Everything You Are

by Kerry Anne King

  “What will it be?”

  “Whiskey. Neat. Make it a double.”

  The words have been spoken so many times they are automatic.

  “You got it.”

  She’s young enough that he wonders, idly, if she’s really old enough to be serving drinks. Not much older than Allie. He watches her open a bottle, pour the amber liquid into a glass. His brain puts Allie’s face in place of hers, the expression on Allie’s face when she offered him a drink.

  God. Allie. What the hell am I doing?

  Before he can do any more thinking, he’s off the stool and out on the street, physically shaking with the craving. He staggers as if already drunk, desperately scanning storefronts for the one labeled Fins and Feathers.

  There it is, a mirage in a desert.

  A soft chime signals his entrance. He pauses, one hand still on the door, sure that either Phee played a joke on him or he’s managed to find the wrong place. Birdcages hang from the ceiling, containing a living kaleidoscope of color. A chorus of trills and chirps and warbles overlays the sound of bubbling water. Directly in front of him, artfully illuminated, is a fish tank holding, unexpectedly, seahorses. The air feels tropical.

  Before his doubts take him right back out the door again, Phee emerges from a back room, her face lit up with a smile of welcome that must surely be meant for a more deserving man.

  “Braden! You made it.”

  “Barely.”

  “That bad?”

  He can only nod.

  “Well, come on, then,” she says, and he follows her.

  A circle of people sit around a folding table set up in the stockroom behind the storefront. Shelves all around them hold birdseed, fish food, water treatment products, and an array of empty fish tanks and birdcages.

  “Hey, everybody, this is Braden,” Phee says.

  Five faces turn toward him: two women and three men. The youngest must still be in her teens, the oldest close to eighty. The only thing they have in common is that their expressions are engaged and interested and alive. Braden feels like a zombie in comparison, dull and slow.

  “Hey, Braden, I’m Len,” the oldest man says. “We don’t bite. And the piranhas are all contained for the moment. Let me guess, Phee conspired to get you here without telling you a single thing about this clandestine meeting.”

  Good-natured laughter follows from the rest of the group. Phee sticks out her tongue at the speaker.

  “True,” Braden manages. “She has magical powers of persuasion.” He hesitates, unsure how to proceed. He knows how to do AA, but “Hi—I’m Braden Healey and I’m an alcoholic, now and forever, amen” is probably not the right opening for this group.

  “Have a seat,” Phee says.

  Braden lowers himself into the empty chair across from her.

  “Welcome!” A youngish man unfolds himself to standing and holds out his hand for a shake. “I’m Oscar. Glad you’re here.” Black hair, a serious face, an accent that is faintly Latino.

  “Oscar owns Fins and Feathers,” Phee informs him. “If you ever need fish or birds, he’s your guy. You want coffee?” She’s already pouring two cups out of a stainless-steel carafe. It smells fantastic, nothing like the church-basement brew served up at AA meetings.

  “Katie is our barista. She always brings the coffee. She’s opposed to what Oscar brews. Or even what the rest of us sometimes import from Starbucks.”

  “Life’s too short to drink shit. That’s my motto.” The young girl doesn’t look like a Katie. Her face is more metal than skin. Nose rings, eyebrow hoops, lip rings. Full-color serpent tattoos coil around both of her forearms. But her smile is sweet, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. “I hope you don’t require cream, because I didn’t bring any. We are all black-coffee people, except for Dennis. Dennis doesn’t drink coffee at all.”

  Dennis shrugs and toasts Braden with a half-empty bottle of water. “Burned beans. Not my mojo. Welcome to the party, Braden.”

  “Nothing burned about Katie’s coffee,” Oscar says.

  The other woman at the table says nothing, watching the proceedings with eyes that look a little wild. She’s thin to the point of skeletal, arms wrapped around her rib cage, hands disappeared inside too-long sweater sleeves. A knitted hat is pulled down low over her forehead. Her body is shaking visibly.

  Phee lays a hand over her arm. “Breathe. It will pass.”

  The woman nods, her lips twitching into what is almost a smile.

  “Time to get this meeting underway,” Oscar says. “Phee, you want to start?”

  Phee tilts back in her chair and savors a mouthful of coffee as if it’s a French wine at a five-star restaurant. “It was sort of a boring week, I’m sorry to report. My saving grace is that I enticed a stranger to the meeting. Does that count?”

  Everybody laughs, with the exception of the thin woman, who remains huddled inside herself.

  “Nice save,” Oscar says. “Thank you for that. Rather an adventure for Braden, too, I’d guess, to be dragged into our weirdness. So yes. Points for you.” Beside Phee’s name on a whiteboard propped up beside the table, he writes a 10.

  “Anybody else? Jean?”

  To Braden’s surprise, the woman beside Phee lets go of her death grip on her own body and holds up two fingers. Oscar smiles at her. “When you’re ready, love.”

  She nods. Takes a breath. Her voice begins tight and small. “There’s this girl in my building, crazy about horses. Has read every book in the library that features something with four hooves. Hadn’t ever even seen a real horse, though, you know? So I made some calls, and this weekend I took her and her mom to a riding stable. All I’d asked of the owner was could this kid come down and look at the horses, maybe pat one on the nose or something.”

  Jean leans forward, her voice warming, her body loosening. “But the owner was amazing. She saddled up this gentle old nag and actually let the kid ride. You should have seen her face. As if that wasn’t enough, she’s now got an open invite to come down and help out after school.”

  “Awesome, well done, that’s fantastic!”

  Jean’s cheeks flush red under all of the attention, and she retreats back into herself, but not quite so far this time.

  Oscar writes a 20 beside her name.

  Phee bestows a glowing smile on her.

  “The points are just for fun,” she explains to Braden. “We add them up at the end of the month and take the person with the highest score out for dinner or something.” She turns to Katie. “And you, my dear?”

  “Spirited this old dude out of the nursing home and took him to the tattoo parlor. We did it like a jailbreak—didn’t tell anybody we were leaving. That was his idea, so don’t look at me like that. And, before you say anything, so was the tattoo. Brin gave him a small one for free. I also scored him a cigarette. Hey, it was his adventure. Who am I to object?”

  The circle is quiet, tension in the air for the first time since Braden’s arrival.

  “Were any laws broken?” Oscar asks.

  “No! My God, what do you take me for? Rules, yes. I didn’t sign him out of the fucking old-people jail. We begged the smoke off somebody, and besides, I’m eighteen. I can buy cigarettes if I want to!” Katie’s face darkens, her body stiff with rebellion and outrage.

  Braden’s heart clenches. Her anger reminds him too much of Allie.

  “Easy, Rocky,” Phee says. “We’ve got to keep each other honest. Nobody means offense.”

  Len breaks the tension with laughter. “If ever I’m stuck in one of those places, I’ll be counting on you to come and rescue me. Bless you, Katie, you are a breath of fresh air.”

  Katie softens. Her hands loosen, her jaw eases, a hint of a smile comes back onto her face. “He asked for a hooker. I didn’t get him one. But I thought about it.”

  Everybody laughs now. Oscar writes another 20 on the board.

  “What about you, Len?” Katie asks. “You always do fun stuff.”

  “This was a plannin
g week, but I think I have the details worked out.” He grins like the Cheshire cat, leaning back in his chair, playing the crowd.

  “What?” Oscar finally demands.

  “Skydiving.”

  “You sure this is altruistic?” Dennis has been quiet until now, observing the others. There’s a tightness around his eyes, an uneasiness that rings a warning bell for Braden.

  “Got me!” Len isn’t fazed in the slightest. “Yes, it’s a thing I’ve always wanted to do. But I’m taking this guy I know. He’s a man in a hard place. Used to travel all over the globe but is currently stuck taking care both of his father, who has dementia, and his sister, who has cancer. He’s feeling trapped and depressed and needs a rush of endorphins.”

  “Fair enough,” Dennis says. “Can I come with you?”

  “Only if you bring somebody.”

  “I have a candidate in mind. I’ll look into it.”

  “What did you do, Dennis?” Jean asks. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”

  Braden knows the look Dennis wears; he’s seen it before, has worn it on his own face. He holds his breath, dreading what’s coming next. Silence grows and stretches, punctuated by the bubbling of fish tanks, the chirp and flutter of birds, one long, melodic warble.

  “Mine was a solo adventure,” Dennis says, finally. “Down the forbidden aisle of the Safeway. Explored the merchandise. Bought a bottle. Took it home and drank the whole thing.”

  Braden is not the only one who has been holding his breath. A collective sigh runs around the circle, dissolving the illusion he’s allowed himself to entertain. This is nothing but a card table in the back room of a pet store surrounded by a group of crazy people. For a few minutes, he’d forgotten all about the drink waiting for him in a bar just down the block, but now it calls with a whole new intensity.

  He very nearly shoves back his chair, gets up, and walks away. He’s been party to enough interventions in his life. He doesn’t think he can handle one today. Katie’s face holds him. She looks as if all of the lights have gone out in the middle of a party. Once again, she reminds him of Allie. There’s nothing he can do to help her, but at the very least he can stay.

  Phee’s expressive features show only compassion. No pity, no disappointment. She leans forward slightly in her chair and asks the question. “And when the bottle was done?”

  Dennis sighs. “Threw it in the trash. Considered putting a gun to my head, but didn’t. Sobered up. That was Tuesday. So far, I’ve stayed sober, but the shit is talking to me.”

  “What’s your decision?”

  “I’m still in, if you’ll have me.”

  “You know the penalty.” Oscar’s voice is dire. Everybody in the group looks grim, dialed in like a cat on a mouse.

  Dennis swallows, the muscles in his throat contracting visibly. “God help me, yes. I’m at your mercy.”

  “Step outside, please. Wait by the door. And don’t even think about running off, we know where to find you.”

  Dennis wipes his forehead and paces out of the room.

  Braden watches him go, confused by the proceedings. Uneasy. He’d expected an intervention. Maybe a question chain, dragging the man through his relapse, through the hours before the drink. Not this, whatever this is.

  Everybody holds a tense silence until Dennis is out of the room.

  “All right, then, what will it be?” Oscar asks conspiratorially sotto voce.

  “A party.” Jean drags her chair closer to the table. There’s a small spot of color in each cheek. “A surprise party.”

  “At the zoo,” Katie says.

  “How about a boat? We rent a sailboat, spend a day out on the water. Dennis used to own one, right? He’d love it.”

  “He said sailing was kind of stressful,” Len objects. “Loved the water, but the sails and all require a lot of attention and he wasn’t into that.”

  “What about one of those party barges?” Oscar suggests. “Easy. Fun. Repurposed from what we’re not doing to what we are.”

  “I love it!” Phee glows as if there is a light inside her. “Can we afford it, though? Gonna be pricey.”

  “I’ve got this one.” Len grins at them all. “My projected life span is much shorter than my projected cash flow. And I like boats.”

  “Agreed?”

  A chorus of ayes goes around the table and stops at Braden. All of the gazes follow, waiting for some sort of reaction.

  “Braden?” Phee prompts. “Are you in?”

  “I’m just visiting,” he says, carefully. Appease the lunatics. Tell them it’s a great idea, sounds like fun. Evade. Avoid. Get out of here and go have a drink.

  But there is Phee. As infuriating and crazy as he knows her to be, his eyes are drawn back to her over and over again. The light on her hair, the way her smile makes her glow as if there’s a hidden light source inside her. She reminds him of his cello—resonant, deep.

  Dangerous, he tells himself.

  Katie draws him back to the moment. “Everybody gets a voice. Don’t tell me you don’t have an opinion.”

  “I have one. I don’t think you want to hear it.”

  “There are no bad opinions,” Len says. Braden disagrees. Opinions cause a lot of trouble in the world, but in this case, expressing his will piss these people off and free him from the spell he’s under.

  “Since you asked for it,” he says, “I think you’re all way off the rails here. Somebody relapses and they get a party? You’re completely rewarding the addictive behavior. Addiction is deceptive and sly and needs to be—”

  “Punished?” Phee snorts. “We are reinforcing life enjoyment. We’ve all got enough guilt without other people piling it on. Does it help you when people beat you up about drinking?”

  He has to admit she’s right. All of Lilian’s haranguing, the guilt that sinks him every time he tries to work through the twelve steps, all of it just makes him want another drink.

  “Which would be the greater incentive?” Oscar asks. “A shaming session from your support group, or the promise of a superfun day on the water celebrating your choice to come back to sobriety?”

  “The party, of course, but—”

  “So are you coming?” Phee asks. “Will you be there?”

  He stares at her, at all of them, everything he thought he knew about life and alcohol and sobriety jumbled into unfamiliar shapes.

  “I’ll be there.” The words come out of his mouth before he knows he’s going to say them.

  “Excellent. Give him the contract. I’ll go let Dennis in.” Oscar shoves his chair back from the table and heads for the door.

  “You have to sign in blood,” Katie purrs in a low, theatrical voice.

  Len shoves a sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen across the table to him. “Nothing quite so dramatic.”

  Braden reads:

  Adventure Angels Manifesto

  I hereby commit to falling in love with life in all of its manifestations of trouble and triumph, joy and grief, boredom and excitement.

  I will treat each day as an adventure, full of possibility, and I will seek to be present for every moment, whether pleasant or unpleasant.

  I will resist the lure of alcohol, always vigilant against its many deceptions.

  I commit to the pursuit of honesty regarding my relationship with alcohol. If I should be overcome by temptation, I promise to share my struggle with the Adventure Angels group and allow them to support me back into life.

  I commit to becoming an ambassador for adventure, bringing new experiences into the lives of others while engaging in them myself.

  And I solemnly promise to hold sacred the confidences and stories shared in this group, along with the identities of individuals who attend.

  If I should fail, I commit to picking myself up and trying again.

  On this day, I do so solemnly swear.

  Braden’s pen hovers over the signature line.

  So many promises in his life made and broken. The only elements that make sense
to him in this weird little contract are confidentiality and the commitment to stay sober. If he signs, he will surely fail, and it seems to him that if he breaks one more promise, that will be the end of any hope for him. The very last clause, though, gives him permission for the inevitable failure.

  If I should fail, I commit to picking myself up and trying again.

  He has to try something.

  Allie needs him.

  He signs. As the pen makes the last upsweep of his signature, he hears the sound of a plucked string, so loud and clear he startles. Except for Phee, the others at the table don’t even blink, talking quietly among themselves. But her eyes widen as if she hears it too; her gaze holds his.

  A half memory surfaces, or maybe it’s a fragment of a dream. Another pen, another signature, that same sound of a plucked open C string. It’s not mortgage papers, or his marriage license or the insurance contract, or even the divorce papers. He’s younger, the writing is less automatic, he has to think about the formation of the letters in his signature.

  Damn it. This is Phee’s fault for bringing up the bizarre contract the luthier made him sign when he’d bought the cello. He doesn’t want to think about that, about how he’d felt on that day and how he feels now.

  Oscar and Dennis come in and resume their places at the table.

  “We have plotted the terms of your intervention,” Oscar intones in an official voice. “You will be informed of time and place when we have the details confirmed. Bring a friend. And maybe a potato salad.”

  “Thank God. I thought you were going to make me go scuba diving with a bunch of sharks.”

  “What makes you think we’re not?”

  “Potato salad.”

  “Fish. Seagulls. Both love potato salad.” Oscar grins at him. “You’ll be here next week?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “Braden?”

  He looks around the circle of faces, eyes lingering on Phee. She gives him that half smile, and his heart surprises him by skipping a beat.

  “I’ll be here.”