Monty clenched his fists. He wanted to hit him. He wanted to wipe that stupid smirk right off his fucking face.
“Come on,” Dexter said, his voice softening. “Talk to me, Monty. Tell me what’s wrong. Help me get you out of here.”
“I don’t have to tell you a god damn thing.”
Dexter’s expression immediately hardened. It looked as if Monty had just slapped him in the face. He took a deep breath and shut his eyelids then began to breathe deeply in and out through his nose. When he opened his eyes back up, he seemed calmer, like the breathing had somehow pushed the anger down. “You know what?” he said, as he leaned in toward Monty, “you’re absolutely right. You don’t have to tell me anything, because I already know.”
“What the hell are you talking about? You know what?”
Dexter let out a long sigh then folded his hands in front of him, bringing his fingertips just underneath his nose. “I spoke with Robby last night. We had a very long chat about your resistance to this program.”
The name hit Monty like a baseball bat to the forehead. He had to swallow his spit just to keep from throwing up. “What? You called Robby?”
Dexter nodded. “Yep.”
“I didn’t say you could that.”
“I don’t need your permission. I’m your counselor, remember? My job is to do whatever it takes to help you get better.”
“Oh really? Is that what you’re doing now—helping me get better?”
“You’re damn right it is.”
Monty leaned forward and clutched both sides of the armchair. Every muscle in his body was twitching. He could barely hold himself still.
“It was a good talk,” Dexter said, reclining backward, trying as best he could to look like a real therapist. “He told me a lot about you.”
“Oh, I see. So, you think you know me now? Is that it?”
“I know enough.” Dexter smirked and took off his glasses. He breathed on the lens then began to clean them with the tail of his shirt.
“That’s bullshit,” Monty said. “You don’t know me. You don’t know a god damn thing about me.”
“I know why you never got to your fourth step, your moral inventory.”
“Oh this oughta be good.”
“It’s because you’re scared, Monty; scared of what you might uncover; scared of what you might find out.”
Monty started laughing. Where’d he come up with that one? He probably read it in his intro to counseling handbook. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. It is.”
“Well then tell me this, Monty, out of all the good schools around the country, why did you choose to go to CU?”
“What?”
“Well, there are plenty of good schools back home in Florida, but you chose to move all the way out here, where you have no family, no friends, no relatives, nothing. Why? Why is that?”
“Well, CU’s a good school. I mean, it’s one of the best in the nation for chemical engine—”
“Don’t give me that crap. You know damn well that’s not why you moved out here.”
“Of course it is.”
“No, it’s not. You moved out here because you were ashamed—ashamed of all the shit you put your family through—ashamed of all the terrible things you did and said. You thought that if you moved out here, you could escape from all those memories, all that shame, all that guilt. But you couldn’t escape, could you? No matter where you went, no matter how far you ran, your disease was always right there with you, taunting you, teasing you, reminding you of just how inadequate you are. So, what did you do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes you do, Monty. You know damn well. You did what any alcoholic would do. You drank. You drank to try and drown those feelings. You drank to try and numb that pain. But it was never enough. No matter what you did, no matter how much you drank, you could never consume enough to fill that hole. But then something happened, didn’t it? You met someone. You met Vicky. And somehow her friendship was enough to fill that emptiness…to choke those memories…to plug up that hole. You used her, Monty.”
“No.”
“You used her to fill that hole inside of you, to keep that shame buried deep down inside your soul.”
“Shut up, Dexter. You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Oh yes I do. I know, because I see people doing it here every day. I see people swapping out their addictions with what they think is love. But it’s not love. It’s not even anything remotely close to it. It’s the disease, Monty. It’s the disease playing tricks on them, distracting them from their recovery when they should be focusing on themselves. You didn’t really love her, Monty. You only thought you did because she made you feel worthy…she made you feel safe…she made you feel loved. But it wasn’t love. It was dependence. It was swapping one addiction out for another.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“No, it’s not, Monty. You didn’t really love her.”
“Yes, I did.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes I did god damnit!” Monty slammed his fists down against the desk so hard that it nearly shook the entire room. “I loved her more than anything you could possibly imagine! I loved her more than anyone I’ve ever known!”
“Then why are you doing this!?”
“What!?”
“Quitting! Why are you quitting now after everything that’s happened? Why are you running away and just giving up? If you really loved her then you’d fight to stay sober. You’d try and live your life the way that she lived hers—with courage and strength, love and commitment, never backing down, never giving up.” Dexter came around the desk and crouched in front of Monty, one hand on the armrest, the other on his knee. “What do you think Vicky would say if she saw you doing this? What do you think she’d say if she saw you just giving up?”
Monty looked away and stared down at the carpet, clenching his jaw and squeezing his fists. His hands were shaking, his legs were shaking, and everything inside him wanted to get up and run. But he couldn’t run. He was completely frozen—frozen to the carpet, frozen to the chair, frozen with anger, frozen with fear. What was he doing? What was he waiting for? Why didn’t he just get up and run for the fucking door?
“Monty?” Dexter said, inching in closer, his voice a rumble from deep within his lungs. “Monty, look at me.”
Monty straightened his back and looked up slowly. His head felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. “What?”
“What would Vicky say?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes you do. You know damn well what she’d say. She’d tell you to forgive yourself and move forward. She’d tell you to go give yourself a second chance!”
“And what if I don’t deserve it? Huh? What if I don’t deserve to be forgiven? What if I don’t deserve a second chance?”
“But you do, Monty. Everyone does. Everyone here deserves to be forgiven. Everyone here deserves a second chance. Even you—especially you.”
“No.”
“Yes, Monty. You have to forgive yourself for what happened. You have to give yourself a second chance.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I killed her, alright? Can’t you understand that? Can’t you get that through your thick fucking skull? I’m the reason she drowned in that reservoir. I’m the reason she’s fucking dead.”
“But someone hit you. Someone crashed into the side of you and forced you off the road.”
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean maybe?”
“Maybe it didn’t happen. Maybe I just imagined it. Maybe it was just my headlights reflecting off a fucking sign in the road.”
“Come on Monty, you don’t really believe that.”
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit. You know that’s not what happened. You’re just
looking for an excuse to blame yourself.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because you’re sick, Monty. You’re trying to make sense of a senseless situation and the only defense you have is to blame yourself. You think that if you take responsibility for everything bad that happens, then you can justify crawling in a hole somewhere and killing yourself. But guess what? It’s not your fault, Monty. There’s nothing you could’ve done to stop it from happening. There’s nothing you could’ve done to avoid that car.”
“Yes, there is.”
“No, there isn’t.”
“I could’ve stopped and pulled over. I could’ve waited for that fucking storm to pass.”
“Monty—”
“If I would’ve just listened to Vicky and stayed the night in Boulder, we never would’ve gone up there and we never would’ve crashed.”
“Monty, stop it, just stop it.”
“I did this. I’m responsible. I’m the reason she’s fucking dead.”
“Stop it. Stop doing this to yourself.”
“God hates me. He wants to see me suffer. He wants to see me fall flat on my face.”
“Oh please, don’t give me that pity bullshit. God does not hate you. He only wants what’s best for you.”
“Everything happens for a reason, right? Isn’t that what you fucking people always say? Well what other reason is there? Why would he do this? Why would he kill her and take her away? She was the good one. Everybody loved her. It shouldn’t have been her. It should’ve been me.”
“But it wasn’t you. You lived. You survived. You were the one who was strong.”
“I’m not strong. Vicky was the one who was strong.”
“No she wasn’t, Monty. She was sick. She was dependent. She was struggling with this thing just like you.”
“That’s bullshit. Vicky wasn’t sick. She was perfect. She could’ve been anything she wanted if I hadn’t come along.”
Dexter dropped his head and stood up from where he was kneeling then went around to his desk and eased back into his chair. “Monty,” he said, as he reached beneath him and pulled out a manila file folder from his bottom desk drawer, “I didn’t want to have to show you this. I didn’t think it would really help. But now I’m convinced there’s no other way.” He opened the folder and pulled out a single sheet of paper then laid it flat on the desk and pushed it across. “Robby sent this to me. It’s a toxicology report from the Boulder County Sheriff’s Office. If you look under Vicky’s name, you’ll see what I’m talking about. She was sick, Monty. She was using. Traces of cocaine were found in her blood.”
A cold chill descended upon Monty. He snatched up the paper and read down the left side. But he couldn’t read it. The words were all jumbled together, like a jigsaw puzzle that he couldn’t quite solve. The top of the form contained her name, age, sex, birth date, and social security number and the bottom contained a four tier table listing various types of medicinal and recreational drugs. There was a row for alcohol, THC, opiates, and barbiturates. And about half way down, right beneath methamphetamine was a space for cocaine, which had been checked off.
“No.” Monty shook his head, set down the paper, and pushed it as far as he could away from his eyes. “This can’t be right. It has to be an error. Someone must’ve made a mistake. They must’ve mixed up the blood.”
“It’s no mistake, Monty. Vicky was using. And judging by the concentration, it looks like she’d been using for a long time.”
“I don’t believe it. Vicky wouldn’t have done that. She had everything under control. She seemed perfectly fine.”
“But that’s the insidiousness of this disease, Monty. It tricks you into believing that everything’s perfect, when anyone could see that neither of you were fine.” Dexter took the paper and put it back in the folder then opened the drawer and put in back in the file. “Now, do you see why I say you weren’t really in love with one another—that you were just using each other as a means to cope? You were dependent, Monty, and so was Vicky, and you would’ve eventually found that out if she hadn’t died.”
Monty clenched his jaw and leaned as far as he could forward, holding his stomach like he was holding a child. He felt sick, like he was going to vomit, like something acidic was burning inside his lungs. He looked around the room for something to grab on to, but there was nothing there, so he held on to himself, squeezing his arms tighter and tighter around his abdomen, as if he was trying to keep something corrosive from spilling out, something white and hot burning inside him, eating his intestines, tearing at his lungs. He couldn’t do this anymore. He had to get out of here. He had to go someplace where he could be alone. If he didn’t leave now, he was going to vomit. He was going to lose his insides all over this fucking floor.
He gathered up his strength, pushed himself up slowly, and made his legs move towards the office door. But Dexter got up and moved out in front of him, positioning his body between him and the door. “Wait Monty, where are you going? You can’t leave. We’re not finished yet.”
“I’m sorry, but I just can’t do this right now. I have to get out of here. I have to be alone.”
“But we’re not finished yet, Monty.”
“I know, but please, just…let me get out of here, just give me some space and leave me alone.”
Monty squared his body and tried to move past Dexter, but Dexter reached out and grabbed his arm. “No Monty,” he said pulling him towards him, his fingernails digging into the flesh of his forearm. “I will not leave you alone. I wanna help you. That’s why I’m here. I’m here to help.”
“Bullshit!” Monty spun around, jerking his elbow away from him. He bowed his shoulders and flexed his arms. “You’re not here to help me. You’re only here to help yourself—to feed your own fucking narcissism!”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes it is. The only reason you’re here is because you think you owe something to this place for saving your ass. But I’m not like you Dexter. I can’t be saved. I can’t repent. I’m a walking, living, breathing ghost.”
“That’s just the disease talking. That’s what it wants you to think. You can be saved. You can repent. I can show you how. I can help you find peace and understanding. I can help you live your life again.”
Monty turned and walked away from him, across the room towards the door.
“Monty, if you walk out that door, I won’t be able to help you. I won’t be able to help you save yourself.”
Monty stopped and turned towards Dexter, and said in a cold, flat, unaffected voice: “I don’t need your fucking help.”
Chapter 28
Sarah
ABOUT half the house was still inside finishing their hamburger dinners while the other half was outside braving the evening chill. The ones who were outside were all huddled together under the glow of the space heaters with those grey hospital-issued wool blankets pulled up to their necks. They were playing a new board game, not Monopoly. They must’ve exhausted that game and were now on to playing Trivial Pursuit.
Dave was among them, but off to the side in his own metal folding chair, his head down, his body hunched over, an unlit cigarette dangling from his wind-chapped lips. He was still pissed off about what Monty had said to him. The kid didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. What did he mean he needed therapy? He didn’t need any bullshit therapy. He wasn’t an addict. He was perfectly fine. He wasn’t even supposed to be here. It was all a setup. Cheryl fucked him over. His own wife ratted him out. Why couldn’t the kid understand that? It wasn’t that difficult. Why was he having such a hard time grasping the facts? It was simple—Cheryl hated him. She was trying to get rid of him. He wouldn’t give her another baby, so she decided to move on to someone else. But she couldn’t just leave him. Oh no, that would be too civil of her. She had to take everything from him, so she could have it all to herself. Selfish bitch. She figured if she could get the courts to see that he was an unfit father then she could run o
ff with everything—the kids, the money, the cars…hell, even the god damn house. And then what would he be left with? Nothing. Nothing but a bad leg and a shitty coaching gig.
But there was one thing Cheryl didn’t count on, and that was his resilience. He wasn’t just gonna lay down. He was gonna fight this thing. He was gonna prove his innocence. Cheryl wasn’t the only one in this town who knew something about the law.
Dave smirked to himself and took a deep drag from his cigarette, and, as he expelled the smoke upward, the payphone began ringing its one note song. Aw fuck it. Let someone else answer it. He was tired of having to do everything around here all the time.
On the fourth ring, one of the girls from the picnic table got up and skipped towards it, scowling at Dave because he wouldn’t move his legs. “Hello?” she said. “Who? Angie? Hold on a minute.” She turned to the group and asked if Angie was around.
“No, she’s not here,” Dave said. “She’s upstairs taking a shower. Why? Who is it? Who’s calling?”
“Uh…hold on.” The girl uncovered the phone. “Who may I ask is calling?” She turned back toward Dave. “It’s someone named Sarah. I think it’s her daughter?”
Dave jumped up from his chair. Holy shit. This was it. Finally, it was happening. “Give it to me,” he said. “Give it to me now.”
He tried to grab the phone, but the girl pulled it away from him. “But it’s not for you,” she said. “It’s for Angie.”
“I know, but I know her. I know Sarah. I’m her coach—I mean, I’m her dad.”
“What?” The girl looked at Dave suspiciously. “You’re not Angie’s husband.”
“Just give me the fucking phone.” Dave ripped the phone away from her. The girl looked mortified like she’d just been raped. “Asshole,” she said then gave Dave the finger and strutted back to her seat.
“Bitch,” Dave replied, giving the finger right back to her, holding it up until she sat down.
After Dave composed himself, he stamped out his cigarette, then lifted the phone and said, “Hello? Sarah?”
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