My mother lives nearby, in a condominium high on the bluff in Princeville, close to where I visited her years ago. Emme and I chose it for its tall ceilings and 360-degree views. On one side, the mountains where Merilee once grew her illegal crops sweep across the windows of the living room. On the other, Hanalei Bay winds down to the Napali Coast and Bali Hai. The rooms are expansive, open, and breezy, with light, plank floors of pinewood the color of dry sand; the furniture is rattan with Hawaiian print cushions and curtains to match.

On the day escrow closed, we told Merilee we were picking her up and taking her to a lunch party at the home of a friend. Lunch was a safe time—Merilee didn’t start drinking until the afternoon. She lived in a rented room and rarely went out, only to get groceries or on the occasions when Emme and I persuaded her to come on our walks.

We invited a small group, a dozen or so co-workers and friends of Emme’s, a few checkers from the Big Five where Merilee had been employed on and off over the years. Everyone had been sworn to secrecy.

The gathering was already in full swing when we arrived. My mother tried to scramble into a corner, but Emme and I pulled her along with us, making sure she spoke a few words to everyone until gradually she started to relax.

“Which one is the hostess?” Merilee asked me. “I want to tell her how beautiful her home is.”

I nodded at Emme.

“You’re the hostess, Mom,” she said.

“Welcome home, Mom,” I said, and handed her a set of keys.

She looked confused for a moment and then buried her face in her hands and started to cry. I put my good arm around her shoulders and the guests all gathered around and applauded. Then we sang “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”

Last year, Emme and I convinced Merilee to go to Betty Ford. She stayed for three months. She went to all the twelve-step meetings and therapies but could not bring herself to open up and communicate in ways so unfamiliar to her nature and upbringing. Dried out and miserable, she came home feeling like a failure and wanting to die. She went back to drinking and we never tried to sober her up again.

My mother still drinks, but she drinks sitting comfortably in her rattan swivel chair, looking at views of the waterfalls pouring from the green mountains above Hanalei and the glorious sunsets over the blue Pacific and Bali Hai.

FREEZE FRAME: ROLL CREDITS

THE END

Review the book on Goodreads

Connect with Dinah Manoff

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dinah Manoff is an award-winning actor and director. She has written for both stage and television and had several short stories presented at the prestigious writer’s forum Spoken Interludes and recorded for KCRW.