Echoes Between Us

by Katie McGarry

  “Oh, I heard Glory Gardner does those,” Sylvia says. “Aren’t you friends with her?”

  “Yes.” It’s unsettling how not one of them has ever mentioned Glory to me before, but it’s in this moment that her name is dropped. Even more upsetting? Is how the trees sway with her name, the gust of wind from the west that causes leaves to fall, twigs to snap and branches to bend. “But this is more serious than Glory’s cleansings. This cleansing will only work if everyone is on board and has an open mind.”

  “I’m in,” says Miguel.

  “Me, too,” chimes in Sylvia, leaving the three of us staring at the skeptic.

  Sawyer rolls his neck. “Fine. What’s the strange thing I have to do?”

  I waggle my eyebrows at him. “You have to buy us chocolate milkshakes.”

  SAWYER

  Tuesday September 3: Oh, Diary, I got my first real kiss tonight. Morris was over to say goodbye and he kissed me. O, but I’m going to miss him alright.

  Reading Evelyn’s first kiss brought me unexpected joy. Facing death, watching death, being right next to death—she lived. And I’m living. Right now, with Veronica by my side.

  Veronica has a playlist that includes opening songs from cartoons, Disney and Nickelodeon shows, and one-hit wonders, and I’ve never seen Sylvia so happy. She’s in the passenger seat joining along with Veronica, who’s in the backseat with me, in some dance that can somehow be done with the arms more than the feet and it’s hysterical how in sync they are with the melody and the movements.

  Sad part? We’re listening to a cringy, one-hit wonder that Miguel and I not only know, but we’re singing along with. Veronica leans over, bumps my shoulder, a nudge for me to dance along with her. With how she moves her hips and can move her body, I’m game. She angles toward me, I angle toward her. Our arms are in the air, and I match the way she dances with the beat from side to side.

  Sylvia glances at us from the front seat and cracks up laughing. A belly laugh I’ve rarely heard from her for over a year. Miguel flashes a quick glance at us, too, from the rearview, and he also releases a gut laugh. One I haven’t heard him do since the end of our freshman year. Don’t get me wrong, they laugh, but haven’t really laughed. Not since their residual hauntings took over their lives.

  Veronica meets my gaze and her blue eyes not only dance, but have a seductive shine. One that promises kissing, touching and holding each other very close. Catching on to the dance, to the rhythm, I move right as she moves left and then we meet in the middle, allowing our arms to flow perfectly with each other.

  The song comes to an end, a song from a cartoon that I watched as a child starts, and Sylvia claps with joy. “I loved this show!”

  I did, too, and when Miguel and Sylvia start singing along, I lean forward, cradle Veronica’s face and kiss her lips. She’s warm, she’s soft, she tastes like heaven and the moment she kisses back, every cell in my body comes alive. The kiss isn’t sweet, it isn’t slow. It’s hot, it’s intense, and it’s all my emotions pouring into her.

  Against the driving need to keep kissing, to keep touching, I pull back and Veronica gives me a dazzling and daring grin. “What was that for?”

  I rest my forehead against hers. “For creating this moment.”

  “You were the one who bought the milkshakes,” she whispers.

  “Yeah, but this is happening because you’re you.”

  The car slows and Sylvia boos. “We should go around the neighborhood again.”

  “No,” I say. “Five laps were enough.” It’s time for me to have some time alone with Veronica.

  Miguel places his SUV in park, and Sylvia takes off her seat belt so she can reach back and give me a hug. Veronica’s a bit shocked when Sylvia hugs her, too. Miguel and I share a shake, and he offers Veronica a fist bump. She accepts and then we slip out of the backseat.

  We hold hands as we walk toward the house. In the distance, bolts of lightning dance across the sky, brightening the huge, growing clouds. The storm all the weather people have been raving about this week will finally hit tonight, but it doesn’t bother me. Lucy’s safe at her friend’s, Mom’s staying the night at Sylvia’s house, Miguel and Sylvia will be home before the first drop of rain hits the blacktop, and Veronica and I are home.

  The air is full of electricity and has that deep rich scent of the promise of rain. Charged atoms preceding a storm. But that’s not what’s causing the buzz in my blood. That’s due to the force of nature beside me. Veronica lets go of my hand to start tracing her fingernails along my arm as we make our way up the porch and at the door she gives me a slow, wicked smile.

  Her fingers slip along my collarbone to my chest, causing the breath to catch in my lungs. Her touch tickles, it teases and when she glances up at me from behind long lashes, I’m undone. I place both of my hands on her hips and back her up against the house.

  Veronica fists the material of my shirt and drags me into her. She’s smaller than I am and while I don’t mind leaning down to kiss her, tonight, being that close isn’t close enough. I want to drown in her.

  In a swift motion, I lift her and she giggles. The sound filling me with joy. She weaves her arms around my neck and her legs around my hips. We fit perfectly together, and each of her slight shifts to be comfortable creates sensations I want to feel again and again.

  Veronica shines. Her blond hair glows against the porch light, her blue eyes sparkling, and the smile on her face is glorious. She’s pure bliss and it’s a world I want to be lost in forever.

  I rest my forehead against hers and revel in the gravitational pull that’s between us, in the way her breath teases the skin of my neck, the way her chest rubs against mine as she breathes out and I breathe in. My heart beats faster in anticipation with the awareness that the moment we start, neither of us might want to stop.

  “What are you waiting for?” she whispers in amusement. “Are you going to kiss me?”

  I don’t have to be asked twice. I kiss her and the ground beneath us rumbles and shakes. The vibration racing through my toes, up my legs and along my body. She presses into me and I press into her as our kisses become deeper, hungrier, and our hands begin to roam.

  Veronica breaks away, kissing along my neck, then whispers into my ear, “Inside.”

  Her apartment or mine, I don’t know and I don’t care as just the idea of inside is the most amazing idea I’ve heard. With her still in my arms, I move us toward the door and Veronica’s soft laughter is an addictive drug making my head spin.

  When I fail at entering the code, Veronica reaches out and does it for us while still focusing on kissing me. The lock gives, we’re through the door, we pinball down the foyer hallway to my door, and then I’m able to navigate that lock with no problem.

  Once in my room, we fall onto the mattress, into each other, and we give in to the warmth, the joy, the heat, the touches, the sighs, the kisses, and time stops as we lose ourselves in each other.

  Thursday September 5: Weight 113 ½ lb.

  Cured a lot today. It was a nasty rainy day.

  Got a nice long letter from Maidy today. She sure is a cheerful cuss.

  Oh, Diary, had 99.3 temp. tonight. Why, oh why, doesn’t it go down? Am I ever going to get well? I’m just about discouraged.

  And I’m so lonesome. Oh, dear, but I wish Morris would come back. Really, Diary, I care for him lots more than he does for me I know.

  “Why are we doing this?” I ask as Knox opens the door for me to an old one-story, fifties-style church that hasn’t seen a paintbrush or new furniture since the 1970s.

  “Because our AA meeting is huge, and you like blending in. It’s your comfort zone. You need smaller and you need to learn how to be you.”

  “I am me,” I grumble.

  Knox stops in front of the door labeled for the meeting. “And who is that? Are you the popular athlete who everyone loves because you become what everyone wants? Or are you the guy who jumps off of cliffs? Because those are two different per
sonalities, brother.”

  I roll my neck, uncomfortable with how easily he sees me. “What if I don’t want to be either of those?” I pause. “Or what if I’m a little bit of both?”

  Knox stretches out his arms. “See, brother? One minute in the building and you’re already starting to ask better questions. Now let’s go.”

  He opens the door, waves me in and I decide to keep my mouth shut as he’s the master swimmer in this scenario and I’m the lowly kid hanging out in the guppy class. Annoyance hits me as the first thing I notice is a circle of maybe a dozen chairs and not that many people in the room.

  As I take a step back, Knox places a hand on my shoulder and pushes me forward. If I won’t willingly go out of my comfort zone, my sponsor will physically drag me—got it.

  As always, everyone knows Knox. Sort of how I am at school. The difference between us though is that my act at school is a show. Between nods, handshakes, and hugs, Knox greets each person warmly, as if he knows them. If he doesn’t know them, he at least shows that he cares they exist.

  I trail behind him, hands in my pockets like a lost puppy, and I’d give just about anything to be invisible. The place looks like a children’s Sunday school class, complete with a deluge of Fisher-Price play sets. I wonder, if like the toy I had as a kid, that barn door would moo if I opened it.

  Knox eventually takes a seat, pats the one beside him and I begrudgingly take it. A mix of men and women claim the remaining seats and I count them out—there’s ten of them and the two of us. Except for Knox, everyone is staring at me, all wondering who I am and I don’t know that answer.

  I cross my arms and pull my feet underneath my folding chair. A woman with shoulder-length gray hair—the type that makes her look wise versus ancient—starts the meeting. She’s in a black, tight turtleneck I would feel strangled in.

  Like other meetings Knox and I have attended, we begin by reciting the twelve steps, but when they say something about alcohol, I silently add jumping off cliffs.

  “Hi, everyone, I’m Denise,” the lady with the black turtleneck says.

  “Hi, Denise,” we all reply in unison.

  “My husband has been an alcoholic for ten years, and I’ve been attending these meetings and working on being an enabler for the past five years.”

  My head snaps up so fast I’m surprised it doesn’t fall off. We’re at the wrong meeting. This is an Al-Anon meeting. Not an AA meeting. My heart pumps nervously, and I start to sweat. Like I’m expecting lightning to strike me in response to our mistake.

  As my butt starts to lift from the chair, Knox reaches over and shoves me back down. A quick glare over at him and he gives me a nonchalant shake of his head. With how easygoing this guy is, I can never imagine him as an alcoholic, but he says he was and I can only wish to have a fraction of the peace this guy carries in his little finger.

  “We have three visitors today,” Denise continues. “One is Dr. Martin.” She gestures toward the aging black man in a gray suit. “As most of you know, he is a family therapist who specializes in addiction. He joins us every so often to help us work through some issues. I believe most of us know Knox.”

  “Hi, I’m Knox,” he says regardless of her introduction. “I’m an alcoholic, and I’ve been sober for five years.”

  They welcome him, most of them clapping as if his sobriety is a celebration for them. He gives a little wave of appreciation and they smile in return.

  Denise lays her happy gaze on me, and I shift uncomfortably. “Hi, I’m Sawyer.” Because that’s as far as I’ve gotten in any meeting we’ve gone to. The people in my main meeting, the one where I first met Knox, know my problems through private conversations I’ve had with them, and they have welcomed me with open arms, but I’ve yet to stand up and talk. No one forces me to. They’re all patient, but with each meeting that passes, I feel the pressure to stand up and say something.

  Like now.

  “And I’ve never been to an Al-Anon meeting before.”

  Knox gives me a side-eye and I hate how everyone in the circle is staying silent, giving me space to talk … or not talk. If I stay quiet, they’ll let me, and move the meeting along, but considering these are people who have to deal with people like me who have an addiction, I feel like I need to give them something. “I have an addiction issue, and I’m trying to overcome it.”

  “Welcome, Sawyer,” Denise says, and everyone else greets me warmly as well. “Knox called and asked if the two of you could come visit with us this week, and this is something we occasionally allow—giving an addict the opportunity to listen to those of us who love someone with an addiction issue.”

  I nod my appreciation while sinking in my seat. I’m guessing that this meeting is made to make people like me feel like crap—and I probably deserve it. I settle in and do what I’ve been doing best at these meetings for weeks—I listen.

  I listen to stories of loved ones losing jobs, losing friends, losing family, losing their lives. I hurt for them as they talk about years of silence, of arguments, loneliness and isolation. Of money issues, broken homes, and how alcohol becomes a demon that possesses.

  “It’s hard for me to stop being an enabler,” Jennifer says. She’s midtwenties-young, and her father has been an alcoholic since she started to walk. From her perspective, he’s a perpetual first-time AA attender. It’s the second meeting where he falls off. “If I don’t take care of him, who else will?”

  “But maybe that’s what he needs,” Dr. Martin says in this calm, soft way. “Maybe you need to stop taking care of him.”

  “And then what?” Her eyes widen as she challenges him. “At least now he’s somewhat functioning. I get him up, he goes to work, and I bring him his lunch to check in on him to confirm he’s not drinking. He finishes his shift, he comes home and it’s a good day if I can get dinner in him before he opens a beer. It’s an even better day if I can get him showered and shaved before he passes out. If I stop taking care of him, he’d never go to work, he’d never eat and he’d end up on the street alone. I can’t do that.” She hits a hand to her chest. “I love him and I can’t let him be like that.”

  “What type of life is that for you?” Dr. Martin asks.

  She looks away, wiping at her eyes. “I don’t know how to stop taking care of him. It’s my responsibility. Always my responsibility. Who am I if I stop?”

  “The better question,” Dr. Martin says, “is who will you become when you stop living his life and start living yours? The last time I was here you talked about applying for college. Have you done that?”

  Jennifer hurriedly brushes at her tears again. “I love him.” She doesn’t answer his question directly, but it’s an answer nonetheless.

  “We know you do,” Dr. Martin says. “But remember, we’ve talked about how alcoholism, addiction, is a disease. Unless he experiences the fallout of his actions, unless he hits rock bottom, he might not want to get help. It’s like having cancer and being told you need to have an operation and chemo treatments. Would you go through surgery and chemo unless you knew for a fact you had cancer?”

  Jennifer shakes her head.

  “Your dad doesn’t honestly realize he has this disease. He has to understand this disease inside him before he understands the path to save his life.”

  “I’ve told him!” Jennifer shouts.

  “Yes.” Sitting beside her, Denise reaches out and takes Jennifer’s hand. “Just like I told my husband, but some people don’t see the disease until they themselves are forced to stare at the MRI results. I know you feel like you’re helping him, but you’re hurting yourself.”

  Jennifer weaves her fingers with Denise’s and with easily thirty years’ difference between them, they’re united, like sisters. There’s silence then, and I’m not sure what’s supposed to fill it. Jennifer has Denise, Denise has Jennifer, and everyone else has taken their turn speaking. But there’s this collective holding of a breath, as if waiting for the fall, and that silence seems to be directed
at me.

  Maybe it’s not. Maybe I’m tired of being silent. Maybe Knox is right, maybe I need to find my voice. But what do I say? This isn’t my meeting. I’m not the one dealing with someone I love having an addiction. I am the addict. I have no right to talk, no right to share, but it feels like a compulsion, a need for me to speak.

  “I remember once, the first wedding anniversary after my mom and dad divorced, my mom went out with friends. It was supposed to be a ‘screw him, the bastard’ party.” My arms are already folded over my chest, but somehow I hug myself tighter. “My mom brought Lucy and me to her friend’s house, and we stayed the night there so my friend’s dad could watch us while the moms went out.”

  Knox is watching me, they all are, and I stare at the ground, pretending they aren’t. “I remember that the air mattress I slept on had a hole and had deflated to the carpet within an hour. The floor was hard, I was uncomfortable, and in the middle of the night, I remember my mom and my friend’s mom had returned.”

  A muscle in my jaw tics, and it’s like the memory and the words have become lodged in my throat. I clear it and force myself forward. “They made a ton of noise. Laughing, yelling, running into things. I remember hearing stuff fall on the floor and glass breaking. A few minutes later, my friend’s dad walked into the bedroom I was in, and my mom was hanging over his shoulder and he laid her on the bed. I remember how embarrassed I was that my mom was such a drunk mess that when she needed to use the bathroom, she couldn’t figure out how to take off her own pants. I saw how uncomfortable my friend’s dad was so I volunteered to help her.”

  I stop talking then because the anger and shame I felt in that moment that she couldn’t care for herself, especially in front of strangers, still tears me up. I rake a hand through my hair to help shake some of the bad memories away. “After that, Mom had me stay home and babysit Lucy when she went out with her friends.”