by J. L. Mac
True to my self-destructive tendencies, I made my way to my bedroom and brought the pillow she had slept on last night to my face. I buried my nose into the plush material and inhaled deeply and for a moment, a split second, she was here. She was with me but the moment I exhaled, she’d fled from my life once again.
“Fuck!” I screamed into the silence of my space.
I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to know where she went, if she’d arrived safely and that she was okay. I called and called and called but she refused to answer. I didn’t expect her to and the coward in me was glad that she didn’t accept my call. I hadn’t the slightest idea what I could say to make her feel better. I didn’t think there was much I could do or say to remedy the hurt and anger and accusation that was written on her face.
Matt’s text to let me know that she was with him was the only positive thing to happen all night.
Once I knew she was with Matt, I felt some level of relief but it was marginal and did little to soothe me. I knew what would soothe me though. I hated that my impulse was to find a drink and fast. It also frightened me. The threat of relapse never felt so close, so powerful, and so imminent.
My phone buzzed in my pocket and I fished it out.
Flor.
She sent me a text. One simple text.
Flor: I’m fine.
It had been hours since she ran from the party. I noted the time on the screen of my cell phone.
1:32 AM.
If she was fine, then why was she still awake at nearly two o’clock in the morning? Was she as restless as I was? Was she drinking something to calm her nerves and mollify the ache in her chest? Was there an ache in her chest at all?
Me: Please talk to me.
I waited with my phone cradled in my hands, willing her to message me back, but nothing came, and my heart broke a little more with each passing minute.
Any man with a brain in his head knew that that declaration coming from a woman most definitely meant that she was anything but fine. I waited an hour then tried calling her but her phone was off again, I assumed. I hung up, unsure of myself and unsure of what I should say, unsure if I had the endurance it would take to not find a drink and drain it, unsure if I had damaged my friendship with Martin, unsure of where things went from here…
One thing was certain, I wanted the burn of alcohol but all I had was the burn of pure, distilled devastation. There was a severe hangover in my future
For three full days I sat in my penthouse going out of my mind. I was locked in a death battle with my personal monster—a monster that had sprung free from the proverbial closet, bared its teeth and set sights on me. I was ready to wave my white flag.
I had always assumed that falling off the wagon would feel a lot different, though assigning a specific adjective for exactly what it would feel like remained elusive. A decent word for the occasion completely escaped me, even now, staring at the crystal tumbler in my hand filled with priceless scotch, aged so long is was nothing short of a miracle that it hadn’t simply evaporated all together.
I’d given thought to what the moment would feel like about as much as I’d thought about drinking, about staying sober, about Tommy, about Martin, about Flor…
And still, I had not a single word for the moment. It felt oddly unceremonious to not assign a word for it. Funny the things that take up the prime real estate of your mind when you’ve lost all care—when you’ve surrendered completely.
The only thing that seemed to fit the occasion was the day of the week. “Tommy,” I whispered his name as though it were a plea. A plea for what? I didn’t know. Forgiveness? Perhaps, but that was something I’d never ask of him or anyone else. Not now. It was a Tuesday, and Tommy had decided to wear a tie of rope on a Tuesday. It seemed like fate that I’d choose to pick up drinking again on the same day of the week that Tommy had chosen to die.
I brought the tumbler to my nose and inhaled the richly alcoholic scent of failure, underscored by subtleties of oak and time gone by.
“The Balvenie, single malt, aged fifty years,” I whispered to myself, leaning back in the plush leather lounge. It was situated in such a way that the reflection in the panoramic windows of my apartment was what my eyes saw, not the view of Manhattan beyond. Just me. A gray figure in a chair with a glass of liquid amber in hand. A shadow. It was fitting because I felt like a shadow of a man—a hollow feeling that I was intent on drowning in the most expensive scotch I could get my hands on. I’d hate myself in the morning, but after a glass of The Balvenie, I wouldn’t actually give a shit.
At least, that’s what I’d hoped.
I brought the tumbler to my lips and ignored the single hot tear rolling down my cheek. That single tear made me feel small and pathetic and vulnerable. I hated that tear. I hated what had put it there. I hated that I hurt so fucking much and there was nothing to fix it.
The chiming coming from my cell phone jarred me. It was so quiet in my home that the tolling of digital bells had rattled me. I set my thirty thousand dollar scotch down on the end table beside my chair, grabbed one crutch, and got up in no major rush to find my phone.
The last thing I wanted right now was someone showing up at my door because I hadn’t responded to their call or text message. If I was going to fall off the wagon, I was going to do it in peace. I didn’t need the shame of getting caught heaped on to my growing list of stress.
I swiped at the screen of my cell phone to answer her call. “Halley.”
“Graham. What are you doing?”
“No need to babysit me, Halley. I’m a big boy. It’s late, why are you calling right now?”
“You have surgery on Friday to remove the fixator. I just wanted to check on you and see if you needed a lift to the hospital on Friday.”
“Trust me, I haven’t forgotten. I can’t wait to get this thing removed, but that’s not why you called, is it?”
“Graham, stop. I just… Flor called me earlier.”
“She did?”
“Yes. She wanted…she wanted to know how you were doing. She sounded worried. I’m worried too. She’s upset.”
“Don’t be worried about me. I’m fine,” I lied. I didn’t know what to think of the news that Flor had called my sister and that she had sounded “worried.”
“Like I haven’t heard that before. Have you spoken to Martin today?”
“Yeah,” I sighed. I had spoken to Martin every day. I hadn’t given it much thought the night our worlds collided but the next day when he called, I worried that perhaps our dynamic had changed over night. I was worried that maybe he’d view me differently. I feared that he’d distance himself from me, but to my surprise, it was the exact opposite. If he were invested in me before, he was really invested in me now.
“How is he?”
“He’s fine.”
“And how are you?”
“Halley, I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine. You sound like you’re ready to give up.”
“You’re right. I am. I’m tired and pretty much wrecked. I’d like some peace and quiet to feel sorry for myself.”
“I don’t think you should be alone right now.”
“I’m a big boy, Halley. And this big boy just wants to be left alone.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“Graham?”
“Yeah?”
“I never told you, but you should know that I don’t blame you for Tommy. I never have. I give you hell because I don’t want to lose you too. I just…I don’t know how to be nice about it because I’m scared.”
“Margaret, I—”
“Graham, promise me I won’t lose you too.”
“You aren’t going to lose me, Halley. Who else would you have to harass?”
“No one. I like harassing you.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
“Bye, Halley.”
The call ended and I launched my phone, my thunderous scream swallowed up the cras
hing sound the phone made as it splintered against the wall and fell to the floor in a multitude of pieces.
“Fuck! Goddammit!” I screamed to no one. I wanted to destroy everything! I wanted to kick and punch and flail and fuck something up until it was as broken and damaged as I felt.
I hobbled as quickly as I could to The Balvenie and swept my arm across the table it was perched on. I raked my arm across the end table where I’d abandoned my tumbler. They both skittered across the apartment, shattering and sending my addiction slopping out onto the floor at my feet. I kicked my chair and it went screeching across the room.
“Fuck!” My heart pounded away in my chest. Fresh, hot tears spilled from my eyes and I welcomed them. I welcomed the hurt. Fighting that hurt meant drinking The Balvenie in order to drown it.
If avoiding drinking meant I had to embrace that hurt, I’d embrace it now. I’d let it wash over me. I’d pour myself a generous glass of pain and drink it down until it ran dry. I knew that if I did, it would be in my system for a while, I supposed. But at some point, I’d metabolize the poison and it would be gone when the next day dawned. I got drunk on all my hurt, all my pain, all my fear in hopes that I’d metabolize it all, and once it was gone, it would be gone. I was tired of fighting.
With my back pressed against the wall, I tossed my single crutch across my living room, slid to the floor and cried the tears that had been blockaded for so long. I missed Tommy. I hated that I hadn’t been able to save him from himself. I hated that I’d hurt those that loved me most. I hated that I lost the only woman I’d ever loved, that I had no clue how or even if I’d be able to win her back. I wasn’t even sure I was brave enough to try because a tiny, ugly voice deep inside me whispered in my ear and told me she wouldn’t want me anyway.
Flor
Story Time
If I thought I knew desolation before, I was mistaken. I knew how it felt to have my feet swept from beneath me. I knew what it felt like to be disappointed. I knew what it felt like to feel sincere sadness from deep within.
But…
I had never experienced anything quite like this. This was pure and absolute heartbreak, the likes of which I had never known.
It had been radio silence from Graham and though I was the one who took off on him, the fact that he hadn’t tried to come see me hurt. I had to wonder if he was as distraught as I felt.
Though I was angry, I decided to text him to let him know I was fine. I was anything but fine, but I didn’t really know what to say. I was swimming in emotions and didn’t know where to start or even if I should. What could I have said? Hi, Graham. It’s me, Flor, the woman who has fallen madly in love with you. I am devastated that you lied to me because I love you so very much. Have a nice night.
Resigning myself to heartbreak, I did what all women do when they have been devastated by a man they love—I hid in my apartment, cried, ate junk food and watched movies I knew would only make me feel worse.
I wasn’t even sure what day it was, but Matt had left for work that morning and showed up before dinner, so it had to be a weekday.
“Hey, what’s today?” I asked Matt as he tossed his keys into the basket by our door.
“It’s Tuesday and you’re drunk,” he noted as he plucked the empty bottle of red wine up from the coffee table.
“Yeah.” I sighed and sat up to make room for him on the couch beside me. “Ironic, isn’t it?” I snorted. “The chick that hates her alcoholic dad and alcoholic boyfriend—ex boyfriend,” I amended, popping my index finger up above my head, “is d-drunk.” I hiccupped.
“What are you going to do, babe?” Matt asked a little impatiently as he straightened the mess I’d been making for three days.
“I don’t know,” I whispered, doing my absolute best to tamp down the emotion that threatened just beneath the surface of my drunken mind. “Doesn’t matter.” I stretched and leaned back against the couch cushions again.
“What do you want?” Matt snapped, pointing his finger at me. “Because I have given up trying to figure it out, and I’ve also given up playing cheerleader. You want something from this life? Go fucking get it! So, what do you want? Do you want him? Do you love him? Do you want to write? Do you want to work for your dad?”
“I don’t know,” I slurred.
“What the fuck do you want, Flor? Because right now it’s a goddamned mystery to everyone around you, so do us all a big favor and enlighten us!”
“I want to write books,” I whimpered, feeling more emotional than I liked thanks to my breakup with Graham and the wine coursing through my veins.
“Then write books!”
“It’s not that easy.” I shook my head, looking down at the floor.
“Yes it is! It’s only as hard as you make it on yourself. Here, write a fucking book!” He got to his feet and lunged at the console where junk mail and keys stacked up. Snagging a pen and pad in a small basket, he tossed it at me. “Write a book!”
My addled mind was entertained by his idea of writing a book on an actual piece of paper with an actual pen. “That’s not how to d-do it.” I hiccupped.
“And your way has been so much better?” Matt rebutted, crossing his arms over his chest.
“No.”
“So write the fucking book! For the love of God, write the fucking book,” he boomed in a voice I’d never heard him use.
“Fine! H-how about…um…Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a fifth of whiskey. Jack fell down ‘cause he’s too tipsy and Jill ditched him ‘cause she’s real bitchy. Any good?”
“You’re a joke right now!” He pointed his finger again and shook his head dismally, and even through the fog of alcohol, it hurt. One hand rested on his hip and the other rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had his eyes squeezed shut as though looking at me was more than he could stand at the moment.
“I can do a better one,” I stammered inarticulately. Matt dropped his arms to his sides and stared at me blankly. “How’s this one? Hickory dickory dock. Daddy drank a lot. The car backed up. Elle fell down. Hickory dickory dock.” Tears sprang up in my eyes. My voice cracked and years old anguish stirred in me. “Any good? No? I have another,” I croaked as the tears ran down my cheeks, uninhibited and unbidden.
Images of Elle’s lifeless body on a stretcher clouded my mind. She was so small on that big stretcher. I remember thinking it didn’t fit her. Not physically and not in terms of fairness. She was so little.
“Roses are red, Elle’s lips were blue, daddy was wasted, I was four, she was only two.” A tormented sob ripped from me. I doubled over, grabbing my knees and pulled them to my chest.
The entire scene played back in my mind and I thought it always would no matter what. The firemen pushing the car forward, it bumped against the wall of tools hanging from a pegboard. They clattered loudly and fell on the hood of dad’s car. Wrenches and ratchets clanged against the concrete floor of the garage and skittered to a stop.
The firemen and paramedics spoke quietly to each other. They weren’t moving in a hurry. I didn’t think that was good. Even to a four year old, it was obvious when something was a lost cause. One paramedic held his radio to his mouth. His bright blue eyes met mine and said, “Child, age two, female, DOA.”
I knew I’d never forget it. I also knew I’d never forget the funny feeling that had filled my stomach. I didn’t know what it was at the time, but I later discovered what I was feeling. It was guilt—raw, unrelenting, anguished, pervading, guilt. Elle died that day, and the little girl that I had been died too. I just didn’t know it yet.
“Goddamnit,” Matt whispered. “I’m here. It’s okay now. Shush. It’s okay. It’s okay now,” Matt repeated over and over with his lips pressed against the side of my head, his nose buried in my hair. “It’s okay.” If there were ever a time when I wanted to believe him, it was right then.
He held onto me, rocking us back and forth until the worst of my meltdown had passed, and then he laid me down on the sofa with a blanket.
He stayed by my side until alcohol and exhaustion won out, forcing my puffy eyes to slip shut.
My eyes felt like sandpaper and I was reluctant to open them. Not only because they hurt and so did my head, but because I could tell my head was in Matt’s lap. The TV was on. I chanced peeking up at him, hoping that maybe he’d fallen asleep too.
No such luck. The moment I cracked my eyes open and slightly tilted my pounding head up at Matt, he looked down at me wearily.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice raspy from disuse, crying and a proper hangover. I was feeling so very inept and undeserving of his love and loyalty. “I’m an asshole,” I added.
“No you’re not, babe.” His long fingers brushed wayward strands of hair from my forehead and I relaxed under his kind touch. “You’re a mess. Not an asshole.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeated, feeling like no matter my choice of words, they’d fall woefully short of what I wanted to say, what I needed to say.
“Sit up,” he ordered as he helped me right myself on the couch. He disappeared into the kitchen, reappearing a moment later with two aspirin and a bottle of water. “Take these.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me quite yet,” he said with a wince on his handsome face.
I swallowed down the aspirin and looked at him expectantly.
“I called Liza. She told me she’s worried. So is your dad. So is Graham.”
“I don’t care if they are worried, and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t talk about me to everyone else, Matt.”
“I think you should call Graham, hear him out, Flor,” Matt said shaking his head defiantly, and if anyone should know when Matt was going to stand his ground, it was me.
“I have nothing to say to Graham. He’s a drunk and a liar. Neither are the type of people I want in my life.” Fresh tears filled my eyes, blurring my vision.
“He’s been sober for nine years, Flor.”
