“Okay, but what makes you drink…is it a social thing? High school, college, and now your firm…those were all times you were surrounded by others.”
“It’s an addiction. That’s why I drink. There doesn’t have to be any other reason. When I was three years old, my dad handed me my first beer and told me to drink up, and I never stopped.”
I gasped. I’d known his addiction started early, but I had no idea it was that young. “You were three?” My mouth gaped open in horror, but I couldn’t bring myself to close it. How was that even possible? I felt tears brimming my eyes at the thought.
He nodded. “Most of my life, we had no running water, but we always had beer. My dad made sure of that. So, I had no choice but to drink it in the beginning. By the time I was old enough to know better, I was already hooked.”
“I’m so sorry, Mark…” It was the only thing I could think to say, though it by no means covered all that I was feeling.
His eyes always went dark when he spoke of his past, and he’d never mentioned his family except to say that he didn’t want them at our wedding, but I had no idea it was so bad. My mind filled with images of my husband as a toddler, a filthy little boy, drinking alcohol to stay alive. How could any parent be so cruel?
“It’s okay. It was my life and there’s nothing either of us can do about it now, but the fact is that you have to deal with the aftermath of the screwed-up person I’ve become because of it. The man you married isn’t perfect, and I never will be. I hate that about me. I hate myself for it most days. I wish that wasn’t the case, for your sake more than anything—”
“You can’t blame yourself for what your father did.”
“I don’t blame myself for that, but I’m a grown man, Hannah. It’s been years since any of those excuses were valid. I took responsibility for my actions when I went to rehab, I had everything under control for years, and then I let myself slip once. Then twice. And now…I can’t seem to find my footing again.”
“Let me help you,” I begged. “Please. Let me help you find help however you want to find it. I want that for you. I want to get you back to stable ground.”
He sighed. “I’ve been so terrified to tell you about all of the darkness because I didn’t want you to look at me any differently.”
“I will never stop loving you because of your past.”
“You can’t know that,” he argued. “But I love you for saying it.”
“What are you saying, Mark? What have you done that’s so awful? If totaling a car is the worst—”
“It’s not,” he said with a heavy breath.
“Then what is it? What have you done that’s so wrong?”
His eyes danced between mine for a moment, and he rubbed his forehead. “Nothing,” he said finally. “I just…alcohol has made me do so many stupid things. It’s caused me so many regrets, and I’m so terrified that losing you will be my biggest regret yet.”
I reached for his hand again. “You aren’t going to lose me.”
He lifted our hands to his lips and kissed my knuckles. “I love you so much, Hannah.”
Guilt filled my belly as I prepared my response. Now was the time to tell him. I’d done so much wrong, too. I’d made so many mistakes. I needed to tell him. I should tell him. But…I couldn’t. “I love you, too.”
Chapter Nineteen
Her
Mark stayed home for the next two weeks to heal. He told his bosses that we were back in Seattle dealing with an urgent family issue. For the first time in months, he hardly talked about work. With each passing day, his bruises were fading and our relationship seemed to be growing stronger. It seemed like we were getting back to our old selves. Maybe even better. I couldn’t remember a time when he was more doting or comforting. We sat on the couch for hours binge-watching mindless television shows, and in the evenings, we’d cook dinner together or order in and eat with no pressing matters to attend to. It reminded me so much of how things were in the beginning.
I should’ve known it couldn’t last.
On one of the last nights before he was supposed to go back to work, he called to check on the car. When he walked back to where I was waiting in the living room, I knew he hadn’t received good news.
“What’d they say?”
“Same old run around as usual. It’s not done yet, and they don’t know when it will be done. You’d think someone dropping twenty-five grand on repairs would be prioritized over the damn piece-of-crap minivan needing some tires changed, but apparently not.”
“Well, that’s not fair. Who’s to say the minivan isn’t for a mom who needs a reliable vehicle to get her kids to school?” It was the wrong thing to say, and I knew it the second I had.
He spun around to face me with anger in his expression. “So because she has kids she deserves more than I do? Damn it, Hannah, why does everything come back to kids for you?”
“I didn’t mean that! I just meant that maybe the person in front of you has just as much of a need for her car to be fixed as you do.”
“Why do you always have to argue with me? Why can’t you just be on my side for once in your life?”
I let go of the coffee mug in my hands so that it was resting on the coffee table in front of me. “When am I not on your side, Mark? I wasn’t trying to start an argument.” I felt unsubstantiated tears fill my eyes. “I was just talking to you, trying to make you see reason.”
“Oh, so now I’m unreasonable?”
“What is wrong with you? Things have been so good with us, and now it’s like you’re just trying to start a fight.”
He sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh, stop crying, would you? I’m just in a pissy mood. Ignore me.” He waved a hand as if that would silence the argument, but I was already upset.
“You can’t just tell me to stop crying, Mark. You don’t get to tell me how to feel!”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he said with a loud groan. Before I could decide what was going to happen next, he slammed his fist into the refrigerator door. I screamed as he cursed, wagging his hand in the air from the pain. His knuckles had burst open, and I watched as blood quickly rushed from the wounds.
“Are you okay?” I moved toward him, but he held out his hand.
“Don’t touch me,” he commanded as I neared.
“Don’t touch you? What has gotten into you?”
“I just don’t feel well, all right? Aren’t I allowed to not feel well? Jesus. You’re such a nag.”
I stepped back as he moved toward the sink to grab a towel and wrap it around his hand. I reached for his hand, too. “Yeah? Well, you’re such an ass.” Gone were the days that I’d let him make me feel like I couldn’t stand up for myself because of the mistakes with Luis. I’d never let him walk all over me before, and no matter how guilty I felt, I couldn’t let it continue now.
He struggled halfheartedly against my care but eventually gave in. I wrapped the towel tighter around his hands and pulled him toward me. “We need to get the wounds cleaned up.” Without a word, he followed me into the bathroom where I searched for antibiotic ointment and bandages.
“I’m fine,” he said finally, turning on the water and wincing as the cold hit his wounds.
“You aren’t fine,” I told him. “You need to get those disinfected and bandaged properly before you end up with an infection.” I searched through the cabinets aimlessly, looking for peroxide or rubbing alcohol to no avail. I wasn’t surprised; it wasn’t like those were regular items on my shopping list, but I thought surely we’d have some lying around.
I pulled the box of Bandaids and Neosporin from a drawer and placed them on the sink. “I could’ve sworn we had peroxide around here somewhere.” I paused, trying to think.
“If you hadn’t thrown out all of the alcohol, we could use that,” he said angrily. “It has more uses than just drinking, you know.”
“I do know that, but more than likely, you’d have drank it by now, anyway,” I snapped back.
Hi
s eyes narrowed at me, but he didn’t argue. Suddenly, it hit me. “Mouthwash.” I turned toward the shelf where our mouthwash normally sat, and froze. “Where is the mouthwash?”
“We’re out, I guess. I don’t know.”
I turned to look back at him, surprised by his nonchalant attitude and the fact that he was no longer looking at me. “I just bought some last week when we were at the store. Remember, you said we were out then?”
He furrowed his brow and pretended to think as disbelief sat in my belly. “That was longer ago than last week.”
“I don’t think so. It was after your accident…” I trailed off, staring down at his hands as they shook. It wasn’t only the wounded hand that appeared to be shaking. “How did we go through an entire bottle of mouthwash in a week, Mark?”
“What exactly are you accusing me of?” he demanded, his face turning pale white from anger rather than fear.
“Your hands are shaking.”
He glanced at them. “Yeah, so?”
“And I dumped out your alcohol the night after your accident. You haven’t had a drink in two weeks, but your mood swings and shakiness make it seem like you’re going through withdrawals right now.” I knew my stuff. I’d done research to prepare myself for the worst of his withdrawals, but to my surprise, he’d hardly exhibited any symptoms. I had convinced myself that maybe he was right when he told me he hadn’t let himself get too bad, but as I stared at him then, I knew I was wrong.
He frowned at me, though no words left his mouth. He was daring me to say it, and we both knew I was right.
“Have you been drinking our mouthwash because I dumped out your alcohol?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. I cocked my head to the side and stared at him, my heart racing as I hoped and prayed he would deny it and that I could believe him.
He closed his eyes, squeezing his hands into a fist as he inhaled. “Could you just please bandage my hands so we can move on?”
“Answer me!” I screamed, feeling as though I might pass out suddenly. I clutched my stomach. Maybe I was going to be sick.
“What do you want me to say, Hannah? That I’m pathetic? We both already know that. I can’t help it, okay? I want to be able to, I really do, but I can’t. I don’t know what to do anymore.” He covered his eyes with his fists as he began to openly sob. It was the first time I’d ever seen him cry, and I wasn’t sure how to react. I stood still for a moment, angry and baffled. When he leaned to me for comfort, I let him fall into my arms and placed my hands around his shoulders.
I patted his back, whispering comforts into his ear, though I desperately needed to hear them myself. What was I going to do? I didn’t want to deal with any of it anymore. My life no longer felt like my own. How had we gotten there? How had we spiraled to such a low in the small amount of time that had passed? Was I only just now seeing the man he truly was? How could I continue to put up with it—continue to live that way? Such a big part of me wanted to bolt, to run away and never look back, but a bigger part knew that wouldn’t be fair. I had to stay because I’d made a promise to do just that. Over and over, I’d told him I’d be there for him no matter what. I had known about Mark’s addiction when I agreed to marry him. I had made a vow to take care of him in sickness and health, and now I was ready to bolt at the slightest sign of trouble. I hated myself for even considering the option, but that didn’t stop it from being there.
I could leave if I wanted to, I reminded myself. The option would always be there. When he went back to work, I could bolt.
Maybe I should have. In fact, I know now that I should have. If I could go back and tell myself anything, it would be to run. The second I had the chance, I should’ve run.
Chapter Twenty
Her
Then came the first reason I couldn’t run.
Two days after Mark went back to work, I came down with a stomach virus. For an entire two weeks, I was sick more than I was well. Mark had gone back to drinking. I could smell the alcohol on his breath when he came home in the evenings, but I was too sick to fight with him. Sometimes, I think he preferred it that way.
His car was still in the shop and he’d opted to use my car rather than get a rental because we were paying for the repairs out of pocket to keep from having to report the accident to insurance, so I couldn’t get in to see a doctor. I thought it would eventually pass, but when the fever struck, I began to worry.
One morning, on his way out, I reached for his hand. “Could you call in?” I asked. “I need you to take me to the doctor.”
“You’re burning up,” he said, touching my arm and then my forehead.
“My stomach is hurting so—” I clutched it as a cramp took hold, pulling my knees into my chest. “I think something might be really wrong,” I said finally when the pain had passed.
He kissed my forehead. “Could I make you an appointment for tonight? I already took two weeks off after the accident. I don’t know if they’ll be so understanding if I keep having to take off.”
Before his sentence was finished, another cramp came and I curled up, sucking in an agonizing breath. “It really hurts,” I whined.
“Do you want me to make you some tea?” he asked. “Is it your period, maybe? Do you need to poop?”
“Did you seriously just ask me if I need to poop?” I demanded, sitting up in bed carefully. “I’ve been throwing up for two weeks, and now I’m running a fever, Mark. I need to go to the doctor. It could be something serious. Besides that, it’s not like it’s my fault we don’t have another car.”
He groaned and looked up at the ceiling, and the fact that he rolled his eyes didn’t get past me. When he looked back down, I met his eyes. I was pleading with him at that point, human to human. “Please,” I cried. “I’ve never hurt like this. It feels like something is stabbing me in the stomach.”
He stood from the edge of the bed and loosened his tie. “Okay,” he said finally. “Yeah, okay. Come on, let’s get you to the doctor.”
I stopped myself from arguing further as I realized he was giving in. Within seconds, he’d bent down and thrown my arm over his shoulders, lifting my weight like a baby doll. “I need a jacket,” I told him.
“It’s not cold out—” He started to protest but stopped and grabbed one from the hall closet, tossing it over my chest carefully. I was in my pajamas, but I couldn’t care less. I needed to get something done. Something was very wrong.
Within the hour, we arrived at the hospital. By that point, I was half out of it and every bump caused searing pain to shoot through me. I felt like I was either going to pass out or die at any moment, and truth be told, I would have been fine either way.
Mark had been quiet most of the way, and I suspected that he was angry with me, so in a strange way I hoped I did have something serious, just to prove that we weren’t wasting our time.
We spent another hour in the waiting room, me doubled over in pain, him grumbling every time a nurse came out and called a name that wasn’t mine. When I felt a sudden gush between my legs, I squirmed in my chair, my face pinkening.
“Mark?” I whispered his name.
He jerked his head in my direction. “What is it?”
“I think I’m bleeding,” I said, staring down between my legs. Sure enough, within seconds, crimson had begun to seep through my blue-and-white plaid pajama pants. “Something’s really wrong.” I was shaking at that point, my hands pale white as they clasped onto the black, metal arms of the chair.
Mark looked down at me, then stood, rushing up to the window where a group of receptionists stood talking. “My wife is in serious pain. We’ve been waiting over an hour—”
“Sir, you should be seen very soon—”
“We will be seen now, unless you want a lawsuit on your hands. I am a lawyer, and my wife is cramping and bleeding in your lobby while you sit around and eat coffee cake.” I watched as he slapped the plate of food from the woman’s desk onto the floor. Normally, I’d be embarrassed by his outburst
, but I could think of nothing but the pain as it continued to grow. “Do your damn job,” he said, turning and walking back to me. “Come on.” He lifted me up, and I felt another gush. I squeezed my legs together, looking back at the puddle of blood I’d left in my chair.
“Did they say we could go?”
“I’m not waiting for permission,” he said firmly, leading me toward the double doors. Before we reached them, a nurse pushing a wheelchair opened them. She looked at her chart with a confused expression. “Charles McKenzie?” she asked.
“Nope,” Mark said, popping the ‘p.’ “Hannah Oliver. Your next patient.”
The nurse looked as though she was going to protest, but I watched her eyes travel to the apex of my thighs, where the bright red stain was growing larger by the minute. She nodded without another word and spun the chair around. A receptionist met us as we passed through the double doors and handed off a folder.
“Mrs. Oliver’s chart,” she told the nurse.
We were taken into a room in the main hallway, and the nurse put the brake on my wheelchair as she flipped through my chart. She pulled an iPad from the cart beside the bed and typed something into it, matching the folder to whatever she was looking at on her screen. “You’re being seen today for stomach pain. It doesn’t mention bleeding.”
“It just started,” Mark told her for me.
“Okay, let’s get you up here so we can examine you. Can you help me?” she asked, looking at Mark.
He nodded, helping me stand from the chair. Together, they half-carried me to the bed. The paper crinkled under my weight as I slid onto it, thankful for some relief from the agony of holding my own head up. I collapsed on the pillow as a new cramp took over, ripping through my organs with a familiar intensity. With each new pain, I was sure it would be the one to end my life. How could anyone survive pain like this for long?
“Okay, Hannah. I’m Amanda. I’m going to take care of you…okay? How long have you been in pain?” the nurse asked.
I Said Yes Page 8
