Standing Sideways

by J. Lynn Bailey

  I trace the word Hope on my slacks before I begin.

  “My name is Livia Stone, and I’m a recovering alcoholic.”

  “I’m not the girl I thought I’d be. When I was eight, I dreamed of going to a prestigious university. Getting advanced degrees. Meeting the boy of my dreams at a fraternity party and wearing Harvey College T-shirts on the weekends while in my dorm room. I never thought I’d be an alcoholic at seventeen. I never thought my alcoholism would rob me of my dignity, my self-worth, and my self-love.

  “On October 1, 2015, when my twin brother, Jasper, was killed in the Kellogg Community College shooting, I wasn’t sure I wanted to live anymore. He’d been there to check it out on a visit. Never in a million years did I dream I’d recover from that. Plus, I never thought that that would be the beginning of my bottom. But I believe, if it wasn’t for the awfulness of my brother’s death, it would have been only a matter of time before my alcoholism took away so much more.

  “My grandmother once said, ‘You are the only one who knows your own bottom. And you are the only one to decide when enough is enough.’

  “The day of my last drink, I was in a bad car accident that I believe I was supposed to die in. Not because of fate, but because sometimes we make decisions by mistake. The report said we flipped over nine times. Hit several trees down an embankment. When the emergency personnel arrived, they assumed there were no survivors because the truck was wedged between two redwood trees.

  “Cash Livingston was killed when he was ejected from the truck.

  “But I lived.

  “I spent four weeks in the hospital with a shattered leg and bruises and cuts that eventually healed. While I don’t want to bore you with my past, I do want to point out the warning signs.

  “I was drinking every day. I was hiding it.

  “I wasn’t making the right decisions anymore.

  “I just knew, when I took a drink, I could not control how much I drank.

  “And, toward the bitter end, every time I drank, I would pass out. Black out. Alcohol controlled me. Owned me.

  “Here’s the deal. I had a good home—for the most part. I was headed to a prestigious university, had a bed to sleep in, had a job. Saved money like I should. I wasn’t living under a bridge, drinking out of a brown paper bag, like how most people assume alcoholics live.

  “And, every time I looked in the mirror, I realized that I was fading, losing sight of who I was. With every drink I took, I couldn’t see the person I was losing.

  “After the hospital stint and after I talked to my parents about it, I went into a treatment facility for six months; it also included grief counseling. So much for the prestigious university, right? But, by making that decision, it saved my life.

  “Today, I attend Skagit Community College. I’ve written a novel, which I submitted to Harvey College under the name of Professor Livingston, who nominated it for the Lelia Cruz award. It’s titled Standing Sideways. I did not know though that, when students are given this accolade, they are also awarded a full scholarship.

  “I found out last night that I’d not only won the Lelia Cruz scholarship, but more importantly, this book might also help others. It might help them to see that the disease of alcoholism knows no barriers, no age requirement. It doesn’t care about where you work or how much college education you have. It doesn’t matter where you sleep or if you get up for work or school in the morning. The thing is, if you think you have a problem with alcohol, you probably do, and it’s only going to get worse as you get older. Trust me, the only reason I tell you this is because I would not be here, standing before you, telling you about my disease and the depths it took, if it wasn’t for the fact that I got help. The toll it has played on my family and on me.”

  I go on about the heartbreak, the havoc I caused my family.

  “I still grieve for my brother, but I don’t wallow in it. I miss him with everything that I have. I wish I could take back just a few minutes of his time. Have him yank my hair again. Tell me how I am overreacting about an A-minus versus an A.

  “But, today, I have everything in me that I need. Not what I want, but what I need. What I didn’t mention earlier is that my mother and I had a very tough relationship, but a lot of it was me being bitter at her for how she treated my brother and me; it was just different. I was resentful toward her. There’s healing today. We have a great relationship now. We talk about things that I was so scared to talk about before, for fear of what she’d think about me.”

  I look to my mom, who’s wiping tears from her eyes—in a good way.

  “I was angry with my father for being the alcoholic.”

  My dad’s sitting next to my mom, but he’s beaming. He no longer lives with as much regret than he used to. I’d say, from here, he looks pretty proud.

  “Today, my father and I have the relationship we have because of where we’ve been. And I’m so grateful to be on this journey with him. You see, even though my dad saw my life spiraling out of control, he never told me I was an alcoholic. He led by example.

  “I’d like to close with this. A few months after Jasper’s passing, I received an email from one of the survivors of the Kellogg Community College shooting. Sonja Peet. She asked if I wanted to know what Jasper’s last words were before he was shot seven times in the chest. It took me six months to respond to her email. The truth was, I was terrified.

  “You see, my brother was gay. And he lived his life trying to deny the fact that he was. As his twin, I didn’t know this.” I casually cough because I feel the tears gathering in my throat. “The shooter asked questions of his victims. Whether they believed in God, Allah, Jehovah. He asked if they were Republican, Democrat, Gay, or straight. What nationality. Pro-life. Pro-choice. Presbyterian, Christian, Catholic, Muslim, nonbeliever. That day, the gunman asked my brother the gamut of questions. When asked if he was gay, this was his response:

  “‘I stand up for those whose beliefs don’t match social norms.

  “‘I stand up for God, Allah, Jehovah. I stand up for freedom of choice.

  “‘I stand up for those who are gay and straight.

  “‘I’m a gay man, and I believe in God. I will never back down from defending that anymore.

  “‘I stand up for those who suffer in silence.

  “‘And I stand up to you.’”

  I pause for a minute, trying to collect my words, tears silently falling down my cheeks. Because I don’t say what happened next; it’s assumed.

  I try to speak.

  I stop.

  I try to speak again.

  I stop.

  “When you’re put to the ultimate test, when your life is on the line, stand up. Speak loudly. Stand in your own truth. And, when you go to the I AM wall this year, make sure you put your mark on the world. Be bold. Be brave.”

  Silence.

  Silence.

  Silence.

  Silence.

  Maybe it was too much? I think to myself.

  My eyes scan the gymnasium with the sea of people. Stunned silence.

  One person claps, and then the whole gymnasium erupts, explodes, in applause.

  I know I have exactly seventeen minutes to get to Bob’s. Once the group of high schoolers is released, they rush me with questions. And I answer them as best as I can while trying to be as honest as possible.

  “How did you know you were an alcoholic?”

  “I think my mom is an alcoholic. How do I get her to get sober?”

  “What rehab did you go to?”

  “Can I have your autograph, Livia?”

  “How did you overcome drinking?”

  Once the crowd disperses, I glance at my watch. Six more minutes. Then, I look to my best friend standing in the doorway, silently clapping.

  She strolls over to me with open arms. “Still, every time I hear that story, I get all freaking teary-eyed,” Cao says, sliding an arm around my neck.

  Cao had a lot of guilt after the accident. She said it was h
er fault and that she shouldn’t have allowed me to get in the car with Cash. But I know that’s her own stuff she has to work through. I can tell her until I’m blue in the face that it wasn’t her fault, but I guess she needs to come into her own healing.

  “Six minutes.” I follow Cao out of the gym and to her car.

  Beth finally decided to allow Cao, who goes to Caltech now, to get her license the summer after her senior year with all the commuting she’d be doing.

  My mom and dad meet us at her car.

  “You’re headed to Bob’s, right?” My mom pushes my hair behind my shoulders, tears in her eyes. “I’m so proud of your strength and for telling that story over and over again.”

  My mom went to Betty Ford Clinic, a place that helps families of alcoholics. She regularly attends Al-Anon meetings. She also did grief counseling and still does. I don’t think the loss of a child, the pain that goes with it, ever goes away. It changes. But I think, through me, my brother still lives.

  My dad kisses me on the forehead, “Mimi, I love you.” Water starts to converge at his eyelids.

  “You aren’t supposed to cry!” I say. “You promised me.”

  “No, they’re just leaking. I’m good,” he says, taking his hand and wiping the leak.

  My parents make their way back to their car and Cao and I jump in her car. She drops me off at Bob’s. “Call me when you get back to school. Love you.”

  I kiss her on the cheek.

  She came back home just for my talk at Belle’s Hollow High. But what I’ve learned is that friends do things like that for friends. We’re here. We’re present. Because, as much as I told her it wasn’t a big deal, when she showed up at my house to drive me to the speaking commitment, my heart exploded. The truth is, I did need her.

  I take a deep breath, trace the words true love on my slacks, and step inside the orange-and-cream-colored eatery—also known as Bob’s.

  My heart begins to pound.

  I look from left to right. The place is nearly empty.

  Behind me, I hear, “I hear the cheese fries are deadly.”

  I whip around.

  All the heaviness of what I just told, the story, disappears. And everything in the world falls into its rightful spots. Stars explode. The sun expands. The man on the moon is singing.

  I breathe.

  His hair is shorter, and his glasses are different, but when our eyes meet, nothing has changed. Absolutely nothing.

  Daniel takes my hand and pulls me into him. I feel his heart pound against my chest, and he leads me to the spot where the only space between us is molecules and dust bunnies. I can feel the burn of my fingertips as they dig into his back. My heart begins to pound in rhythm with his, making perfect sense in this crazy world we live in—this complicated, sad, exciting, beautiful world. If a heartbeat had a louder sound, it would sound like two sparrows conversing about the sun and the warmth that it brings. It would sound in tune and keyed up. And sweet.

  “I’m glad you came.”

  It’s the first time I’ve seen Daniel, and we both held true to our promise that, no matter what happened in a year, we would meet at Bob’s on December 21.

  Daniel stares down at me. “I have a feeling, Liv, that when we are old, cheese fries will be our choice of death.”

  I laugh. I laugh so hard, I feel it in all the places that matter.

  We slide into a booth, a new one, one that we can make new memories in—him on one side and me on the other.

  He takes my hands in his. “There’s this weird thing in your eyes.”

  I take a hand from his and touch my right eye. “Where?”

  He laughs a deep, throaty laugh, and his Adam’s apple bobs. “Right here.” He gently touches the corner of my eye. “I think it’s called happiness.”

  A smile spreads across his face and mine, too.

  “I’ve decided something.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?” he asks that like it’s got an O in it.

  “I’m in love with you.”

  Daniel reaches across the table again, this time taking the sides of my face into his hands. “You are worth fighting for, Livia, today and all the tomorrows. I’m the man who is supposed to be your person until the rest of the tomorrows run out.”

  We eat cheese fries.

  And kiss.

  And drink Cherry Coke.

  And kiss some more.

  I know it’s a question that needs answering—if not for me, but for us. I finally ask, “How did it go with Sienna?”

  Daniel lets out a huge, exhausted sigh. Maybe of relief or fear. I’m not sure because I can’t read the look he’s giving.

  “She’s good. Heath is over a year old now.”

  Good. That’s good.

  I nod, trying to talk myself out of the doubt that’s creeping in.

  It’s good. Tell yourself that, Liv. It’s good.

  Daniel stares down at the simplicity of how our bodies can intertwine with such ease—or at least that’s what I’m thinking he’s thinking. I try to push away the distance that we’ve spent apart by scooting closer.

  He lets out a breath he was holding, and I can’t help but breathe in his minty smell.

  “After we parted that day, I flew back to Hull and tried to help Sienna with her pregnancy and getting ready to take on the role of a father. But you know what, Liv? I kept thinking about you and your quest for truth about who you are, the mistakes you’ve made. Walking through what you had to walk through to get to the other side.” He stops and chews on his lip. “I asked Sienna to get a paternity test after Heath was born. Because, if Heath was mine, I wanted to do right by my child.”

  I swallow.

  I wait.

  I pray relief comes soon, but I also have faith that everything is as it should be. But my wants are overriding logic in this situation right now. And then I trace the words not yours against my pants, under the table, and let the feeling go.

  “Did she comply with your request?” I try to sound convincing. Rightful. Supportive. Though part of me wants him to run for the hills. But the good side of me, the unselfish side, wants him to stay. Get the test done. Do what’s right for Heath and Daniel. Not for Livia Stone.

  “Yes, but only after I pestered her.”

  “And?” I’m louder because the suspense alone is making me want to barf all over this table.

  “Heath isn’t mine.” Daniel’s hands tighten around mine.

  I want to jump across this table and straddle his lap, but I won’t, for the sake of public displays of affection. It’s gross. I mean, the making-out part at least or the lap sitting. But then, too, public displays of affection don’t seem so bad with Daniel. Maybe I just didn’t find the right guy, and that’s why I didn’t care for it.

  I contain my excitement and offer a compassionate tone. “How are you doing with all that?”

  “It’s good. I’m glad. I mean, I wasn’t ready to have a baby at eighteen. And I didn’t want you to have to deal with all that.”

  “What did your father say?”

  “Doesn’t know. He pretty much checked out and gave me my trust fund. But it turns out, there’s this little college down the road called Harvey and a community college nearby.” His eye twitches.

  I crawl across the table and straddle his lap, putting myself directly on top of him, and then I pull his lips to mine.

  When two people are supposed to fit exactly together, it’s said that they fit like a glove—mind, body and spirit. Rightfulness of the world.

  Although I know we’re only eighteen, I also trust my heart. I trust that things will work out the way they are supposed to. I know that I’ve never felt this way about someone—the way I feel about Daniel. I also feel there’s a reason Daniel, Rose, and Dr. Pearson moved here, to our tiny little town of Belle’s Hollow.

  After Daniel and I catch up for an hour, I see the couple I’m waiting for. Since I’ve already told Daniel my plan, he stands.

  “I’ll meet you in the car?�
�� he says to me.

  He kisses me half on the lips and half on the cheek, the kind of kiss that brings my body alive. An ache begins to form, an ache that can only be fulfilled by Daniel. His lips linger on mine, and I sigh.

  “Meet you at the car,” I say but not without one last kiss on the mouth.

  Daniel walks to the car, and I walk to the couple sitting near the back at a window seat.

  “Thanks for coming,” I say to Mr. Joe and his wife, who’s in a wheelchair. Not one you sit in for a week or two to mend a broken leg or hips. One you sit in indefinitely.

  I slide into their booth—them on one side and me on the other.

  “Livia, this is my wife, Morgan,” Mr. Joe introduces his wife, pretending like her accident, their tragedy, didn’t bleed all over the local newspaper headlines—probably out of respect for her feelings.

  She smiles. Even though she doesn’t say a word, I feel her words in her smile. They’re kind. Gentle even.

  “Quite a talk you gave in the gymnasium, Liv.” He’s proud. I see it in the crow’s-feet lining the corners of his eyes.

  “Nice to meet you, Morgan.”

  But, in her smile, I see her regret. I remember her accident.

  Morgan was returning from a work conference. She looked down at her phone—so the newspaper said. The drunk driver had come out of nowhere and swerved into her lane, hitting her head-on on Highway 101, just south of Belle’s Hollow. The accident left her unable to speak or walk.

  I remember Mr. Joe’s words.

  “I know what you’re going through. I know what loss feels like.”

  In my bag, I reach in, grab a copy of Standing Sideways, and slide it across the table. “You believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. You knew I could do things I didn’t know I was capable of. I might not have done them in the timing we both wanted, but I did it. This book is for you.”

  Never in my life have I seen Mr. Joe with a lack of words. Carefully, he pulls the book toward them, and his long fingers brush over the cover, the title. He opens the book and sees the dedication page. Immediately, he searches the table—for what, I’m not sure. Morgan looks down at the page and then to her husband. A tear falls from her eye. Then, two. Then, three.