Beneath the Surface (Pink Bean Book 2)

by Harper Bliss

  Trevor shook his head. Perhaps he’d already lost the power of speech entirely. Then he cleared his throat again. “I can never give you a satisfactory answer to that question, Sheryl. Your mother did what she did because she felt it was the only way for her. As for me… I spent the rest of my life trying to drown my grief. There are no excuses for that.”

  “For the longest time, I didn’t know which one of the two of you I should hate the most.” Sheryl’s voice boomed through the room. She wasn’t speaking that loudly, but the contrast with her father’s throaty whisper was too big. “But Mom was dead and I did everything in my power to grasp the immense blackness she faced every day. And despite the note she left me, I will never fully understand what that must have been like, but at least I didn’t have to see her suffer and wither away the way I did with you. I didn’t have to witness how she wrecked herself a little more every single day. You were still alive, but you might as well not have been.”

  “I couldn’t forgive her for what she had done. I just couldn’t.” Trevor’s tone had grown a bit more powerful. “The only way for me to deal with it was by escaping myself.”

  Sheryl expressed a loud sigh. “And where did that leave me?”

  “No place good.” A tremor in his voice, like he was about to cry. “Every day was double agony for me. I despised your mother, the woman I loved, for being such a coward, and I despised myself for being so powerless.

  “Powerless to help her and powerless to help you and myself in the aftermath. Booze became my best friend, and I just let myself slide down that slippery slope all the way. I have been an appalling father and husband in every respect. A despicable man with no pride or dignity left.”

  His speech left him gasping for air.

  “Oh yes, you’re such a martyr,” Sheryl said. “At least you were out of it most of the time. I was only a child. A twelve-year-old with no options whatsoever.”

  “I know. And there’s nothing I can say or do that will ever change that.”

  Sheryl couldn’t look at him anymore. If he died tomorrow, it would be a relief. Then she could go back to the life she had built for herself, despite all the odds stacked against her. She could shake off these bouts of deplorable self-pity that came over her. Maybe she could even stop drinking, now that she had an up-close reminder of what it could do to a person. She didn’t want to turn into a groveling, regretful shell of a human being.

  Sheryl didn’t need anymore regrets. She didn’t need anymore conversations with this man who was, by blood, her father, but was by no other means connected to her. If anything, she could learn from his mistake. Though, even as she was still sitting there, rapidly being consumed by the anger she had managed to keep at bay, she already knew that her inclination toward a few drinks was not something even the sight of her pathetic father could snap her out of, because all she wanted was a large glass of wine or a shot of vodka burning down her throat, or both.

  Sheryl looked at Kristin. She hadn’t noticed until now, but her eyes were wet with tears. Did she somehow owe it to the woman she loved to stay? To give Trevor assurances about her life and her levels of happiness? What could she even say? We’re happy, though things could be better. I’m turning into the same vile alcoholic that you were, now that you’ve gotten sober. How’s that for irony?

  “I need to get out of here.” Sheryl rose. “Just… for a walk or something.”

  Kristin stood up as well. Trevor stayed seated. If Sheryl were to etch any visual in her brain forever after coming to this house, it would be the pained expression on his face. Sunken blue eyes, dark purple bags underneath them. Hollow cheeks and lips so pale no color could describe them. All of it combining in a look of a guilt so extreme, Sheryl wondered if it wasn’t that eating him alive, instead of his liver failing. She guessed a bit of both.

  “Just give me a minute. I’ll be back.” She waved off Kristin, feeling sorry for leaving her alone with her father, but it wouldn’t be the first time after all.

  As she walked around the streets of Strathfield where she’d never been, Sheryl pondered forgiveness. Or, at least, trying to mimic it for a few minutes for the sake of her dying father. She had three options: not going back into his house and never speaking to him again; going back, saying something vague about having created a life well beyond any expectations her youth might have prescribed; and going back, looking him in the watery, fading eyes again, and trying to find something in her, a flicker of goodness, of love for a father she barely knew, and consider giving him what he really wanted: a piece of herself.

  She sucked her lungs full of air, as though fresh oxygen had all the answers. She kept her face to the ground, to her feet falling onto the sidewalk, and thought about her mother. In the beginning, she’d looked at pictures of her, of the two of them, every day. She wondered what she would look like now, if she had lived. Would she have looked like Sheryl when she was fifty? Did it still matter? Sheryl was forty-seven; she’d lived thirty-five years without a mother. About the same without a father. She’d only ever had herself. This decision too, came down to herself, and to the person she had become.

  She asked herself how she would want to have acted after it was too late. When she stood over his casket at his funeral—perhaps, if Trevor was telling the truth, only days away. If she went at all. She could choose to stay at home and drink instead, but even Sheryl’s jaded sense of irony couldn’t stretch that far. Would she break down? Regret not having spoken to him again? Or would her soul be wrapped in steel forever?

  She passed by a bottle shop and, without even thinking about it, went inside. She looked around and decided on a can of Victoria Bitter, a large one. She took it outside and scanned her surroundings for a place to sit and drink. To think. When she couldn’t immediately find anywhere more suitable, she sank down to the curb in front of the bottle shop and, before opening the can, wondered if she was being the spitting image of her father. Did he sit like this on sidewalks getting wasted? Or was that too much of a cliché image of the alcoholic? Either way, as she sat there, pulled the lid off the can, and brought it to her lips, she could get a sense of his pain. Yes, he had been weak, and he had abandoned her in the worst way, making Sheryl believe that neither one of her parents loved her enough; all of that had happened and was unequivocally true. But Trevor hadn’t deserted her for no reason, and some shoulders weren’t built to carry that amount of pain and grief. He had made one wrong decision after another to numb his pain, and perhaps it had worked and drowned out a small percentage of it. But, Sheryl knew from experience, once he’d slept it off, the pain would have come back hard and fast and unrelenting, clobbering him half to death again. Every single day of his life. And who was she to judge?

  She took one last sip of the can, crumpled it up still half full, and tossed it in the bin. Perhaps the truth had lain in a can of beer all along, because what Sheryl knew as she made her way back to her father’s house, was that to beat her own demons, she would need to find a way to forgive the man who had pushed her in this direction most. It wouldn’t happen today. Maybe not even before he died. But no matter how long it took, it was the only way.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “We can cancel the dinner,” Kristin said. “Tell everyone you have a family emergency.”

  “And do what?” Sheryl half shouted from the living room. “Eat all the food you bought ourselves?”

  And drink the wine, Kristin thought. She glanced over at the wine fridge, which still held a couple of vintage bottles from her time with Sterling Wines, and was always fully stocked. She walked into the living room and sat down next to Sheryl.

  “We can make it an alcohol-free dinner,” she said.

  Sheryl shook her head. “This is my problem, not anyone else’s.”

  “No, it’s not.” Kristin looked into Sheryl’s blue eyes. “Your friends will support you. You don’t have to do this alone.”

  “Maybe not on the surface, but really, what can my friends do for me? How ca
n they deal with stuff that is so inherently mine?”

  “By showing their support and abstaining from drinking around you. At least in the beginning.”

  “Abstinence is not my goal.” Sheryl straightened her shoulders. “I think moderation is more realistic.”

  Kristin quirked up her eyebrows. “You do?” After they’d left Trevor’s house, Sheryl had made a few bold claims, like vowing to give up alcohol and sort out the mess in her head that drove her to the bottle and even try to find it somewhere in her heart to forgive her father, but Kristin had seen through all of that easily. Sheryl was processing the conversation with her father, the memories it had brought up, and dreaming up a better version of herself to be able to deal with it all better.

  Though certainly the most realistic option, Kristin wasn’t quite sure moderation was the best solution in the long run, because of the bigger risk of a relapse.

  Sheryl nodded earnestly. “I’ve been racking my brain trying to pinpoint when drinking became more to me than just a way to unwind, a way to bond with my friends, but I can’t for the life of me remember. I remember the time when I was always the one with half a glass of wine in front of me and barely touching it, and I remember when, after pouring myself that first glass, I was already looking forward to the second, but no stage in between.”

  Kristin tried to remember as well but had to admit that she had probably been too busy at work to notice. While she knew it was foolish to blame herself, even partly, for Sheryl’s drinking, she couldn’t help but feel a tiny flicker of guilt every time they addressed the issue.

  “Like most things in life, it happened gradually. Without us even noticing.” Though Kristin could still vividly remember the shocking discovery of the supermarket receipt for that ghastly bottle of red wine Sheryl had bought for herself, to drink behind Kristin’s back while she was at work. She had noticed then, but hadn’t spoken up. Because life had gotten in the way, as usual, and, back then, it was somehow easier to believe that her partner of so many years was finding some comfort in a cheap bottle of wine when Kristin’s arms weren’t available.

  “I’m pretty certain the whole process isn’t reversible,” Sheryl said with a sigh. “But I can try.” She looked away for a minute, through the window. “It’s been two days now. I look forward to a drink.” As if admitting this out loud had triggered an immediate physical reaction, her leg started jittering.

  Kristin had the time now, and she was the person who knew Sheryl best, but she had no idea how to deal with this. All she knew was what she wanted to avoid at all cost: Sheryl locking herself into her office with a bottle of vodka and not coming out until she was shit-faced. To have to see her like that again would break her heart all over again. There was a big difference between seeing the woman you love tipsy at a party, breaking out in serious speeches about women’s rights and the direction modern-day feminism is taking, and witnessing how all zest for life had drained from her eyes, from her entire body, and been replaced by the numbing, crushing effects of alcohol.

  “Do you think that you could perhaps benefit from some outside help?” Kristin didn’t have the heart to look at Sheryl’s face after suggesting this.

  “You mean AA?” Sheryl’s voice remained steady.

  “Or therapy.”

  “Perhaps,” Sheryl said. “Therapy, not AA.” She leaned back in the sofa. “I’m not sure I want to stop drinking entirely. I like the buzz of a couple of drinks. The way a glass of wine tastes different on a Friday night when the weekend begins. I love pouring a nice bottle for our friends when we have a dinner party.”

  “I know you do.” Kristin understood the joy of all these little pleasures perfectly. “But the very nature of alcohol makes you lose control over when to stop.” They had tried Sheryl relying on subtle—or not so subtle—cues from Kristin before to curb her drinking enthusiasm. It hadn’t worked.

  “So you think I should stop? Go cold turkey?”

  Kristin knew she couldn’t win here, but this conversation had to continue. She had stopped it at crucial times too often before. “With professional help. Yes.”

  “You think it truly is an addiction and not just a temporary reaction to things from my past?”

  “It has escalated with your father showing up, but you were not exactly in control of your habit for quite a few years before.”

  “And when you say habit, you mean addiction,” Sheryl said matter-of-factly.

  “I don’t know, babe. That’s the point I’m trying to make. How can we, just the two of us, ever truly figure this out?”

  “I know I said I would quit.” Sheryl’s voice was starting to lose its confident note. “But saying it is so much easier than actually doing it.”

  “I know.” Kristin nodded thoughtfully, hoping Sheryl would soon reach the inevitable conclusion. “I will support you. I’ll get rid of all the alcohol in the house. I won’t drink a drop until you’re comfortable with me doing so, but I won’t drink in our home. We’ll do this together.”

  “I don’t want you to make that kind of a sacrifice for me.” A sudden harshness in Sheryl’s tone. “I don’t need you to.”

  “It’s not a sacrifice at all.” She shuffled a little closer to Sheryl. “Seeing you sober and happy and healthy will give me a million times more pleasure than a sip of the greatest wine.”

  “You say that now.” Sheryl put a hand on Kristin’s knee and squeezed softly.

  “I mean it.” Kristin leaned in, ready to kiss Sheryl on the cheek.

  Sheryl pulled away and said, “I just don’t see myself as an addict. I don’t see myself counting days without booze and collecting a chip after reciting the serenity prayer. I don’t even pray.”

  “Then we’ll find you a therapist who specializes in…” Why was it still so hard to say those words out loud? “Substance abuse.”

  Sheryl heaved a big sigh. “One last drink?” Her eyes lit up. “Or one last blowout with our friends tomorrow at the dinner party?”

  Kristin shook her head. “Why waste the two sober days you’ve already had?”

  “Because…” Sheryl leaned away farther from Kristin. “I want to.”

  “Let’s just try.” Kristin didn’t let up; she couldn’t afford to. “I’ll let everyone know no wine will be served and they shouldn’t bring any either.”

  “That’s like sharing it with all of them. I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”

  “They’re our friends. They know you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? They know I’m a drunk?”

  “They know you’re prone to having one too many. It’s just one dinner. They will support you.”

  “I’m not sure about this.” Sheryl’s entire posture deflated.

  “I understand.” Kristin shuffled closer still, trying to bridge the gap Sheryl had been putting between them. “But it will be so much easier for you to resist a drink if nobody else is having one. Why make it harder for yourself than it has to be?”

  “Because, aside from asking my friends to spend a perfectly good Saturday night abstaining, I will, by doing so, also be admitting to my own weakness. That’s hard.”

  “But isn’t that what friends are for? To be there for you in hard times?”

  Sheryl still had a reluctant furrow in her brow. “And Amber, the only person who would happily not drink, won’t even be there.”

  Kristin pictured Amber meditating on a mountain with a staggering view wherever in India she was. They could do with someone like Amber right about now. Someone who only drank for show, and wasn’t afraid to lay out all the reasons, over and over again, why alcohol was bad for you. But, even more so, someone who had all the tools necessary to help Sheryl find the peace of mind she’d so sorely been lacking for years.

  “I know I haven’t always made the best decisions for our life and our relationship, but I have learned from my mistakes.” Kristin hadn’t meant to sound so formal. “I’m asking you to trust me. I will arrange everything for tomorrow; we
won’t even have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

  “No.” Sheryl’s voice rang firm. “I don’t want that kind of tension and I believe in the power of transparent communication. If we’re doing this, then it’s all going to be out in the open.”

  “Okay.” Kristin nodded, finally pecked Sheryl on the cheek, while a little sliver of hope crept up her spine.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Even before any guests had arrived, Sheryl wanted nothing more than to open a bottle of wine. It had always been such an act of anticipation: letting a bottle of excellent wine breathe so it would be perfect and ready for when their friends arrived.

  But there was no more wine to be found in their apartment. With cheeks turning a telltale pink, Sheryl had surrendered one half-empty and one full bottle of vodka she’d stashed away in her desk drawer, and had watched Kristin drain them into the sink.

  Kristin had sent Sheryl to the farmer’s market to pick up vegetables for tonight, and when Sheryl had returned, the smell of wine was unmistakable in the flat, leading Sheryl to believe that Kristin had poured away the not-so-good bottles in the sink as well. Sheryl had no idea what she had done with the expensive ones, and she hadn’t asked.

  Sheryl had inhaled deeply while depositing her shopping bag on the kitchen counter, but Kristin hadn’t given her a chance to say anything. Instead she had pressed her lips hard against Sheryl’s. When Sheryl had let her hands run down Kristin’s sides, then underneath her top, Kristin had swatted them away, telling her not to distract the chef too much.