Throwback

by Zeia Jameson

  “Of course,” is all she says.

  “I’ll get all of her stuff from the car and leave it in the foyer. It might be best if you two stay in here while I do that.”

  “Ok, hun. We’ll do that.”

  I head out to my car to get all of Amelia’s things. I leave everything in the foyer and when the final item is unpacked, I get into my car and sit. My hand refuses to put the key into the ignition.

  This is dumb, Livy. So dumb. Just stay. Go back in there and tell Rosalie never mind.

  I look up and see one of the curtains in the front window of the house flicker. Rosalie is watching me. Is she waiting for me to come back in? Is she wondering if I’m really going to go through with this? Does she think that I don’t have the balls to leave my child behind? Leave my husband? Or maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe she thinks I’m a chicken shit for leaving my family.

  My hand finally decides it’s time to go and shoves the key into the ignition and turns. My eyes are locked on the curtain in the window and before my brain registers what is going on, my hand has put the car into reverse and my foot is hitting the gas pedal. I’m doing it. I’m moving. I am backing away from the house. I am pulling out of the driveway, putting the car into drive and moving away from the house. Down the street. Farther and farther away. My plan has been literally set into motion and my heart wants me to stop and turn around. But the rest of my body keeps going forward. I come to a stop sign. I can turn around or keep going.

  Turn or go? Turn or go? At that moment, a car horn beeps at me from behind. I look in the rear view mirror and realize I’m holding up traffic. And when I look into the mirror, I see my reflection. I look at my worn face, dark circles, frown lines. Splotchy and unevenly colored from lack of care. And my hair. Jesus Christ, my hair. It’s a rat’s nest. I’ve worn it twirled up on top of my head almost every day since Amelia was born. Aside from the thorough washing I gave it a few days ago, I’ve not paid attention to the state of my hair. It’s gotten really long and I found that swooping it up into a bun is just easier when you have a demanding little person always in your presence.

  The realization that I look like absolute shit sits heavy with me. I was going to cook dinner for Jeremy tonight and I didn’t even put forth any effort to look presentable when he got home. What does that mean?

  Still looking in the mirror, my eyes shift to the empty spot in the back seat where Amelia’s car seat generally sits. And another realization hits me. I am alone. All by myself. I haven’t been all by myself in...well, I can’t even remember. I am all alone. Most people might consider that a desolate feeling but for me, for some reason, I’m not upset that I’m alone. I feel...free?

  The car behind me honks again. I’ve made up my mind. There will be no U-turns today. I hit the gas and accelerate forward. Alone.

  ~~~

  My first stop, without even thinking about where I would go, is the bookstore. I used to go to this bookstore at least once a week. Presently, I haven’t been to this bookstore in at least a year. I walk through the front door and the dusty air mixed with the smell of leather bounds and printed paper fill my lungs.

  Hello, old friend.

  I walk over to one of the shelves and run my fingers over the spines of the books that are lined up. The touch ignites something inside of me and I suddenly want to read every single book in this building. I inhale deep and close my eyes. The aroma again fills my lungs and I am high. So high. I look around. My eyes shift and dart from shelf to shelf. What am I in the mood for? Something classic? Shakespeare? Tolstoy? A Bronte sister perhaps? Something poetic? Frost? Keats? Something darker? Poe? How about some Hemingway or Vonnegut? Maybe some Kerouac? Seems appropriate.

  I continue to walk the isles and peruse. Stephen King, Dean Koontz. Michael Crichton. Grisham. Dan Brown. I turn the corner. Jane Austen, Harper Lee, Mary Shelley, Maya Angelou. The selections are endless. I’m alone with myself for the first time in months and I feel like the very first book I choose to read should be significant. As though I will look back at this moment and realize that it was a moment of transcendence.

  That the book I select will have changed me and turned the path of my life in a completely opposite and upward direction.

  I continue to stroll, touching nearly every single book that I pass. How am I supposed to decide this? What if I choose incorrectly? What if my brain tricks me into choosing something that I will regret and it will haunt me for the rest of my life?

  Chill the fuck out, Livy. It’s just a goddamn book.

  I take my time and I end up choosing three books: Flowers for Algernon, The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy Anthology and A Clockwork Orange. I have no reasoning behind any of them. They just stuck out at me. Perhaps it’s because I’m progressively blossoming out of my ignorance and need to take a journey of some sort to be rebellious and reckless?

  I’m stretching, I know.

  And I already have copies of all three. But sadly, they are wasting away in a storage unit, three blocks from my house. We packed them all up, along with my reading chair, in order to give Amelia a nursery.

  I purchase the books and leave the bookstore. But before I go to my car, I walk over to the bakery and I grab a few bagels and a bottle of water.

  I head to the park. It’s getting dark, but I know the perfect spot that is lit and if I sit positioned just right, no one will be able to see me. And I know Marcus won’t be there. He is in Chicago with my husband. I will be completely undisturbed.

  Alone.

  ***

  32

  Jeremy

  My wife left me.

  I got home on Wednesday afternoon but instead of heading straight to the house as I had originally planned, I headed to my mother’s house to pick up my daughter. My mother called me last night after Livy left Amelia there. I had just finished dinner, and after a long day of hurry up and wait to sign what seemed like thousands of documents for a contract on the downtown loft projects, I was exhausted.

  She just left. She didn’t tell me. She didn’t call me or text me. She didn’t even ask me if it was ok to just dump my daughter onto my mother and just vanish. I’m furious at her. I’m also devastated. And I’m worried about her. And sadly, I’m not entirely surprised by this. This seems exactly like something Livy would do. Just freak out and up and leave with no warning.

  Livy left and I have no idea when she is coming back.

  My mom assured me she’d be back.

  But when she comes back what are we going to do? Livy’s lost faith in me, and to be honest, after this stunt, I’ve kind of lost a little in her as well. One day she is sweet, tired, loving Livy, who I was certain was happy with holding down the fort until things eased up for me at work. The next day, she is saying all of these horrible things about being unhappy and stressed and neglected. Then, when I think things are settled and we were going to talk it out, she just leaves and now I have no idea why, or what she is upset about or if she even still wants to be married to me.

  I have so many questions that I want to ask her and it’s killing me that I can’t talk to her. My mom very sternly told me not to try to get in touch with Livy. “She’s needs space and time to think and process.”

  “Think and process what?”

  “I’m not sure, baby boy, but from my perspective, you guys are not communicating. She thinks one thing and you think another. And you need to talk to each other.”

  “That’s exactly what I wanted to do! I was going to come home and talk it out!” I’m so frustrated right now.

  “Jeremy, calm down. You were too late. From what I can tell, Livy has been unhappy for some time and she has done a stellar job with hiding it. I’m guessing she was trying to be strong and wait out the end of the project you were working on. And, maybe when you told her about Chicago, she broke a little. And then when you didn’t come home yesterday, because of work, that was it. She shattered.”

  I sit down on my mother’s sofa, trying to not be too loud in my franti
c state. Amelia is napping just one room over. I put my head in my hands. My heart hurts and my wife is gone. And I have no idea how to make anything right. I do the only thing my body will allow me to do at that moment. I cry. With my head in my hands, sitting on my mother’s sofa, I cry. “What am I supposed to do, Mom?”

  Mom comes to sit beside me, wraps one arm around me and pulls me into her. Her other hand is wrapped around the side of my face. “Oh, my baby boy. Shhhh. It’s going to be ok. It’s going to be ok.” Her voice is shaky. I can’t see her face because I’m looking down at the floor but I can tell she’s crying too. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen my mother cry. My heart is breaking and it’s breaking her heart too.

  We sit that way for awhile. From the outside, I imagine it’s a pretty pathetic site. A mother holding, rocking and consoling her grown, adult son. But in the moment, her comforting embrace is keeping me together. It’s probably the only thing that would keep me together in this situation. I worry that if her arms, which are so snugly wrapped around me, let go that I might literally fall apart right there on her sofa.

  Amelia starts to cry. My mother does release me and I manage to stay whole. I motion to get up and go get Amelia. My mother wipes her eyes and says, “Stay here. I’ll get her. Just sit here for a minute and relax.”

  She kisses me on my forehead and I exhale.

  Mom brings Amelia out and when Amelia sees me, she immediately reaches out in my direction. My heart swells with pride and love for this beautiful baby girl. The baby girl that looks like a mini-Livy, with the exception of her blue eyes. And my heart immediately breaks all over again.

  My wife is gone.

  Livy brought this precious baby into this world. Amelia is a gift like no other I have ever received. Every day she changes and grows and learns. Every day she gets more beautiful. Every day, she’s becoming more and more a replica of Livy.

  I want my family back.

  I bounce Amelia on my knee and cry again.

  ***

  33

  Livy

  I’ve been gone for four days.

  The first night, I sat in the park and read all three books. I rationed out my bagels and water so I wouldn’t have lack of sustenance as an excuse to leave my spot. I was there, alone and reading, for almost eight hours. It was well until the very early hours of the next morning before I stood up, legs and ass completely numb, and walked out of the park.

  I went to a hotel and checked in around 3am. For payment, I used a card that was attached to an account that had only my name on it so that Jeremy could not log in to a website and check the activity to find me. Not that I set the account up for that purpose. It was just an old account from when Joe gave me the money from selling the bar. I left a pretty good sum of it in that account after Jeremy and I got married.

  Just in case. In case my job at the shelter didn’t work out and I needed money—I wouldn’t have to be solely dependent on Jeremy. In case there was any reason whatsoever that I needed money that wasn’t comingled with Jeremy’s money, say like for a big surprise birthday gift for him.

  In case I wanted to leave my husband and not be found.

  Seriously, that particular thought had never crossed my mind. But the account has certainly come in handy for my current quandary.

  I decided to pay for two nights, for now. I didn’t know how long I would actually stay here, but I figured I’d give myself at least two days. Once checked in, I took a forty-five minute shower and then headed straight to bed.

  I kept waking up, thinking of Jeremy and Amelia. I would dream that something bad happened to one of them and I would shoot up out of bed. I was all alone with no responsibility and I couldn’t even sleep. It was 6am before I gave up trying. I put on some yoga pants and a hooded sweatshirt and headed out. There had to be a liquor store open somewhere around this stupid city. I knew there were a few twenty-four hour joints that catered to the late night partiers, shift workers and sadly, the homeless when they found a way to buy any.

  And apparently to the wives who leave their husbands and need a bottle of booze just before sunrise.

  I did manage to find one of those types of stores and bought a big bottle of Jim Beam. I returned back to the hotel, brown paper bag in tote. In my room, I opened the bottle, at 6:30 in the morning, and unwrapped one of the plastic cups beside the ice bucket that was positioned to the right of the television. I hadn’t drank since I found out I was pregnant with Amelia. I was terrified what rabbit hole it was going to take me down. But now, being all alone, I think it was time for me to find out.

  I hovered the full bottle, titled, over the empty plastic cup. Should I do this? Should I stop? Should I just lie back down and let all the nightmares keep me awake? Should I just go back home and give up?

  No.

  I poured the bourbon into the cup until it was almost full. I set the bottle down, picked up the cup and sat on the edge of the bed. I was going to take my chances. If this cup of brown liquor was going to be the end of me, I had to know. Because none of the other choices I could conjure were looking all too positive either. I lifted the cup to my mouth, tilted my head back and swallowed about half of the contents of the cup. It burned. I coughed and my eyes began to water. I set the rest of what was in the cup on the nightstand and grabbed the remote control to the TV. I hit power and began vacantly flipping through the channels, waiting on the liquor to settle into my stomach and move through my blood stream. Waiting for it to go to my head so I could relax.

  Relax.

  All I wanted to do was relax.

  I find ESPN and leave it. I remembered when I used to like this channel. When I used to watch it every day.

  That seemed like a lifetime ago.

  I finished the rest of my cup and poured another. And then another. And one more. I methodically drank while I watched the TV, not hearing one word that was being said. My mind got lost in thought but no thought in particular. I thought about Joe and Sara and the bar. I thought about how content I was back then. I thought about Jeremy uprooting my life and it sounding like a good idea at the time. It made me feel guilty and angry but I couldn’t really decipher why. And as I filled each cupful and emptied it down my throat, the guilt and anger subsided and all thoughts became a blur.

  And then, finally, I slept.

  ~~~

  I woke up around 4:30 in the afternoon. I sat up and clutched my head. Fuck! I was in agony. Every square centimeter of all parts of me from the neck up was pounding. My head, my eyes, hell even my teeth hurt. How is that even possible? My ears were ringing and any movement that wasn’t slow and calculated sent my equilibrium spinning out of control.

  I needed water and Ibuprophen and neither were anywhere in my vicinity. I had to navigate my way down to the hotel pantry and get what I required. That may have been an overpriced option, but there was no way I was stepping foot outside the hotel doors in this condition. I was really very worried that I might not even make it downstairs.

  I grabbed three bottles of water, some Ibuprophen, chips and some beef jerky. I slowly made my way back up to the room. I chugged one full bottle of water before I even considered popping the pills. Then I started on the second bottle of water and the beef jerky. After bottle number two and the bag of jerky was empty, I crawled back under the covers and closed my eyes. I was waiting on the pills to kick in.

  Then what?

  I didn’t know exactly. I didn’t have a plan. But my main priority at that particular moment was to get rid of the worst hangover I had ever had in my life.

  ~~~

  After the extremely vivid images of someone kidnapping Amelia and me screaming “NO!” over and over again played through my head, I shot straight up from the bed. The room was pitch-black except for the digital glow of the alarm clock to my left. It read 12:42. As in a.m.

  I reached over and flipped on the lamp. Then, I took a look at my phone. No one had tried to call.

  No one.

  But
why was I so surprised by that? Those were my instructions. And true to her word, Rosalie somehow managed to make sure those instructions were followed.

  Jeremy must be worried sick.

  And the guilt reappeared.

  But this is all his fault.

  And the anger reemerged.

  I looked over at the half drunk bottle of Beam. I considered finishing it off. But then I remembered how insanely awful I felt not just a few short hours before. I had made a full recovery even though at the time I had no idea how that would be possible.

  I didn’t drink the rest of the bottle. I could have but I didn’t. I knew the moment that bottle hit my lips the guilt and anger would flush away again. But I also knew that as soon the alcohol cleared my system, both would come right back.

  A vicious cycle.

  Just like Nancy.

  A chill ran up my spine and I shuddered.

  It was at that moment I realized something profound.

  I could be just like Nancy if I wanted to. If I were weaker. If I just wanted to be numb. If I didn’t care.

  But I do care and I don’t want to be numb. And I am stronger than her. Because in the moment that I am staring at that bottle and it’s calling my name, I say no. I want the guilt and the anger to go away but not with booze. I have to figure out a solution—a way that I can continue to live my life and be at peace and not have to medicate myself into a stupor with alcohol.

  I leaned back onto the headboard and crossed my arms over my chest. I smiled. I was pretty damn proud that I had come to that epiphany. I almost felt a little sanctimonious.

  I’ve come to a crossroads and I have chosen the right path. I’m not going to spend the rest of my days submerged in bourbon. I’m going to figure this out. I don’t know how but I’m going to do it. I’m going to fight and I’m not going to give up.