Knickers in a Twist

by Kim Hunt Harris

  But I saw it. And something inside me burst into flame. It was here—the moment I had known was coming—the moment when I couldn't push it down anymore. The moment I knew I would explode and ruin absolutely everything. That look. That look that told me he had been waiting for this moment, too.

  This was the moment he needed to survive.

  I lost it. I narrowed my eyes at him and said, “Don't give me that look! Don't give me the look that says you would have to be crazy to trust me! Despite everything I've said and done over the last year, you're still waiting for me to run off at the slightest provocation and guzzle down a bottle of rum!”

  I bent and ripped the book from the magazine rack. “Here!” I held it out to him, then jerked it back. “No, let me look. Where's the chapter on keeping your alcoholic at home where you can keep an eye on her? Let's see how this works.”

  I slapped the book shut again and shoved it at him.

  My anger made him mad. He threw the book on the sofa and crossed his arms over his chest. “How stupid would I have to be to think that a recovering alcoholic is not going to want to drink after talking to the person who always triggered her the most?”

  “And here you are, Sir Galla-Freaking-Had riding in on your white horse to save the day! Oh, you love being the hero, don't you, Tony?” I sneered at him. In the back of my mind, I thought, See, Serena, you strip mall psychic! This is what happens when I open the floodgates.

  But it was too late now - the gates were open and all kinds of awful was pouring out. “You know what this is called, don't you? Codependency! You're codependent and just waiting for me to screw up so you can rescue me again. So you can lord your superior coping skills over me. So you can prove how patient and forgiving you are! So you can be perfect, again! Saint Anthony!”

  I grabbed my purse off the sofa and tossed my phone into it before I slung it over my shoulder. I stooped to pick up Stump, who grunted as I lifted her onto my hip.

  “Does it ever get old, Tony? Being everyone's knight in shining armor? Of course not. You get to be adored by your entire family, your staff, everyone you know. You know what I think? I think that's why you never divorced me! So everyone could see what a pious saint you are. I mean, what tops staying married to a slutty alcoholic? You win, Tony!”

  He looked like I'd slapped him.

  I felt like an elephant had stepped on my chest. I wished the words back.

  At the same time, I was a little relieved. I had been delusional to ever hope this moment wasn't inevitable, and so had Tony. It served us both right for living in such a dream world.

  I slammed out the door.

  Fury raged through me as I jerked open the door to the Monster Carlo, dumped Stump and my purse inside, and then slammed into the seat. I was so furious that my mind was hyper-focused.

  He expected me to drink. Fine. I would drink.

  Chapter Nine

  Heel-Grabber

  I clenched my jaw, turned the key in the ignition, looked carefully behind me, and pulled out of the driveway. All of my senses were on high alert. I could see everything with perfect clarity. The nearest liquor store was three blocks away. I planned each step in my head. One block to the main street. Turn right. Two blocks north. I would park the car, go in, get a bottle, drive to my trailer, and drink the whole thing. Why not? It was the very thing everyone was holding their breath waiting for. Why not just get it over with?

  I rehearsed the steps over and over in my head. This was happening. Of course, it was happening. It was inevitable and always had been.

  I made the right turn. Drove the two blocks. I could see the liquor store on the corner. What kind of bottle? Vodka? Rum? Something good. Heck, I hadn't had a drop of alcohol in over a year now. I deserved a splurge. Do it big. A bottle of Chivas.

  I drove past the liquor store.

  I pulled into a parking lot down the block, swung the car around, and drove back.

  I drove past the liquor store.

  I drove down, turned left, made the block.

  I pulled into the liquor store parking lot. I put the car in park. I stared at the door.

  Here's the thing. I had known from the first day of my sobriety that this day would eventually come. So I had planned ahead. When the time came that I couldn't white-knuckle it anymore, I would remind myself of all the mistakes I had made while I was drinking.

  The times I had embarrassed myself.

  The times I had hurt others.

  The times I had said things I regretted.

  The times I had driven drunk.

  The times I had been with a man I didn't particularly want to be with, but was caught up in the need to be the carefree, careless daredevil.

  Those memories I carried around with me like a talisman, a list of private, personal horrors to have available to ward off the urge to drink. I had told myself that I would remember how it felt. The memory of the consuming regret would be enough to steer me away, when the moment came that my willpower had played out. Those stories would remind me of why I had to stay away.

  All those bad memories, though...they withered and died as soon as I pulled them up. Because the fact was, I knew none of those things were going to happen. Not tonight. Tonight, I was going to get a bottle, I was going to drive home, and I was going to drink. That’s all. I was going to go numb for a while.

  No one else would even have to know.

  Frank was gone. Tony wouldn't come after me. Les thought I was at Tony's and wouldn't bother to check unless I called him.

  I stared at the liquor store door. All I had to do was pick up my purse, open the car door, and walk in.

  Things seemed so clear now. I had used a boogeyman to keep myself in line, but when the moment came to really look at that boogeyman, he was just a bunch of fabric stitched together and stuffed with cotton. He had no power.

  I could drink. The world wouldn't end. Blood wouldn't run in the streets. Sirens wouldn't even go off. I could drink, and the only thing that would happen is, I would fail. And hadn't I been doing that all my life? Wasn't that the one thing I was really, really good at?

  I turned my head to look at the seat beside me, where my purse waited with plenty of money for one bottle.

  Stump sat with her chin resting on my purse, her brown eyes on me, her brows raised in concern.

  I stared back, feeling a kind of tug at my heart.

  You're not seriously going to use this dog as an excuse to not drink, are you? a snarky voice in my head asked. You're not seriously going to act like this is one of those Jesus-freak God moments your sanctified friends like to talk about, are you? She's a dog. She has no idea what's going on. She doesn't care if you drink or don't drink. She's a dog.

  I took a breath, turned the key in the ignition, and backed the car onto the street.

  I made it to the end of the street before I burst into tears. I kept going. For another half a block. Then I was crying too hard to see and had to pull into a church parking lot so I wouldn't take out a light pole or something with the Monster Carlo. I made sure I wasn't in anyone's way, put the car into park, killed the motor, put my head against the steering wheel, and cried.

  I cried out of anger—anger at Tony and at myself. I cried out of sorrow that I wasn't able to do this thing right. I cried out of fear and frustration. What had I done? What kind of person got mad at someone for being good?

  I was such a jerk.

  I cried more when I realized that I wasn't mad at Tony. I was mad at my mom for something I was not supposed to care about. Which made me madder at myself.

  What sucked perhaps most of all was that I couldn't blame the hateful words on alcohol. I had spewed all that bull hockey while stone cold sober.

  I wanted to go back and scream at Serena-Wow-look-how-blue-your-aura-is, “See! This is what happens when I open the floodgates!”

  I rooted around in the glove box and under the seats until I finally found a couple of crumpled Subway napkins stuffed between the seats. I wiped my ey
es and tried to blow my nose, but it was clear these sad napkins weren't equal to the task. I sniffed and started the car.

  “Okay, Stump, let's go home.”

  I made it to Trailertopia and into my house, all the way to the back where my bedroom was, dropped my purse, and fell face first onto the bed. I felt so horribly wretched. For the first time in weeks, I wished I could go to sleep and not wake up again for weeks. Months. Maybe ever.

  The hurt look on Tony's face haunted me. I wanted to go to sleep and shut it out.

  I lay for a while, exhausted, my eyes burning, my throat sore. I wanted to sleep and block it out for a while.

  But, exhausted as I felt, I was too tortured to sleep.

  I rolled to my side and pulled my knees up. Stump curled into the curve of my body and laid her head on my arm.

  Her brow was wrinkled in what honestly did look like concern. She might have been concerned for me. Then again, she might have been concerned that we were back at my crummy trailer in Trailertopia and not in Tony's nice big house with the thick carpet and the perfectly manicured lawn.

  I petted her until I felt like I might be able to speak without losing it again. Then I rolled over, fished around on the floor to find my purse, dug in it until I found my phone, and said, “Windy, call Les.”

  “What is that, honey? I didn't understand you.”

  Windy didn't understand my thick-with-tears voice. Maybe this wasn't the time to call Les.

  I hit the text app.

  “I had a fight with Tony. I was mean. I feel awful. I drove to the liquor store but then Stump looked at me and I couldn't go in so I came home but I still feel awful and I don't know what to do.”

  I read over it. That about summed it up. I hit send.

  I laid back on the bed, still thinking about that look on Tony's face. Suddenly desperate to undo what couldn't be undone, I pulled up his name and started and deleted half a dozen messages. Finally, I wrote, “I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that. I was mad about my mom and took it out on you, and I regret it so much. I'm not drinking. I'm sorry.”

  I read through it, but it seemed pitifully little against the enormity of what I'd said. I hit send anyway.

  Then I stared at it and waited for him to respond. Nothing.

  My phone beeped the sound I'd assigned to Les.

  I answered. “I called him Sir Galla-Freaking-Had and Saint Anthony. But, that doesn't even...I was mean. I said it in a mean way. I said it like an insult, and he knew it. He was hurt by it.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At home. At Trailertopia.”

  “Alone?”

  “Stump is here.”

  He made a noise that might have meant anything. “I'm on my way.”

  Frank came in while I was in the bathroom washing my face. I came into the living room to find him sitting in his usual spot in my recliner, watching TV, Stump at his side.

  He looked up and kind of blanched when he saw me.

  “Still pretty bad, huh?” I asked. I had looked absolutely scary in my bathroom mirror, but I had hoped splashing cold water on my face and blowing my nose would have brought some improvement.

  “Was it...worse, before?” he asked, studying my puffy face.

  I shrugged. “Marginally. Les is coming over.”

  He looked enormously relieved. We all knew Les was much better equipped to deal with a crying woman than Frank was.

  “You need me to watch Stump?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Les and I can go get some coffee or something.” I still felt antsy, like I needed to keep moving. “I'll bring back dinner,” I promised.

  I grabbed my purse again and waited for Les on the front deck of my trailer.

  We drove to a little breakfast place that was mostly deserted at this time of day. He ordered coffee for us both, but when it came he looked at the cups, frowned, and said, “Milkshake?”

  I nodded. I had skipped on the bottle of Chivas. I deserved a milkshake for that if nothing else.

  After the shakes came, Les listened as I poured out everything that had happened that afternoon.

  “It's crazy, because before those words came out of my mouth, I never thought that. I never thought Tony was with me out of some self-righteous desire to lord it over me. But now I can't stop thinking about it.” I looked at Les. “What if I'm right? What if he's somehow dependent on me screwing up because it creates this—this hero role for him to play?”

  Les leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “What if it does?”

  “Don't do that now, okay?”

  “No, we're doing it. Once you say ‘what if,’ you have to follow it all the way through. What if he's codependent?”

  “Then...that means he doesn't love me for me. He's invested in my dysfunction.”

  “And what's bad about that?”

  “He might not want me to get better. He might subconsciously undermine my progress.”

  “Has he done anything to make you think he would do that?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “But?”

  “But he might.”

  Les shrugged. “He might. What can you do about it?”

  “What can I do about it?”

  His lips tilted just a bit. “Nope. I ask the questions, you give the answers.”

  “I don't know!”

  He sat back and shrugged.

  “There's nothing I can do about that, is there?”

  He shook his head.

  I sat back and tapped my straw against the glass. “You know what else? I wasn't even mad at Tony to start out. I was mad at my mother because she didn't want me as a bridesmaid in the wedding I don't even want to be a bridesmaid in.” I groaned and dropped my arms to the table and buried my head in them. “Seriously. I don't want to be her bridesmaid. But she didn't ask, so I didn't get to reject her.”

  “You're making terrific progress, Salem.” Les reached over and patted the top of my head awkwardly.

  “I am a self-involved, childish fool,” I mumbled against my arm.

  “You're human. Understanding why you were mad in the first place is huge. It brings you one step closer to not letting that anger get misdirected.”

  “One step. I'm still at least three football fields away, though. Do you remember what Bonnie was talking about in the meeting last week? About wearing the world like a loose garment?”

  That was actually a fairly common phrase heard in recovery circles. It meant not being too invested in the outcome of anything. Just relaxing and letting whatever was going to happen, happen. So easy to say. So difficult to execute.

  “I want to be like that. I want to not be bothered by the world. I want to be so—so content and at peace that I barely even notice what's going on around me. And when I do notice, I want it to be just like noticing something in a movie. It's not me. It doesn't mean anything to me. It doesn't change anything.” I frowned and took a pull on my straw. “But I feel like the world is actually a big static sticker that I push off one hand and it just sticks to the other one.”

  “Oh, I hate those,” Les said.

  I raised my head and looked at him. Then I burst out laughing.

  He smiled and slurped on his milkshake.

  I waited for more words of wisdom, but they weren't forthcoming.

  I dipped my straw in my milkshake, scooped up a bit on the end and then put it in my mouth. “I feel like he's just waiting for me to fail.”

  “I know.”

  “I feel like I'm just waiting for me to fail.”

  “I know.”

  “If you know so much, tell me what to do about it.”

  He gave me a you're-not-going-to-like-this smile and said, “One day at a time.”

  I sighed. “Does it ever seem inevitable, though? I mean, like the one day at a time is really just marking time until the inevitable happens.”

  “Every day is a choice, Salem.”

  “I know,” it was my turn to say. Although my “I know” sounded much less sure than
Les’s “I know.”

  Les lifted his brow.

  I sighed. “It doesn't feel like there's much choice, though, does there? I mean, in theory, yes the world is wide open. But it feels more like there's a lot of...predestination, I guess? I mean, we're all born into certain circumstances that play a huge role in what kind of life we have.”

  I frowned because I knew it sounded like I was deflecting responsibility. I remembered the verse about Jacob. “Like, look at Jacob. Did you know his name actually means ‘heel-grabber’?”

  He nodded. “Sure.”

  “Of course, you did. Well, I didn't. I mean, what kind of thing is that to do to a kid? Give him a name like that?”

  “People gave names based on the events or circumstances of their birth.”

  “I know, but...doesn't it seem unfair to you? He was an infant, literally. It's not like he was already a schemer at birth, right? But with a name like that...” I shook my head. “What would that do to your self-esteem? The way you saw yourself?”

  “Don't forget, his mother was a real piece of work herself.”

  I nodded, although to be honest, I had to think for a moment to remember what Les was talking about. I got my Old Testament guys mixed up sometimes and got Jacob and Abraham confused the most.

  “She's the one who sold out the older son so the younger one could get the inheritance or whatever?”

  “The birthright, yes. She clearly favored one son above the other.”

  “Between the dysfunctional mom and the negative label for a name, it's not like he was going to turn out to be some upstanding citizen.”

  “Everyone has free will, Salem. Even the heel-grabber.”

  “But don't you see how that kind of label could totally skew the way you looked at the world? The way you looked at yourself?”

  “Sure.”

  “I mean, your entire life you would know that people were just waiting for you to live down to your name. You would be waiting for you to live down to your name.”

  “Is that what you're doing?”

  I chewed my lip. “Yeah, I think so.”

  He studied me for a moment. “You didn't go into that liquor store, Salem. You made that choice.”