Bad omen?
No, she didn’t believe in that stuff.
She let Romeo inside and fed him, then went out the front door, the sun still blaring despite being evening. With daylight savings starting the week before, she had been able to leave Romeo outside most days while she was at work, which he loved. And despite him jumping into Zac’s yard occasionally, it was no longer a problem as Zac would either lift him back over without her having to ask, or she’d ring the new bell she’d bought for him to associate with being fed and patted. Worked a treat.
If only human lives were as simple as those of cats.
She stepped onto the porch, noticing another wooden creation beside the door—a large storage box with a label: deliveries. She shook her head. Zac went to a lot of trouble to make something that was totally unnecessary. Sure, he got a lot of things delivered to his house so he didn’t have to step foot inside a busy store, but a box for boxes? He must have really needed something to occupy his mind.
She knocked, and muffled footsteps sounded. She knew he would probably peer through one of the windows so she kept a neutral expression on her face and held the flyer up near her chest, so it looked like she was just dropping something off. Which she was, of course.
The door opened and the scent of Zac’s freshly showered skin wafted towards her, her legs becoming unsteady for a split second. A white towel was wrapped low around his waist and tucked in at the right side, the top of one of his tattoos peeking out the top. The tattoo she’d seen that night: For your eyes only. She could only she the word ‘For’, and for some reason imagined another woman in the future seeing the tattoo. A sickening feeling curdled in her stomach and she mentally scolded herself. How ridiculous, jealous of someone that didn’t exist yet, or did, but not yet in his life. She’d said no to him, she had no right to feel any attachment to him or entitlement to his damn tattoo.
‘Hey,’ he said.
‘Hey.’ April forgot why she was there.
‘What’s that?’ His eyes glanced towards her flyer.
‘Oh. This.’ She held it up. ‘It’s for my store’s birthday event. Here.’ She handed it to him. ‘I know you won’t come, but I wanted to give it to you anyway, and thank you for the idea.’ She avoided looking at his eyes by keeping her focus on the flyer and pointing out things he could clearly read by himself, but she needed to do something with her hands too. ‘As you can see, twenty per cent of all proceeds from the night markets will go to charity, the Addiction Prevention Foundation. People who can’t make the markets can also donate via a special link on my website. Not that you have to, I’m just saying, if you wanted to it would—’
‘I will for sure,’ he said.
‘Cool. Thanks. Okay, I guess I’ll, ah …’ She gestured to her house with her thumb.
An awkward silence filled the gap between them, the gap they had closed before by moving close to each other, the gap that hadn’t existed whatsoever that night at his house when they’d lain in bed together as one.
She smiled and stepped off the porch.
‘April.’
She turned back and looked at him, standing at the doorway half naked without any self-consciousness. ‘Yes?’
‘I told myself I wasn’t going to chase you. You know where I stand, you know what I feel. But this …’ He raised his hands and let them fall to his side. ‘This is just … not us.’
She knew she wouldn’t be able to get away without getting caught up in another deep discussion. ‘Zac, I think we’ve said all that needs to be said.’
‘No, we haven’t. I haven’t. And I don’t care if I sound annoying, or desperate, or crazy, but we should be together, April. Life doesn’t make sense without you.’
Oh God, why did he have to be standing there in that towel, and saying the sorts of things most women would love to have said to them? He was like a perfect disaster waiting to happen.
‘And it wouldn’t make sense if we were together. I’d be forever worried that things would go wrong, that you’d fall back into old ways, that …’
That I might get knocked down the stairs like Mum.
That I would end up on anti-anxiety medication like Mum.
That I’d lose you like Kyle.
‘That … look,’ she sighed, ‘it just wouldn’t work.’
He turned his head away, then back again. ‘But, life is short and precious, you know that as well as me. We should be making the most of life. Of our lives. Not living in fear.’
‘Fear, Zac? Fear?’ April put her hands on her hips. ‘If we shouldn’t be living in fear, then why are you?’
His jaw tightened.
‘If life should be made the most of and lived fearlessly, then why aren’t you trying to overcome your phobia, huh? I wrote that letter to Kyle to move forward, I read those books you gave me to learn more about myself and the world, I listened to a song for the first time in ages, I took part in those thirty-six questions with you to start opening up more, I …’ She was out of breath. As oxygen rushed into her lungs, she continued, ‘I made an effort. But you, you continue to live out your days locked away in your house, building God knows what, and writing God knows what, and avoiding the things that could tip you over the edge. How can I be with someone who can’t handle the world? You say you won’t go back to your addiction, but how do you know how you’ll cope when you’re back out there if you won’t get back out there?’ Her wildly gesticulating hands felt like they might fly off and get carried away in the wind. ‘God, Zac. You need to just say, “enough!” Take a stand for your life and snap the hell out of it!’
Her exhalation felt rough and gritty, like she’d released some dormant emotions that had festered away for too long. And that wasn’t the only thing that was rough and gritty. Zac’s face had changed. He no longer held that honest, open expression in his eyes, they only held annoyance. Or was it anger? She hadn’t seen it before, even when she’d rejected him after their night together. She’d hit a nerve, and she didn’t know whether that was a good thing and what he needed to finally do something about his problem, or whether she had gone too far.
‘Sure. I’ll do that. No problem. I’ll snap out of it,’ he said. ‘I better get to it, then.’ He stepped back inside the house and April flinched as he closed the door. Not a calm close, but a firm, definite, ‘go away’ slam.
She dashed back home and closed her own door, and sunk onto the couch as dread and regret weighed down her muscles. She had gone too far. As usual, her big mouth had gotten her into trouble and there was no delete button to undo the damage.
* * *
He’d kill for a drink.
A long, slow, indulgent drink that went on forever, gave him that comfortable buzz of happiness and hazy filter over the world and its overstimulation.
He didn’t have any. And if he wanted it, he’d have to go out. He couldn’t go out. Right now, that was the only thing stopping him. His agoraphobia was saving him, strangely enough. It had served a purpose, despite some people seeing it as something that needed to be fixed.
He rushed out back to get some fresh air, even though he’d been standing out front. The air there was marred with her hurtful words. He took a few deep breaths, looked at his strength tattoo, reminded himself of his coping strategies. He should call his sponsor. Before heading back inside, the flowering star magnolia trees caught his attention. Johnny’s was still slightly taller than his. He imagined that Johnny was looking down on him, chuckling to himself at his superiority.
No. No sponsor. His twelve months were up. He needed to handle this craving on his own. He needed to step up and make Johnny proud.
And April was right, there was no guarantee he would stay sober. The cravings would come and go. Whether he gave in was another matter. But today, he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
Despite being freshly showered, he got to the floor and did push-up after push-up until his arms could take it no more and sweat formed on his skin. Then he did sit-up after sit-up until he could no
longer bend at the waist. Then he sculled a glass of water, took another three breaths, remembered the feeling during meditation of his breath being enough. One breath at a time. He could do this. He could keep it together.
But he needed to write.
Now.
He went to his blog. It was time to come clean.
Today’s post is a little different. Actually, a lot different.
No poetry, just some plain honesty.
I’ve been hiding behind this blog.
My name is Zac. I’m a recovering alcoholic. I’ve been sober just over thirteen months. Writing this blog, these poems, has helped me, among other things. I’m also an agoraphobic. Haven’t always been, though, it started after I came back from Afghanistan. After my best mate died. After I became an alcoholic. Seemed like the only solution. Shut out the world, stay home, stay safe, stay sane, stay sober. And I think it was the best solution at the time. But I know now it can’t always be that way. I need to get over it. Somehow. Maybe writing will help me with that too. Maybe now I’ve gone a year without drinking I can start taking steps to get back into the world. I can only try. I hope you’ll continue to read my posts and give the odd bit of encouragement. I may need it. Some people might think it’s a stupid condition to have, that you can just ‘snap out of it’, but you can’t. I can’t. It’s a protective mechanism in response to trauma and fear, and I’m still finding ways of coping with that trauma and fear. It’s a process. And I need to live through it.
So no more hiding.
I’m here, exposed. Ready. Sharing my journey with you.
Let’s keep moving forward and beat this son of a bitch.
Zac.
Within an hour he’d received a ton of comments. Some offering words of encouragement, others saying they had friends or family that had been to war, and others saying they had phobias of things like spiders and heights. Everyone had their own story to tell. His wasn’t the only one. But maybe by sharing his ongoing journey he could help and inspire others. And maybe one day he would have achieved enough to be able to help people more directly who had gone through addiction, and turn his difficult experience into something positive.
As for him and April, it was a lost cause. He’d done all he could do, and in the end she’d shown that she truly didn’t understand him and his challenges, let alone accept them. As much as it hurt to cast aside the greatest, weirdest, most unconventional love he’d ever felt, it was time to move on.
Chapter 25
Television was no distraction for April, it only intensified the contrast between her life and others.
How can people get so excited about renovating, I mean, seriously!
She switched the channel.
Oh for God’s sake, it’s a cooking show, not a life or death situation!
Switch.
Why are all the female characters in movies young and beautiful and the males are old and grey?
She turned off the TV and headed into her bedroom. It was still relatively early, but late enough that she could try to get an early night and be bright and energetic for her big day tomorrow. Work at the store would be first, then set up for the night markets, then enjoy the night markets and then pack up and go home. She was glad she’d have a busy day to keep her mind off the awful thing she’d said to Zac.
Her eye homed in on the seashell Zac had given her ages ago, sitting on her bedside table next to her candle. She picked it up and felt the ribbed surface, noticing its broken edge and the smudge of discolouration and cinnamon-like freckles.
Just because something is broken and blemished, doesn’t mean it’s not beautiful and precious.
She didn’t know where the words came from as they appeared in the doorway of her mind like unknown visitors turning up at the wrong house. Zac thought of words, April didn’t. But there they were, and she felt compelled to write them down.
She tapped them into the notes app on her phone and wrote them on her whiteboard.
Then she pressed her mum’s number in ‘contacts’.
‘Mum?’ she asked.
‘Yes, darling, is everything okay?’
‘Do you regret getting involved with Dad?’
‘What? Why are you asking me this now? I’m watching Rogue Renovators.’
April could hear the annoying overexcited renovators in the background having happiness attacks at finding the most perfect colour for the feature wall in their living room.
‘Do you?’ she asked.
The volume went down and her mum replied, ‘He wasn’t easy, you know that.’
‘But would you do things differently, if you’d known?’
There was a brief moment of silence. ‘No. Of course not.’
‘But why?’
Her mum chuckled. ‘Oh, April. Because he gave me you. And you were the best thing that ever happened to me. To us.’
The heavy feeling that had filled her muscles lightened as gratitude took its place. Her chin quivered and she sniffed.
‘Are you alright, sweetheart?’
‘Yes, yes, I’m okay. Thanks, Mum.’
‘Are you still having feelings for that man?’
That man.
‘Not really. I mean sort of, but I’m not getting involved. And I told him that.’
‘Well, good for you. Don’t settle for second best,’ Clarissa said.
Second best and Zac didn’t seem to go together. Why did living without him feel like that was second best? She shook her crazy thoughts away. She’d made her decision, and anyway, she’d no doubt hurt him and he would probably never forgive her, and she didn’t deserve his forgiveness. She wondered if he had written on his blog, but she’d unsubscribed after their night together so she wouldn’t get tempted by his prose.
‘So, having me, that made being with Dad worthwhile?’
‘Definitely, but even despite the difficulties, there were also the memories. The good ones,’ she said. ‘He was a real charmer, even sang to me once in public. Embarrassed the heck out of me, but it worked. Charmed his way into my life. I have the memories too, and sometimes that’s all we can cling onto.’
She had memories with Zac, even though she’d only known him six months. She could just take them for the gift that they were and move on
‘Thanks, Mum. That helped.’
‘It did? Oh, good. Well, anything else you want to talk about?’
‘No, that’s it for now. Thanks.’
‘Okay, nighty night.’
‘Night.’
She ended the call then called another number.
‘Hi, Dad, do you want a visitor?’
* * *
She arrived at his stale smelling apartment around nine, her father watching sport on television, a bottle in his hand.
‘Hello there!’ he said, staggering up to greet her, as she’d let herself in with her key. He kissed her cheek.
‘Hi, Dad.’
‘Lemme get you a sandwich, hang on …’ He stumbled towards the small kitchen.
‘No, Dad, it’s okay, I’m not hungry,’ she replied, ‘Are you? Would you like me to make you a sandwich?’ He probably needed something to soak up the alcohol.
‘Oh, really? Gosh, what a nice thing to do for your old man. Thanks, sweetie.’ He made his way back to the couch. ‘Salami,’ he said.
She got the salami and mayonnaise from the fridge and quickly made a sandwich. She tore a bit off it for herself anyway, not realising till it hit her stomach that she was hungry. She made a half sandwich for herself.
Her dad ate it eagerly, pointing and shouting at the TV occasionally, ‘You bloody idiots! Don’t know whatcha doin’!’
‘Who’s winning?’ she asked.
‘Dunno,’ he replied. ‘Can’t read the bloody scores. Broke me glasses.’ He gestured to the smashed glass spectacles on the coffee table, which was more like a booze table.
‘Oh, Dad? Why didn’t you call? We have to get these fixed.’ Damn it, she had a full day tomorrow. She’d have to tr
y and make time at lunch to take them into his optometrist and ask for a replacement. ‘I’ll take them and sort it out, don’t worry.’ She popped them into her bag.
‘Aye, aye, cap’n,’ he said with a salute, then he laughed.
She smiled and pretended he was funny.
‘Dad?’ she asked, when an ad break came on.
‘Yeah?’
‘Why do you drink?’
‘Tastes good,’ he slurred. ‘Yum.’
‘But why so much?’
He shrugged then lowered his head. ‘Nothin’ ever feels as good.’ He looked at her, his eyes tired and dark bags under them. ‘You know I tried to stop once,’ he said, and she nodded. ‘But didn’t work. Nothin’ else ever made sense in the world, only my drink.’
‘What about Mum?’ April asked, knowing what she had sacrificed to look after him for so long.
And what about me?
‘I loved chasing your mum,’ he said. ‘Gave me a thrill it did.’ He chuckled. ‘Good wife, that woman. But a man needs a hobby, right?’ He took a swig. ‘This sure beats stamp collecting!’ He guffawed and slapped his thigh, then coughed and spluttered.
Boredom. That’s all it was. Boredom and lack of purpose in life. That was her dad. Then it had become a habit, and the habit had become an addiction.
Zac wasn’t bored. He did things; poetry, building, cooking.
Zac had purpose, or had had purpose, serving his country.
And unlike her dad, Zac had found a way to feel good without alcohol. A way to feel better. Working on himself, meditating, educating his mind … it had taught him how to get to a state that was more rewarding than the temporary bliss from drinking. If her dad had never experienced that, then of course he would keep going back to the one thing that always brought him comfort.
They were different, Zac and her dad.
They’d shared the same affliction, but for different reasons. And Zac had stopped, her father hadn’t.
She’d been wrong. Zac wasn’t just like her father, not even close. Yes he was a risk, and things would never be certain, but she still had feelings for him. Couldn’t help it. Maybe like some of his books talked about, this was fate, bringing her to him because she could be the one person who would understand him, understand his past, see what a huge accomplishment it had been for him to recover.
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