a little more in control of herself. By the time she’d finished the bottle and started a second one, Tom was quiet, dinner forgotten, and she’d ignored three phone calls. As she stared blankly at some sitcom on her tiny television, there was nothing in her mind but a soft, blissful hum.
20
AFTER THE FIGHT with Aimee, Catherine stopped sleeping almost entirely. The wine wasn’t always enough to keep the nightmares and Tom’s voice at bay.
She stayed up and watched bad TV, drinking until she either passed out on the couch or fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. Sleep brought an increasingly unpleasant selection of dreams: slapping Aimee; Aimee telling everyone at her funeral she was glad Catherine was dead; killing the entire crew of Sagittarius I, laughing the entire time.
Last night, she’d dreamed about Tom. He was sitting on one of the acceleration couches on board Sagittarius. He was dead, his eyes filmed over, his skin pale and faintly green. There were burns down one side of his face.
When he turned to look at her, the burns glinted in the light.
“It’s always been your fault,” he whispered. “Why did you leave us all to die?”
“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered, stricken.
“You should have let me out.” He stood up and reached for her. “You should have died with us.”
Catherine jerked awake before he touched her, and stared blindly up at her ceiling until it was time to go to work.
The hours she spent at JSC were a special form of hell. She’d managed to keep her drinking confined to her off-hours, sometimes sneaking a glass or two of wine with lunch. But as time went on, that stopped working. She started hearing Tom’s voice again, yelling for her to let him out, accusing her of leaving him to die.
Maybe it was inevitable that one morning she filled her travel mug with something other than coffee. Wine wasn’t concentrated enough to get her through the day in an easily portable form, so she filled it with vodka instead.
She promised herself she’d drink it only if she absolutely needed it.
It was a rough day. Her office was too quiet. With the launch well past, there wasn’t anything to help her keep focused. By noon, the mug was half-empty. Catherine idly sorted and cleaned out her email inbox, feeling the pleasant, warm glow of the vodka. She should drink this more often at home. It felt so much more soothing than the wine.
The fuzzy, blank feeling was interrupted by her phone buzzing to remind her of a mission-status meeting for Sag II staff. Shit, shit, shit. How could she have forgotten it?