by J J Hebert
I say, “You’re worth more than this.”
She looks at me, head tilted. “Worth more than what?”
“You deserve better than this.”
“Better than what?”
“Whiskey,” I say, “and The Nasty Widowed One.”
She starts to cry, puts her head on my shoulder. I run a hand through her hair, tell her repeatedly that she’s worth more than this. Her crying grows stronger. I put my arms around her, and hold her tightly. Not letting go.
* * *
Two days later, Meranda phones me, says that she joined a new AA group away from The Nasty Widowed One. “I’m afraid that I may relapse again if I have to see him,” she says, “so hopefully this works.” I commend her for joining another group, tell her that she needs the support. She says, “I should’ve stayed away from the thirteenth step.” I tell her not to beat herself up over the relapse, that it was a mistake and it doesn’t have to happen again.
I’m like a motivational speaker.
* * *
She calls on another night, says that The Nasty Widowed One has been leaving nasty messages on her answering message. I ask her if she’s all right. “The messages were okay at first,” she says, “but after the third message, he started saying that he wished he never met me, that dating me was a complete waste of his time, and he should never have been my Sponsor.”
“He sounds crazy,” I say. “I bet he’s been drinking . . .”
“I don’t know, but he’s making me crazy,” she says. “I’m so angry and sad and lonely, all at once, and I don’t know what to do with these feelings.” Then she explains that Group isn’t helping much, that starting with a new mess of people is making everything even more difficult than it was when she was in the other group. “I feel totally vulnerable in all aspects of my life and I want to drink,” she says. “I’m going crazy. I swear, I’m going insane.”
“You’re a recovering alcoholic,” I say. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re not going insane.”
She pauses. “I don’t know if I can handle more messages from The Nasty Widowed One.”
“Call him and tell him to stop calling you,” I say. “Tell him that his cruelty caused you to relapse and he needs to respect you, and tell him that you’re worth more than this, all of this, and you deserve better than this and he better not call again or you’ll call the police.”
Or I’ll sic Team Sobriety on him.
* * *
The next week, I call her on Monday. She doesn’t pick up, so I leave a message saying hello and ask her to return my call when she can. I don’t hear from her.
Tuesday passes without a word.
I call her Wednesday, and get her answering machine. I’m worried about her, and my voice, as I leave a message, comes out shaky. “Meranda? Are you there? It isn’t like you to not pick up. I hope you’re okay. If you need anything, feel free to give me a call, all right? I’m here for you.”
I don’t hear from her on Thursday.
Nothing on Friday. I wake four times Friday night, nervous for her safety. I hope she hasn’t been drinking. Please, Lord, I hope she hasn’t been drinking.
I call her again on Saturday morning, get the machine, ask her with fear in my voice if she’s okay. I tell her to please pick up, please pick up. I wonder if she’s been screening her calls, wonder if I said something to offend her, if I did anything to offend her. I ponder our previous conversations, searching. I can’t think of anything I’ve done, anything I’ve said that would make her not want to talk with me.
Sunday appears, and I call her early in the morning before church with Leigh.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
I hear the machine. “This is James again. Why haven’t you called me back, Meranda?” My tone reveals frustration. “If I’ve done anything to upset you, please know that I didn’t mean to. Please call me back. I’m worried about you.” I pause, hoping that she’ll answer. She doesn’t. I flip the cell shut.
At church, I can’t concentrate. I keep moving around in the pew. Leigh puts her arm around me, asks in a whisper if I’m okay. I look into her brown, concerned eyes, shrug and fake a smile. She scoots closer to me in the pew, smiles, removes her arm from my shoulder, places it on my leg. I face the pastor, try to listen, try to focus on him, but to no avail. In my mind, his words are replaced with “Meranda” and “Is she okay?” and “Did I do something to offend her?” and “She’s been drinking again. I bet she’s been drinking again.”
I decide that I can’t sit here any longer. I whisper into Leigh’s ear that I’m going to the bathroom. She nods, her eyes on the pastor. I stand, scoot past the other people in the pew, and walk to the bathroom. I stand before the mirror, fiddle with my tie, stare at my reflection, tell myself to get a grip, to calm down. I look into my blue eyes, see fear in them, horrifying fear. Something is wrong with Meranda. I know something is wrong. I’m having premonitions. I remove the cell from a pocket, turn it on, call voicemail. No messages exist from Meranda. I put the cell away, look into the mirror at my fearful eyes. I take a deep breath, and pray. I ask God to help me make it through the service, to help me sit still, to help me listen to the pastor. I leave the bathroom, return to my seat, try, try, try to listen, can’t listen, can’t pay attention, can’t sit still, but I do make it through the service.
I drive us away from the church.
“What’s wrong?” Leigh asks. “You’ve been acting weird.”
My hand tightens on the steering wheel. “Meranda hasn’t been answering my phone calls, and I’m worried about her.”
“You should pay her a visit then,” Leigh says.
I think on the recommendation, then nod. “I’ll go after lunch.”
Leigh and I eat lunch together at her apartment—grilled ham and cheese sandwiches with sour cream and onion potato chips and cola. I thank her for making the sandwiches. She tries to make conversation. I can’t focus enough to hold a conversation. At the end of lunch, we move from the table, and she gives me a hug. “It’ll be okay,” she says, smiling. I don’t believe her. I kiss her anyway, tell her that I love her.
I drive the longest drive of my life to Meranda’s house, the heater blasting, the sides of the road before me covered with snow, scenarios playing out in my mind: I’ll get to her house and she’ll greet me at the door and apologize that she didn’t return my calls yet. She’ll point to a suitcase in the house and tell me that she went on a mini vacation to get away from The Nasty Widowed One’s messages and that she just got my messages a couple minutes ago when she walked through the door for the first time in a week.
Or: I’ll enter her house and find her drunk on her bed with puke everywhere because she relapsed the day after we last talked and she’s been drinking ever since in an attempt to kill the pain.
Or: I’ll get to her house and knock on the door and she won’t answer and I’ll knock again and she won’t answer and I’ll knock again and she’ll open the door a crack and tell me to go away, that I’m not welcome, that she doesn’t want to talk to me ever again, that I offended her, and I’ll tear up and my shoulders will drop and I’ll tell her that I need my grandmother, that I’ve always needed a grandmother and she has filled that void and I can’t walk away. She’ll tell me to step back or she’ll call the cops and I’ll ask her what I did or what I said. She won’t say anything other than step back, and she’ll shut the door and I’ll stand frozen on the porch and I’ll start to cry because I’ll never see her again and I’ll miss her and I love her and I need her and I invested in her and I believed in her.
CHAPTER FORTY
I arrive at Meranda’s house, exit the car, shivering, tiny snowflakes falling upon me. Boots crunching through crusty snow, I come to the porch, proceed inside, to the front door, then knock with a gloved hand.
She doesn’t answer.
I knock again.
She doesn’t open the door.
I g
rab the handle, twist, open the door, step inside, fretful. I smell something vile, like a dead rat, but much, much worse. I holler her name, hear nothing in return. I walk into the kitchen, don’t see her there, walk upstairs, see no trace of her anywhere, go back downstairs to the living room.
I don’t want to believe what I see. I close my eyes, open them, close, open, close, open, attempting to purge them from this image.
I don’t want to believe.
She can’t really be sprawled across that couch, empty whiskey bottles on the coffee table, a pile of paper on the floor beneath her dangling hand.
I don’t want to believe.
I inch toward her, the smell of death growing, and my eyes follow her dangling hand down to the mound of papers, my manuscript, The Forsaken World. I hover over her body, the stench overwhelming. I want to throw up. I look down at her ghost-white face, shocked, terrified.
I don’t want to believe.
I remove my gloves, toss them to the floor. I place my hand on her arm. Cold. She is so cold. I stare at her closed eyes, wishing they would open. I want them to open behind those glasses and I want her to wake with a start and smile and tell me she was just kidding. I want her to stand from the couch, sober, and glance down at my manuscript and tell me how good it is and how much she has enjoyed reading it and tell me it wasn’t the story that drove her to drink and pass out. I want her to apologize for the foul smell of her body and to explain the odor—she ran out of soap or her shower doesn’t work.
I lift her dangling hand and place it palm down on her stomach. I kneel before the couch. Her eyes don’t open. She doesn’t wake or smile or tell me she was just kidding. She doesn’t look upon The Forsaken World and tell me how good it is and tell me that it didn’t drive her to drink. She doesn’t apologize for her odor.
I don’t want to believe.
I remove her glasses, set them on the coffee table, battling the urge to puke. I lean over her body, my face an inch from hers. I examine her face, the eyes that won’t open. No matter how much I want them to, they won’t open. I pull my face away. I pray, tell God to open those eyes, to bring a smile to her face, to stand her from the couch, because she can’t be dead. I tell him that she was so close to recovery, that this isn’t fair, that AA was supposed to help her get away from alcohol. I stand, can’t look at her anymore, look at the photographs above the couch and cry.
I ask God for his hands.
She fell.
Where were your hands?
She fell.
Why didn’t you catch her?
She’s dead.
Tears run like a river down my face.
She’s dead. Meranda Erickson is dead.
Meranda is dead.
Where were your hands?
I step back from the couch, and walk out of the living room, bawling. I need to inform the police of her death. They need to know Meranda Erickson, one of the most talented writers of all time, is dead. I come to her phone, spot the answering machine blinking. I remember my messages. I was angry at her for not picking up. How could I be angry at her? She was dead. I was leaving frustrated messages to a dead person. I shake my head, tears dripping to the floor. I push the machine’s play button, expecting to hear my messages. Instead, I hear an angry message from The Nasty Widowed One, and I know it’s him because he’s telling her that he’s not going to leave her alone, that her scare tactics—telling him to stop calling or she’ll call the police—won’t work. He laughs at her, calls her a foolish old drunk. He pauses. Suddenly, I hear a break in the message, then Meranda’s voice. She says, “I told you to stop calling. Please, I can’t take this. You’re making me want to drink. I can’t drink. You know I can’t. You know what it does to me,” and the message comes to an end.
Another message plays. The machine’s voice says that the message was left a day after the previous rant. It’s The Nasty Widowed One again and he tells her to pick up, just pick up this time, because he wants to talk, then he’ll leave her alone, he promises. I don’t hear a break in the message. Meranda doesn’t answer. I wonder if she was dead during this message.
My messages play. I can’t stop crying. What if she was alive—drunk, but alive during these messages? I could’ve saved her. Why did I have to move so far away? I could’ve been here, talked some sense into her, taken those bottles and dumped them down the drain. I could’ve saved her.
The messages end. I reach for the phone, go to dial 9-1-1, but stop. I don’t want to call them yet because I know that when they come they’ll take her away and I’ll never see her again and she’ll be thrown into a box and lowered into a hole in the ground and she’ll disappear forever and I can’t have that.
* * *
Mourning.
I’m so tired of mourning.
I go to work and I mourn Meranda and I mourn Arthur. I have tears in my eyes often, but no one at work says anything because no one there looks into my eyes and no one there would care even if they did look into my eyes. Each morning, I consider calling in sick, but I know that I can’t because I need the money. I would rather stay in bed than go to work. I want to slip into a coma and sleep everything away.
I spend a lot of time with Leigh hugging and holding and talking about Meranda. I cry and smile, and Leigh listens and smiles sometimes and cries sometimes, too. She doesn’t know what to say to stop my pain, but I tell her that her presence is all I need from her, that I don’t need her to lie to me like Pinocchio and tell me that everything is going to be okay.
I come across obituaries and articles about Meranda Erickson’s tragic demise on the Internet, in newspapers, magazines. I flip through TV channels and watch frowning reporters talk about her death and all of her literary accomplishments throughout the decades. I hate all of this coverage. I feel like they’re exploiting her. When she was alive, they didn’t care that she was alive, and now that she’s dead, people are coming out of the woodwork sad and puffy-eyed and I think it’s sick, so unbelievably sick.
We go to Meranda’s funeral. From what I’ve heard, she didn’t have a will so her estate was escheated to the State of New Hampshire, which means they own the rights to everything of hers now—including her funeral. Hundreds of people attend. People I’ve never seen before, people who weren’t her friends — all wearing winter apparel. Everyone sulks, pretending to care. I want to throw my hands toward the sky and scream, “You idiots didn’t know her. She wouldn’t want you here. Walk away. You’re not welcome here!” Instead, I stand quietly in the rear of the crowd while a famous preacher gives the eulogy.
Leigh wraps an arm around my waist.
I mourn.
She holds tighter.
I look to the casket suspended over a cavity in the soil (the only nearby area without snow, it seems), and I mourn my deceased grandmother. Why couldn’t she have heard me when I told her that she was worth more than the self-destruction she poured upon herself? She deserved good things, deserved success. Why couldn’t she see that?
I mourn.
I didn’t kill her, I work to convince myself. The Nasty Widowed One drove her to drink. He drove her to lift those bottles to her lips and drink and drink and drink until she died. He did this to her and I hate him. He did this to her.
My legs are shaking. I tried so hard. I tried to save her. I did what I knew how. Where are your hands, God?
Where are your hands?
I feel like I’m going to fall.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
I receive my latest rejection two weeks later. It’s the same old: Dear James, You suck at writing. Sincerely, Critic who didn’t actually read your manuscript.
I’m tired of living in pain. I deserve better. Brad keeps at me virtually everywhere I go. He tells me often that I don’t deserve better, that I will always be rejected.
Work is totally monotonous. I hurt all over. My arms hurt from vacuuming and mopping and sweeping and lifting boxes and shoveling snow away from the doorway of my apartment. My feet hurt because I’
m on them constantly and my worn-out sneakers offer zero support. My teeth hurt because they’re decaying despite my efforts to keep them clean. My eyes hurt because of constant crying. I want it to end. Brad reminds me that it will never end, that James Frost lives in pain, loves pain, and is pain.
I go to church with Leigh, tortured by God’s absence. I’ve been waiting so long for his hands. He won’t reveal them to me. It’s like he’s stubbornly holding back. The pastor speaks of faith. He says that when we have doubts about our life that we are in fact doubting God and his power. He says that we should cast our worries upon the Lord. I feel like all I’ve been doing is casting them upon him and he just keeps throwing them back.
At the apartment, I read my Bible, reluctant, feeling betrayed by God, demanding that he show me the way, show me how I can move past the pain. Tears fall on the pages. I’m desperate for God’s help. I need him. I can’t work through the pain without him. I come to the part in the Bible where Jesus speaks of loving your enemies. I stop on the page, crying, and think: That’s the ultimate in forgiveness, isn’t it?
Brad’s face swims into view, and I hear him say, Forget forgiveness as he did after punching Chris (the persecuted Christian from high school) in the hallway, years ago. I wipe the tears away with my sleeve, look down at the pages, and it dawns on me: Brad is my enemy, always has been my enemy, and I’ve hated him with all of my heart and I’ve wanted him to suffer and to disappear. And the more I hate Brad, the stronger he gets, the harder he pushes with his hateful words. Brad adds so much pain to my life, so much nearly unbearable pain, and I’ve been feeding him with what he knows best and what he thrives on: hatred.
I stare at the page. Everything becomes unambiguous. Love your enemies. I close the Bible, stand from the bed, shut my eyes. I see Brad standing before me—spiky hair, angry eyes, fashionable clothing.