In the Nick of Time

by Laveen, Tiana

  She nodded in understanding, her eyes wide, as if he were telling a gripping tale. He imagined, to her, he possibly was…but this was no movie or action packed story; this was the account of his life. His autobiography.

  “So, if I fast forward a little, things got worse and worse. Most of my friends from back in the day by this time were dead or in jail, some in prison with long life sentences. Juvie was gone—long gone. They were too old now, still acting like children, yet they were grown men looking for the same shit I’d been searching for,” he said. “Somehow, we tried to find that in each other, but you can’t get food from another starving man with nothing. We couldn’t feed each other anything but hope and pain. My hands were empty, and so were theirs… but our stomachs still growled, and desperation set in…

  “Eventually I did eat, my soul got fed, and that’s all I wanted the whole time. I ate and ate, through helping people out on the streets, but it seemed to never be enough because once again, I had people believing in me, but I didn’t believe in myself. I always felt like I was falling short, Taryn, like I hadn’t done enough, didn’t shine bright enough. It began to get to me, and then I would drink a bit more, and a bit more after that.

  “It got to the point where I needed the alcohol just to get through the day. I played the role, though. I stayed afloat, kept up appearances. I was miserable and didn’t even know it. I had no clue what would make me happy though, because whatever it was, it continued to elude me. I started dreaming about Jonathan a lot too, and his death kept replaying in my mind, especially when I was real stressed out. It was torturing me.” He pointed to his head, showing her the trauma, pointing out how his brain had fucked him over, wouldn’t let him rest.

  “See, I could run from Ma, still. I could run from Frederic, but I couldn’t run from Jonathan, because he was like me, and I was like him. We even kinda favored. But death is mean, it’s cruel but wise. It knows what it’s doin’; we just don’t know, and we hate it, because every time it steps up to bat, it doesn’t just take the person, it kills a part of their loved ones, too. Sounds a bit like addiction, huh?” He smirked.

  “Yes, baby, it does. Addiction is a form of death. Thankfully, for us, it doesn’t have to be.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Death is not just a killer, but a thief like me, too. It steals shit…steals joy, steals hope. It’s cunning, and no one can fuck with it and be okay. Everybody gotta talk with Death, have a meeting with him, and no one gets up from the table once the conversation is over…”

  They were quiet for a short time.

  “I would think I saw my mother sometimes, and I’d talk to her, tell her I was sorry.” He looked down into his lap, smiled a bit. “I would wonder if that man I’d seen was really my dad, too, or whether it was just wishful thinking. For years, Taryn, I went back and forth about that… back and forth. Were the rumors true? I don’t know, I don’t think I even want to know and even if I did, I may never know for certain.” He paused, sucked his teeth. “What would make me stop being so miserable? Messed up about this? Having women around didn’t help. That was just a fleeting distraction. Sex didn’t give me the high I needed. Women talked back, got attitudes, sought answers, called all the time, wanted commitments and explanations.” He chuckled. “They’d say things…” He smirked in her direction, and she smirked back. “You all would say things, and we’d argue. No, that didn’t appeal to me. The alcohol did though.

  “Alcohol ruined several of my relationships, too, and at the time, I may have been unknowingly grateful for that side effect. I had trouble keeping a relationship going for the long haul, or I’d attract women to me that were just as damaged and fucked up as I was but they had no ambition to change their path, and try to be better.” He placed his fingertips together, recalling all his past failed romantic associations. “The more fucked up the woman was, the more I liked her, wanted her, had to have her. If a good woman was attracted to me, I’d find a way to push her away, get rid of her, ruin everything.” He fixed her with an intent gaze. “Like you…even though you have your struggles, I can see you’re a real good woman. I would have run from you back then. You have too much potential that you probably wouldn’t squander; you want more out of life, and you’d demand more out of me, too. You are not what I wanted back then, shit, even a few months ago… but you are exactly who I want right now… I’m so happy with you.” He turned away, continued. “Sober eyes see things clearly…”

  She offered a sweet smile, one that he wished he could taste.

  “I didn’t feel I deserved a good woman. The bottle beat me up nice and good, too. It would promise to love me, but leave me more fucked up than I was before. It got to the point where I was afraid to be sober. Sober meant facing the truth and having to find a way to make my own self happy and not look to others to fix me or make me feel important.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the woman nodding emphatically.

  “Sober was the good girl that I had thrown away time and time again. Sober was Mom. Sober was Frederic. Sober was the black cop with salt and pepper hair who refused to take me to juvie, was tired of getting calls about punk kids stealing from stores but still had love for his hood, and wanted to help little jerks like me live to see another day. Sober was the little boy within me, Nicky, that wanted to grow up and be somebody. Sober is a woman now… Sober is you…”

  She smiled, wiped her own tears away as she looked down at the ground, blushing a bit, giving his soul a hug from afar.

  “I can still feel my mother around me now, you know? Because sometimes I think about life and death, and life after death. But… I know she’s around me, even right now, this second. So the light still shines, and the game is still being played. But she was a good person… It might be different for me? None of this was in the letter by the way, I’m just thinking out loud.” He smiled sadly.

  “I don’t care, go right ahead… You are so interesting, Nick. I love hearing your story, and your thoughts, too.”

  Do you? Do you really, baby? Because I feel so good about you…

  “Heaven and Hell might be the same place, depending on how we interpret it. Maybe it’s a place where I’d spend time repenting for my sins against others. Or maybe this hell business is just a bunch of fairytales. What do you think?”

  “What do I think?” She pointed to herself, brows raised. Her expression drew tight in concentration. “I think God is real, Nick. I wasn’t supposed to beat cancer; the odds were against me, but He made me strong enough and put the right people around me and the best doctors so that I could make it. He put my ass in rehab, too,” She laughed, drawing the same reaction from him. “And I prayed, and He told me this time would be different. I believed him. And then, I met you.”

  …God forgive me for the obscene thoughts I’m having about this woman just now! Pretend you didn’t see that in my head, please. Why did you make her like this?! She’s talking, saying such sweet things, and I’m blanking out, thinking about how good it felt to be inside of her… Oh God, when you made this woman you weren’t kidding!

  “I think God is real, too. He’d have to be or I’m sure I would have been dead years ago by now. I had too many close calls, way too many.” He grasped his water bottle from the table, guzzled a couple of mouthfuls, and continued. “I fought with that, but I’m okay with it now. I can be cursed out, spit at, and shot at, too, but if one person tells me, ‘Thank you,’ then to me, it was all worth it. I’ve told you shit today I’ve never told anyone else. I’m trusting you…”

  The beautiful woman nodded.

  “…And you can.”

  He mulled that thought over for a brief moment.

  “It couldn’t wait any longer, Taryn… I delayed getting help and treatment until I couldn’t anymore. I knew my time was running out. I could just feel it.” She nodded, her lips pursed, her expression concerned. “It was like someone was trying to tell me something, trying to protect me. It was like I only had five seconds to live, and it was the final one
for the countdown. Do you know I’ve only missed six days of work in all the years I’ve been there? Three of them were due to alcohol – it happened after this son of a bitch threw his son and then himself off that rooftop not too long ago. The other three I’d taken were due to me gettin’ hurt on the job. It was minor, but I had twisted my ankle going after someone one time and had to rest up.

  “Anyway, I need to work, Taryn. I need to keep doing what I’m doing, but I had to figure out which was scarier. Losing my job or facing myself? They both were about equal, and that’s where my dilemma came in…and that’s where I’m at…and now—now I’m done. Done with my story… That’s all there is to it.”

  They sat quietly for a few moments. He moved around in his seat. The hard wood had started to make his ass hurt. He sighed and caught the small smile on her face—a smile meant for him.

  “You did it.” She patted his back. “You told your story, and what a testament it was. You faced your fears…so proud of you, baby!”

  Heat flooded him. The whole thing hurt, but it felt good to purge, too.

  “I’ll let Frieda know you finished your assignment,” she whispered as she got to her feet. “She knows I’d do a lot of things she may not approve of, but when it comes to recovery, and the steps we need to take to get to the heart of these issues, she trusts me to not lie… even for a friend.”

  He nodded in understanding.

  “We better get going.”

  He stood as well, stretched and yawned.

  “Thank you, Taryn. Thank you for listening to me, letting me explain all of this. Not sure how much of it made any sense. I was just talking…then crying then rambling.” He rolled his eyes.

  “You’re welcome and I got it. I understood every word…”

  “Now, someone else knows. It’s not just bottled up inside me anymore.” He didn’t expect to feel so good, so comforted, so soon. But he did… he honestly did.

  “You did well.”

  “Thanks. I have a witness…you’re my witness; that’s good. But I know I have still a long way to go.” He grabbed a tissue from his pocket and blew his nose.

  “Baby.” They walked towards the door; she led, and he followed. “It’s not about where you have to go. It’s about enjoying the moments on the way.” He liked that. Her words injected more medicine to his broken heart. “Don’t steal your own joy. Be proud of yourself! You were stronger than you thought you were.” He looked away from her, unsure if he could believe her. She must’ve sensed it, for she paused, grabbed him, and made him face her.

  “When you’re sober, you sometimes feel weak. We use because we want to be someone else, or not feel, or feel something different, some illusion, some lie. You are standing in your truth. You’re feeling it, taking it in, kissing it, loving it. I was just sitting in the audience, okay? Your mouth opened, and instead of placing a bottle to it, you simply told…the…truth!”

  Moved, he wrapped his arms tight around her and enfolded her into his heart-pounding hug. She seemed to have no idea how her words continued to soothe and heal him. Everything she said now sounded like a goddamn song and he wanted to buy the whole fucking album and put that shit on repeat.

  “You’re so damn smart and inspirational on top of being beautiful.” He reluctantly released her. “Do you know how sexy that is?” He reached around her and pressed his chest into her shoulder as he turned the knob to let them out.

  “What’s sexy, Nick, is to see you let some of your pain go.”

  They walked out amongst the living. The nearby cafeteria food smelled of grilled paninis and hot vegetable soup.

  “I’m starting over. The clock gave me a bit more time to make this right.”

  “You say all you wanted was love and to be wanted, needed, and that’s been your goal the entire time.”

  “Yes, it has been. I found that out pretty early on in therapy here,” he said. “Charles is really candid, and I found him easy to admit those sorts of things to until it became natural. I’ve learned a lot about myself real fast here… I’m surprised, actually.”

  “Well, you earned my respect, Nick, and my love, too. I can’t pretend to know the pain you’ve experienced but it takes a strong man to let go, and be authentic, be honest with himself as well as with others. And you’re a real man, honey. You’re strong, not just physically, but mentally and in your heart, too.”

  “Yeah? I am strong, I know that…but you make me feel stronger…make me feel like I can really do this on the days I don’t feel so hot. Thank you for being my friend, my lover, my girlfriend.” He grazed her hand with his own as they entered the cafeteria, took their individual trays.

  He didn’t miss her smirk.

  “You’re taken. Oh, you didn’t know?” He grinned as he grabbed a white milk carton and kept moving down the line, feeling like some little kid right before recess. In a way, he was; this had proved to be a second lifetime, a brand new start.

  “I’m your woman? Hmmmm, didn’t know that,” she flirted and teased.

  Pausing, he dipped close to her ear, “Well, now ya do…”

  Chapter Thirteen

  She looped her finger around a cluster of recently sprung, silky black curls and squeezed. It had been a long time since she could do such a thing. She sat at the foot of her bed, looking over the thing as if perched atop a cliff ready to jump into a deep ocean dancing with crested waves. Rather, she was looking down at herself, in the mirror. She’d placed the hand held reflector there, taking interest in the unflattering angle and finding it quite entertaining to finally be able to look down at a reflection that appeared closer to her former self. As the days turned into weeks, her recovery became a tad less contrived and unnerving. This was her third stint, and this time she was convinced she’d make it, simply because she was tired of being sick and tired…

  …And she had a new cheerleader…

  …And in helping him, she helped herself. For his story was her story, and their narratives overlapped, broke apart then came back as one until they reached the final chapter, the last word typed, the latest emotion elicited. Just like their bodies when he’d made love to her, spun her around, kissed her wounds and made the scarred flesh feel fresh, new, beautiful—he’d told her, this is ‘THE END’ of the old us.

  He’d done it to her in more ways than one. She never knew she could love someone so fast, and so hard. He occupied her thoughts more and more, and her heart felt full when she replayed their conversations in her mind. Everything he said sounded timeless, and his potential in her life was limitless.

  Everything happens for a reason. Nick and I met for something important. I’m sure I don’t even completely know what that all entails yet.

  Pulling herself away from her reflection and thoughts, she scooted to the other side of the bed and reached low to pull out a large, thick-sheeted drawing pad from under her bed. She flipped through it, found a clean, off-white page and plucked a freshly sharpened pencil from a mauve coffee cup doubling as an instrument holder. She began to sketch out ideas here and there. Her hand moved rapidly, busily gliding across the paper as she turned it to and fro. She quickly grabbed an eraser, undid a section of drawing, and continued on, scraping away the eraser bits left on the page with a rapid sleight of hand. The intoxicating scent of the warmed wood in her hand proved a near divine experience for her. She loved the feeling of freedom, of optimism, of thirsting for something new that she’d become. Before she knew it, she was finished with her draft and in the mood for more. She flipped to next page, and started all over again.

  Yes, a fresh start…

  What a beautiful thing it was indeed…

  Nick watched the scene unfold as he sat alone in the cafeteria. The woman clad in distressed blue denim overalls sat down, flipped her sandy brown hair over one shoulder and blew her nose into a tissue. Christmas had come and gone, bringing on a bit more depression to many of the residents. Family gatherings were nonexistent, but visitors were welcome. Some came, some didn’t.
It was simply the way things were. Being in rehab proved in some ways similar to being in prison. Some families ostracized the person once they passed through those gates, went into the ‘system’, and became officially tagged a ‘societal failure.’ Nick had made it quite clear he wanted no one coming to see him. Not that he didn’t miss his friends and fellow officers, but he simply wasn’t ready to stare them in the face just yet, despite Tomas’ unplanned visit.

  When he came out of there, he wanted to be on top of his shit, looking and feeling his best. Things were still too fresh. He hadn’t marinated long enough in his own sobriety driven juices but he knew these were truths, deceptively disguised to cover a bursting pride he refused to admit lay at the core of the issue. People simply did not see him in a wrecked state. From the moment he’d enter his precinct, his clothes were so clean, they could be eaten off of. His shoes were so shiny, he could see his reflection and he walked with his back straight as an ironing board, each step orchestrated in a determined sort of way.

  The only person that had witnessed his seedy defects, the hideous person within that made a mess of everything and ate his own aspirations, dreams and desires in one greedy gulp, had been his mother…and now, Taryn. Today was particularly stressful, though, and the wall wobbled, the foundation weak as a newborn baby trying to raise their head for the first time. He was depressed. No ifs, ands or buts; he’d fallen into a pitch black hole and couldn’t climb his damn way out. The funk morphed into a fog, and the fog grew thick and devouring. Worst of all, the holidays usually always left him feeling downer than down, and with him being in such a place, it put a whole new, ugly twist on the matter. Nevertheless, he had time, and time was a gift. So, he sat there, and drifted away into a daydream chock full of memories.

  His thoughts wandered to memories of his mother…

  Every Christmas, along with his presents wrapped in newspaper as neatly as could be, she’d buy him a big chocolate bar in the shape of Santa. She did this up until the time of her death; it was their little tradition. They’d drink eggnog spiked with a splash of Island rum, the kind he imagined she enjoyed as a child back in Puerto Rico. The pint of liquor would sit there day after day on the kitchen counter, and then, he would taste it, sample it, covet sip after undercover nip when it wasn’t Christmas or anywhere near the holidays any longer…