Close Match

by Jerald, Tracey

  Instantly, I become incensed. “Why Off Broadway? Is it because of the time she took off? Are people so heartless up there they don’t realize she saved your damn life? Is it because of her injuries? What the hell is wrong with them? She’s Evangeline Brogan!” I’m shouting so loudly at the end, I don’t realize my father is laughing. Hard.

  “Calm down, Monty. Her agent had plenty of roles for her to choose from. This was something that intrigued her. I have a side bet with her that it lasts a month before it ends up on the big stage.”

  “Oh.” Feeling a bit foolish, I reach for my Shirley Temple with mint, something I began drinking because it made me feel closer to Linnie. “Is it going well?”

  “She says it is. They’re still practicing for opening night. It was written by a student from NYU’s theater department,” he says thoughtfully. “It’s about the battle between Heracles and Hera.”

  My eyes pop out a bit at that. “It’s not a musical?”

  He shakes his head. “No, though she said she could practically hear music in her head. When Linnie called the other night, she said she’s going to try to get the writer together with a composer she knows. She thinks they could be the next generation of Rodgers and Hammerstein.”

  “If anyone would know, she would,” I murmur. A silence descends around the small card table that was brought in with our meal.

  “And lastly, no.”

  I tip my head at him in confusion.

  “Care to elaborate, old man? Or are you just telling me no to dessert? It’s not half-bad around this place,” I tell him, but my heart is thumping out of my chest. I think I know what he’s saying, but I’m afraid to have him say it.

  “Do you think if she hated you she’d be asking me every time we talk if I’ve heard any updates on your progress? She doesn’t hate you, Monty.”

  Sitting back in my chair, I give him my truth.

  “I appreciate knowing, but it doesn’t change anything because I hate myself enough for both of us.”

  Sixty-Eight

  Evangeline

  It’s raining out. Even in the warmth of my home, chills race up and down my spine. My fingers trace the woven leather cover of the journal I just finished. And suddenly I hurl it across the room, taking out a vase of flowers left from the opening night of Queen of the Stars.

  My mother’s words are seared on my brain.

  I’m married to a man I don’t love with a daughter who will amount to nothing. And, God help me, to forget, I’m forced to repeat the same mistake over and over that caused her to be that way. The bottle is the only way I can endure this life.

  I’m shaking so hard, my teeth are practically rattling.

  “Blame your husband, blame me, for your fucking addiction? How dare you, you bitch?” I scream.

  “Um, I take it this isn’t practicing for the show?” I whirl around, and Bristol’s holding Alex in her arms. He’s fretting due to my outburst. My chest heaves as she makes her way closer. “Why don’t you hold your nephew while I clean this mess up?”

  “I’ll do it,” I bite off, starting to move past her toward my kitchen when she stops me.

  “How about I rephrase that. Sit your ass down, hold your nephew, and I’ll clean up.” Shoving Alex into my arms, she turns me around and points me in the direction of my sectional.

  Alex’s blue eyes look up at me trustingly. I dip my face super close so he can get used to my features as I coo, “It’s all right, sweetheart. Aunt Linnie is just having a little tantrum like you do when you’re wet or hungry.”

  I get a gurgle in response that helps heal the fresh tear in my heart. Hearing the sound of the dustpan from across the room, I call out, “Do you think he’s going to keep his blue eyes?”

  “I don’t know. I could get a kit, and we could just let him drool into it to find out?” Bristol teases me.

  I burst into tears.

  “Hey! What’s wrong?” She drops the pan, and I hear the glass go flying again. “Linnie, talk to me.” She starts to move toward us, but I shake my head.

  Rubbing my tears against my shoulder while I still hold my nephew, I whisper, “Find the journal.”

  Turning left and right, she spots it. Snatching it up, she demands, “What am I looking for?”

  “Last page.” I wait for her response. When she comes over and wraps her arms around both of us, I let out a huge sigh. “I’ve been working off this premise he wants to get well, that it was all a mistake. What if…” I cry harder.

  “Then as awful as it seems right now, you move on. You take the good you found—Everett and Char—and you move on.”

  “That seems impossible,” I tell her honestly.

  “Right now, I’m sure it does.” She kisses my head and then her son’s. “Now, let me get this cleaned up. How about coming to our place for dinner? Marco’s taking a night off of work to spend time with this little guy. We’re going to order in some Chinese.”

  Since I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts, I agree. Soon enough, we’re out the door and headed toward her building. But I’d be lying if I didn’t wonder, as I rocked my nephew to sleep later, if Monty had the same attitude as my mother.

  If the words that escaped his mouth that I thought was part of a drunken rampage were indeed in vino veritas—his genuine opinion of me.

  Sixty-Nine

  Montague

  I used to think that the world was made up of rules and order. It was simple; if you followed the rules, you’d have order.

  Since I came to the rehab facility, I realize there are strict rules for a reason. They’re not just for the protection and well-being of the patients, but for the staff who are trying to heal us. But it’s so different than real life where, despite what people think, there are no rules, and there truly is no order. I understand now what I didn’t before. Life is a nothing but series of chaotic patterns that causes a person to do something completely insane.

  I can’t help but think back to the conversation Linnie and I had when we left the Holocaust Museum. My answer was so resolute, almost without compassion. Even though I don’t technically have a record, I’m one of the criminals now. I’m one of the statistics. And now? I’d have a different answer to give her.

  Grief.

  I can’t say I don’t crave the comfort the bottle offers me when my nightmares wake me up at night. The journal Victor gave me to write in is often a poor substitute for the oblivion I used to find at the bottom of a glass of Maker’s Mark.

  But it’s an even more inferior substitute for the warmth of Linnie’s body curled next to mine.

  I would keep the shakes, the night terrors, and all my fear if I could somehow keep her, but I doubt that’s an option. As I heal with one hand, I’m losing with the other.

  Some of the other patients here believe there’s a higher power guiding them through this healing process. That’s for each person to decide. Once I would have believed in a miracle, but I wasted mine at the bottom of a bottle.

  That’s the grip I have on my sanity.

  Closing the journal, I glance at the clock. 3:48 a.m. Why do the most uninhibited thoughts come out at the hours when I’m supposed to be sleeping, I think wearily. I have only a few hours to head back into bed to rest though it’s doubtful I’ll sleep. Dropping the notebook and pen on the chair I just evacuated, I make my way back over to the narrow bed and crawl in between the sheets Mom sent down after her and Dad’s visit. They were—of course—thoroughly checked out for contraband before the gift was passed along. I let out a long sigh while my fingers pick at a loose stitch.

  If I could give up sanity to bring Linnie peace, I would.

  Closing my eyes, I think about her long dark hair as it would cascade on my chest. Turning a pillow sideways, I clutch it a little tighter. “I’m so sorry, my love,” I whisper into the darkness.

  My arms contract on the pillow one last time before I’m pulled back into sleep.

  Seventy

  Montague

  “
I’m glad you think you understand why I made the decisions I did, Victor,” I lash out. “Because I sure as fuck don’t. I ruined my entire fucking life because I lost the ability to carry the burden I needed to.”

  “Is that what you think, Monty?” my therapist asks me.

  “Damn straight.”

  “What do you think was the most important decision you made in your relationship with Evangeline?” God, just hearing her name sends a shaft of searing pain through my chest.

  “Driving home to the house, blaming her for things beyond her control, and demanding she get into a car with me,” I say firmly.

  Victor’s shaking her head. “The most important decision you made was to become involved with her,” he says, shocking me. “What happens after—everything that happens after—is life. A lot of it is perfect, but more often than not, it’s either mediocre or downright crap. Finding your partner is finding the person who’s willing to stick through those times with you.”

  “I don’t remember anything,” I admit quietly.

  “That’s not a surprise.” I blink at him. “You had what’s called an en bloc episode, Monty.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “It’s a fragmented alcohol-induced memory loss. Some episodes of significant drinking come back to you, that’s called alcohol-induced amnesia. But with the amount you admitted to me you likely consumed, I’m not surprised you don’t remember. Frankly, I’m surprised you managed to remain standing. I suspect your rage had something to do with that, and once it was expended, you went into a catatonic state.”

  “I hurt her.” A lone tear trickles down my face and into the scruff of my beard. I reach up to scratch it away.

  He nods. “There’s no denying that. But I suspect, the physical pain from the accident was much less painful than your words.”

  “I want…” I take a deep breath. It’s not about what I want. Not anymore. “How can I help?”

  “For loved ones of alcoholics, if they’ve sustained physical injuries, those will heal well before any mental anguish.” He hesitates before adding, “Our job is to get you to understand you need to walk that same path. For you, Monty. Otherwise, this will fail.”

  Thoughts of making love with Linnie the night before Dad’s transplant in the oversized tub float in my mind. Then my mind flashes to being trapped in the rain on the GW Parkway after our visit to the NCIS building as she quietly told me taking on the pain about Tim McMann’s death wasn’t my fault. How her cheeks looked so rosy under the canopy of the oak tree the first time I kissed her. The way she talked about her mother being an alcoholic. She trusted me with her love, and all I did was add weight to her heart.

  “What do you want to know?” I say determinedly.

  “Let’s start with this. Do you remember the first time you picked up a drink not because it was a social setting?”

  And slowly, we begin talking.

  It’s a beginning. A different one than the way our other sessions have gone, but one I have to take if I want to get where I want to be.

  Back to me. For me.

  So maybe I can find my way back to her. If that’s what she sees in the stars for us.

  Seventy-One

  Evangeline

  One of the benefits of being in the cast of Queen of the Stars should be the schedule. I demanded—and received—a full three days off each week to relax. Since I just finished two shows to wind up my week, I’m anticipating the downtime. The cup of coffee I lift to my lips offers me much-needed caffeine since I haven’t slept well recently, not since the night I finished reading that journal of Mom’s a few weeks ago.

  I’m afraid to start the next one.

  Even the distraction of acting hasn’t helped. The punishing dance classes I’ve returned to at the Broadway Dance Center have only brought me back to a perfect physical shape, not mental. My runs leave me with too much time to think. I’ve taken for granted my peace of mind. Funny, it wasn’t Monty who broke it, but my mother.

  And I’m afraid I’ll never get it back.

  My cell pings with a text. Reaching for it, I see it’s Simon. Coming up. You dressed?

  Assuming he’s going to try to convince me to go to the park with Alex and him while Bristol is working, I type back, In loungewear. Need me to get ready?

  There’s no reply which tells me he’s already in the elevator. Shrugging, I tell myself Simon can wait the mere minutes it will take me to put on something other than the yoga pants and droopy top I have on. Topping off my mug, I automatically reach for another one, calling out, “If you want me to go out, you’re going to have to wait for me to change.”

  I hear a beloved voice behind me say, “Actually, we thought we could hang out here all day. Ev’s been wearing that stupid mask for too long. He’s trying to scrub the impressions of it off his face before you turn around.”

  My body starts to tremble. Placing the cup I’d just retrieved down on the counter before I drop it, I whirl around to find Char standing there. Her eyes—so like Monty’s—are filled with tears. “I hope this is a happy surprise, sweetheart.”

  I run into her arms. Her eyes look tired but peaceful, something that was missing when I left eight weeks ago. “What are you doing here?” I bury my head into her shoulder.

  “Stop hogging my girl, Char.” His voice is rough behind us. We pull apart, and suddenly I’m swept into his arms.

  “Dad. How? Why? Should you be here?”

  “I should be anywhere my daughter is hurting.” Pulling back slightly, I see the truth in his eyes, but I won’t risk his health, not even for my happiness.

  “But did the doctor’s say it’s okay? I mean…”

  A stern look comes down on his face. “If you think, Evangeline, that I’d risk the gift you gave me by messing it up, we still have a great deal to learn about each other despite all our time together.”

  It’s impressive that even at thirty-three, I feel scolded. “Yes, Dad.”

  “But to reassure you, money may not be able to buy health or peace of mind, but it can help when one needs a private jet and a private car. And that limits my exposure.”

  “Also, Bristol and Simon are having food brought in for us,” Char adds. “We’re not going anywhere for the next two days.”

  Happiness floods through my system. “You all did this for me?”

  My father slips an arm around my shoulder. “Bristol called and told us you needed us. So, here we are.”

  Leaning into him, I lay my head on his chest. “I’m don’t know what to say.”

  “I wish I could see them this visit,” my father says with regret. I immediately understand. With his immune system so delicate, he can’t be around Alex. “But next time, I should be in the clear.”

  I squeeze him hard. “That’s good. Hey, if you didn’t see them, how did you get in?”

  Char laughs. “They made arrangements with your doorman.”

  I shake my head. Of course they did. “I’m such an idiot. Why are we just standing around? Do you guys want some coffee? Let me show you around.”

  “Sweetheart, you know we’ll never turn down coffee,” Char declares. I smile at my stepmother before I move out of my father’s arms and quickly pour them each a mug.

  “Follow me,” I say eagerly, excited about something for the first time in weeks.

  * * *

  “For being relatively small, those statues are damn impressive,” my father remarks about my Tony awards. “They’re heavy though.” He throws me a smile. We’re in my home office, the last place on the tour. Here’s where I have all of my theater memorabilia up on the walls and spread across the shelves. I listen to all of my scripts in here to prepare for a performance. This room, more than any other, is the essence of the life I led before I met him.

  If only Monty were here to see it with them. Shoving those thoughts aside, I reach for the statue he’s holding and turn it over. On the back, it has my name, Best Actress, The Dream Sequence, 2014.


  “When they call your name, it’s surreal,” I murmur. He passes the statue to Char before he takes my hand. She gasps. “And then you do that.” We all laugh. “All the long hours, all the hard work and sweat, and then you’re being honored the highest honor imaginable for a theater actor. It’s such a rush.”

  He tugs me over to the sofa that’s nestled under a pre-war window. “Then what happens?”

  “You’re caught up in a media frenzy that lasts for days, sometimes months, depending on the success of the show. And one day it ends. And you’re fighting for another role trying to do it all over again.”

  “Do you think maybe that’s what your mother was talking about?” Startled, I jump a bit. “Don’t be so surprised, Linnie. Bristol’s worried about you. She told Char about what your mother wrote and how you’re handling it.”

  “I think your mother was going through a dark time, sweetheart.” Char puts my Tony back on the shelf before coming to sit on the floor in front of me. “Add the alcohol to the mix…”

  “Yeah…” I blow out a gust of air. “I guess I should try to let go of these feelings?”

  “No, what we think is that you should be talking about them with your therapist,” Char says firmly. “You’re still going to see her, right?”

  I squirm a bit.

  “Damnit, Linnie,” he bites out. “I thought you were still going.”

  “I was doing so much better after everything that I bailed on the last few appointments,” I say weakly. “Besides, work started picking up. Anyway, this didn’t have anything to do with the accident.”

  “They’re all connected. If reading what Elle wrote set you back, what’s reading something from Monty going to do?”