The Alcoholic's Daughter

by David Sherman

  Less savoury memory: They take a ride to Lafontaine Park and bike along the paths, stop and watch some hardball. She didn’t want to go out but comes along, trying to be a dutiful partner. She’s trying. It’s rare to see hardball played anymore and they sit, holding their bikes behind the backstop and watch. Annie is wearing her “I don’t want to be here” face, an expression resembling someone who needs a washroom. She asks a question or two. She’s surprised at how quickly the ball comes in. But her face is telling him this is not a magic moment. A summer night in the park is not doing it. “I guess you want to go home.”

  “I got a lot of work to do tomorrow,” she says. They jump on the bikes and pedal home express. It was their last summer evening outing that didn’t involve buying tickets to sit in the dark someplace.

  Why do we love who we love and at what cost? According to Eric Fromm’s Art of Loving, Evan had achieved his market value in the marketplace of romantic love. It the end it did the opposite. The demands of the relationship, the feeling he was wearing a ball and chain, devalued him. In the marketplace of romance Annie was the shiniest car on the used car lot but when you take it to be examined you find out the engine and transmission are shot. You buy it anyway ‘cause you like the way it looks or maybe the way it drives and you figure you’ll invest a few thousand and it’ll be great. But different things keep breaking and there’s no end to the bills. And you balk at selling the thing ‘cause you’ve invested so much. Then one day, when you’re once again bouncing to the garage with the tow-truck operator, you take a deep breath and say: “Gotta sell this sucker, it’s going to bankrupt me.”

  The romantic ideal perpetrated by our popular culture is a sham. For the most part, we jostle and spar, we cut and disappoint, we bleed and regret. And learn to live with it.

  He had been spending evenings out with other women. It was mostly celibate, so far, but shopping for a new life had begun before the old life had been buried. So in the silence of the hotel room, warmed by scotch and water, he couldn’t see why he had stayed so long, endured so much.

  If he could overcome his fear of loneliness he did have a shot at a better life with someone who actually wanted to live, who liked life. Even living alone, the way he did in the mountains, would be easier on the soul and the blood pressure. But again, as he did with Danny, he would have to wait to sell the house to move on. Of course, selling the house was for Annie a calamitous event that could be measured on the Richter scale. He could see it coming but could do nothing to stop it. Her madness had already left the station and the train was heading right at him.

  In the end, after the court appearances and the legal bills he’s still paying and the profound sense of loss and the pain that still grips at his gut, the occasional dry heaves, the bitterness, the anger that still snaps at him, sometimes stabbing him, and the therapy and the hangovers, he knew it was his fault. He knew Annie was not well, but he chose to stay. He chose to hitch his wagon to hers and ignore the glass highway they were going to be travelling. He was blinded by need. And, of course, she loved him or so she said and he needed to be loved. Didn’t everyone? he rationalized.

  He was not quite sure what she wanted to turn him into, maybe a celebrity, a Francophone, a guy with money to soothe her frenetic fear of not having enough, but he tried to change her, too.

  He thought he could make her into his definition of sane. Maybe there were 300 guys before him but none of them stayed. He tried to be the exception. He thought he alone saw the intrinsic good in her.

  At a party a guy came up to him and said: “Annie’s great. You’re a lucky man.”

  “You have no idea,” Evan said.

  Annie was entitled to her compulsions, anger, control, abuse. She had the right to be as crazy as she wanted. He didn’t have to take it, though. But he did and gave her grief for it, too. He could have left, saved them both a lot of insanity. She had her disorders. He had his delusions. And maybe it was no one’s fault. Maybe they were both living the scripts implanted in their genes.

  The love was gone but the pain remained. His friends said: “You’re better off, everything’s going to be great, you’ll see.”

  But clichés, true or not, were of little solace. The one you had turned to when you needed consolation or advice or an ear was no longer part of the equation. As he wrote in his song The Light in Your Eyes:

  The one you need

  becomes the one you despise.

  His friends love bombed him and put up with more of his babbling than he had any right to expect. They had their own lives and fears and heartaches to nurse so how much can you ask for or how much should you need? Besides, they really thought he was better off and he was sure he was going to be. But how long would it take and how much time did he have left?

  He worried about Fritz. The big cat stared at him wondering when this was all going to change, wondering how he got here. Not unlike himself. He wasn’t getting his walks, they were three floors up. Fritz’s litter needed constant maintenance and Evan had little patience for the smell and the mess. “Doesn’t he understand I’m working full time to keep myself together? Doesn’t he understand I’m self absorbed and selfish? That his sitting on my lap is not soothing, I’m all consumed?”

  But Fritz was stuck with him. There are no more after dinner walks. He’s unsure of the neighbourhood. He could no longer lie on his lap and stare at the fire or spread his girth across the two of them as they watched a film on TV. He couldn’t lie on the floor keeping an eye on each of them as she bustled in the kitchen scrubbing and polishing while he picked at the guitar. He worried for Fritz even as his patience ebbed, his psyche in self-defence mode.

  They had been paid by cheque for the grant for the Spain book and Evan went through who had to be paid. They were up in the country, the little mansion that Annie found dark and too far, unless she was showing it off to her friends who oohed and aahed as Annie beamed. He made out cheques and handed her the envelope with the cheques to deposit back in town, including the grant cheque to cover them all and the cheques that had to go to the people that had worked with them. Then they had a good time, a walk, reading, a hot tub, a little sex — a nice, romantic weekend and then he took her to the bus Sunday ‘cause she needed to be back in town so she could run Monday morning. And get back to her computer. They were healing. He went back to the retreat happy. Life was good, they were working, they were loving. And being apart worked. This was the way it was supposed to be. He spent the night playing his guitar and singing, working on a new song, disturbing no one but the squirrels and raccoons. He didn’t mind being alone.

  “Maybe she’s best in small doses,” he said to the empty room. Life was indeed getting better. Until they spoke the next day.

  They chatted and then he asked about the cheques. Yes, she had paid the suppliers.

  “I couldn’t get our expense cheque deposited,” she said. “I couldn’t figure out which damn account it was and then I couldn’t remember which card was which or even the pin number. Pain in the ass.” The bank in its wisdom had saddled them with a half dozen bank cards and codes and it was tough keeping track.

  “I’ll look after it when I get back to town,” he said. “What about the grant cheque, to cover all the other cheques?”

  “I don’t have it,” she said. “You do.”

  “No, I gave it to you with all the others, remember?”

  “I don’t have that cheque, you have it! I don’t have it!”

  “It was with the other cheques,” he said. He could feel his BPMs starting to climb.

  “Why do I have to go to the bank? You’re supposed to go to the bank, that’s your job!” She had accelerated faster than a Tesla into full fury mode. He took a breath.

  “Don’t take the bait,” he told himself. “Annie, why are you doing this? We had a nice weekend. You have the cheque with all the other cheques.”

  “It’s not my job to go to the bank. I don’t have time to go to the bank. Why can’t you do it? It�
�s your job!” The anger in her voice was familiar and escalating. “I’m too busy.”

  “Annie, why are screwing up the weekend?” he said. “We had a nice time, why are you doing this?”

  “I have too much work to do, you’re supposed to go to the bank, that’s your job, I don’t have time to go to the bank! You’re up in the country having a grand old time playing and who knows what and I’m stuck with everything.”

  “You go by the bank everyday. I’m in the country. And I’m working. It takes five minutes to deposit the damn cheque in the machine!”

  The tirade continued, a familiar take with a familiar theme. It was his fault. Then he lost it.

  “Who are you to decide what my job is? What gives you the right to tell me what my job is? One day you tell me it’s my job to make photocopies, another it’s my job to call the courier. Who the hell are you to decide what I’m supposed to do? You are not my boss.” He realized, guess what, he wasn’t healed. She had just torn the band-aid off the healing wound.

  She ranted for awhile and then stopped dead.

  “I have the cheque. I forgot,” she said. “I panicked. I’m sorry.”

  He was livid. They hung up and she sent another note of apology the next day, claiming again panic, forgetting about the cheque made her think she was losing her mind. Losing her mind was right up there with her fear of colon cancer which made her chase colonoscopies for a couple of years, getting appointments and then cancelling them and chasing them again.

  How much of the house did he own? On paper, half. “Congratulations,” she said, as they stood on the street, fresh from the notary. “You own half my house.” That was six years before and he was ambivalent. It didn’t matter to him. They were forever, right, so what difference did it make? They were going to die in each other’s arms.

  Selling him half the house turned out to be like the marriage proposal. Her fears kicked in and soon the transaction was like a bone in her throat. They had to get a new agreement, she insisted. She couldn’t live with him legally owning half the house. It was perfectly acceptable for him to invest in the house and pay the mortgage, but not to own part of the property and one day might want his money out. This was the new and final obsession.

  “You need to do that, you go ahead,” he said. “I’m not going to make your obsession my obsession. You get an agreement you’re happy with and I’ll show it to my lawyer and, if it’s okay with him, it’ll be fine with me.”

  “I wish we never renegotiated the mortgage,” she’d say over and over.

  “We’re paying a fraction of what we were paying before,” he said. The payments had gone from $1600 a month to $900 and he was paying it all. He was also paying for the car. She was paying the same bills she had always paid.

  “Annie when I met you you were paying a ridiculous interest rate and the house was costing you close to $3,000 a month for everything,” he said, still not able to grasp the fact that logic didn’t work. “Now the mortgage is $900 a month so you’re paying less than half of what you were paying before, plus you got my car thrown in.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she raved. “We never should’ve done it. I can’t live with you owning part of my house.”

  He didn’t mind living alone. He had gotten used to it during his escapes to the country. There was peace here. There was freedom. His blood pressure was dropping. He wondered if he missed her. Sometimes he dreamt of her. In one she was on the ground and he picked her up and kissed her tenderly and she wept and put her arms around his neck. He woke up, heart pounding, and headed straight for the whiskey bottle.

  But what was he missing? Who she was or who he had hoped she could become? Or the person she was on occasion? When the fears, the compulsions, the obsessions, the control, the hysteria were locked away.

  The clock was ticking, the storm clouds were gathering. The therapist’s diagnosis had said a few months and then she’d lose it again if she didn’t get help. Midnight was coming.

  She found an accountant that told him that his portion of the house would not include the monthly mortgage payments he had made for the last 10 years. Evan was, she said, simply paying rent to Annie. He looked at Annie. “You believe this?” Annie nodded.

  “I’m paying rent into a mortgage account that has my name on it, that’s what you think?” Evan said, wondering if he had just entered the Twilight Zone. “I pay the mortgage for 10 years but have no equity on the house, a house that has appreciated about 10 to 15 per cent every year? What planet are you on?”

  They walked out of the accountant’s office, Annie already angry. He was not behaving. When he could, he called his lawyer, told him the offer. The lawyer laughed.

  “That’s ridiculous,” he said.

  They had already begun looking for a new house but Annie was preparing to go to war over the old one.

  “My lawyer says your accountant is nuts,” he told her, which drove up Annie’s aggro level. They were now at Devcon 4, full crisis mode. She was giving off sparks. He took it in stride for a couple of weeks but slowly the last of the air was fizzled out of the balloon. Evan was exhausted. They were in Quebec City visiting friends for Christmas. He loved the old city, the Chateau Frontenac, the walls, the cannons aimed at the St. Lawrence.

  They were walking down the rue Saint Jean, which had been his favourite place when he was in his 20s, the old town, before the white painters and sandblasters and pretty brickers had turned it into a tourist attraction; workshops turned to t-shirt and crap stores to vacuum the pockets of American tourists. They weren’t holding hands. They hadn’t spoken except for the most rudimentary necessities and to be civil in front of their friends. Evan wasn’t even sure why they were walking together. He wanted to be up in the country. But the owner was using the place and getting it ready to sell. He was losing his retreat.

  “When we get back we have to settle the house,” she said, her lips pinched. She was looking older. Where were the flashing smile, the bright eyes, the dimples? All he saw was tightness and lines and strain. He surprised himself. He was perfectly calm.

  “I’m not doing this anymore,” he said. “We’ll sell the house and I’ll get my own place. Maybe we’ll see each other, maybe not. I’ve had it.”

  They drove back to Montreal in silence and as always, when Annie was angry, she looked old and tense and stricken. And then she went to war. He was no longer under her control, he needed to be punished.

  “We need to talk about this,” he’d say each day. In return he received a vitriolic variation of “I hate you, I can’t stand you, get away from me. You’re despicable.” This was an encore of her behaviour in Spain. Except Evan was no longer outraged.

  “I’m sorry,” Franklin said. “It’s going to be better, man, you have no choice. You want to stay with me?”

  “No,” Evan said. “I leave the house who knows what I’ll find when I come back. She could even change the locks. Maybe she’s doing it now.”

  They had crossed paths on Parc, Evan heading into the Y, Franklin pedalling through the icy wind tunnels to get to his morning coffee and muffin.

  “I expected it, least I would’ve if I had thought I was going to leave her,” Evan said. “My mind decided for me, I didn’t even have to think about it. In a week or two or three, she’ll finish having a bird and get a grip.”

  Evan got home and she was heading upstairs with a coffee in her hand.

  “Annie we have to talk about this,” he said.

  She turned to him.

  “There is no way I’m talking to you,” she said. Her look was venomous yet he felt nothing. “I want you out of my house.”

  He touched her shoulder, trying to calm her.

  “You have to calm down.”

  “Get away from me, I’m calling 911!” She dropped the coffee cup and it shattered at her feet but she walked through the shards and grabbed the phone on the end table. She started punching the dial pad. He grabbed the phone and threw it across the room.

  �
��What is wrong with you?” he said, knowing full well she was in panic mode. No logic could intrude. He was the enemy.

  “I want you out of my house.” He sighed and walked up to the spare room, locked himself in. Each night, he returned to the cheap hotel room and his bottle of scotch and brooded and drank and watched TV and tried to sleep. One night he made a pit stop at the cocaine store. Anything to turn the mind off.

  She would come to her senses eventually. He just had to ride out the storm and he would get enough money and his furniture and get his own place.

  It had been four days. She had been walking from room to room whispering on the telephone. He sat in front of her desk and said: “Can’t we have a civil conversation about this?”

  “You’re despicable, I hate you. I want you out! You make me sick. This is my house and I want you out. You disgust me.”

  Four days of hard core abuse; two weeks of just run-ofthe mill hostility and anger and 10 years of well, hell. He had a vision of her in Spain. She had taken a full glass of red wine and tossed it in his face. There was a small bottle of Perrier on her desk. He was sick of her. He picked it up the and splashed some in her face.

  She picked up the phone and dialled 9-1-1 and started screaming. “Help, Help! He’s threatening me! He’s hurting me! Help! Help! Please help, help! He’s going to kill me!” She was screaming and crying and trembling.

  Evan watched fascinated, enthralled. This woman that had punched and kicked him numerous times, pushed him over a piece of furniture, was now begging for help because he had wet her face. Her mind had checked out. It was time to get the hell out.

  He got to the car but the police were there and in a minute he was handcuffed and they began digging through his pockets for drugs and weapons. She had told the 9-1-1 operator he was a coke fiend. Within a half hour he was in a cell.