I wake up again with the sun shining in my face, burning holes in my corneas. I close my eyes and burry my face into a pillow until my stomach tells me I better find the trash and fast. I barely make it in time before all the shit I drank last night comes spewing out in a foul liquid mess and not all of it makes it in the basket. Which reminds me, I still have to clean the carpet and I have to do it by tomorrow at eleven. I lie around for another couple hours until the room slows to a moderate spin before crawling across the carpet to my bag of cleaning supplies. On the way I pass my phone and battery. Without thinking I put it back together and turn it on. I have six missed calls, all of them from Stacy. Bag in hand I mosey on over to the bloody patch and dig through my supplies until I find hydrogen peroxide. I read somewhere that this stuff is supposed to take out blood even dried blood stains. I slip on my new yellow rubber gloves, take out a couple cleaning rages and pour some peroxide directly onto the blood stains. I wait with my breath held as the clear liquid pools up on the carpet for a second before soaking in. It doesn’t foam or fizz up like I had imagined and does very little in the way of breaking down the blood stains. Frustrated I just scrub the shit out of the carpet but you can still see a light red patch of blood. This shit is gonna get me arrested unless I can find a way to get rid of the blood.
By midnight I am as desperate as I have ever been. Nothing is getting rid of the blood stains. This is getting fucking serious! There’s no way in hell I can leave this hotel room with blood behind. I’ll be in bars by lunchtime tomorrow. I decide to take a break and knock back a few coronas that I purchased at Safeway this afternoon. By one in the morning I’m ready to give it up. This fucking stain is never coming out. I hobble back to bed and fall asleep instantly.
My pounding head wakes me with the sun. It must be around six in the morning. I feel slightly nauseated, but it’s a vast improvement over the last two days. There’s really nothing to be done but pack my shit and find another hotel. After everything is packed I hobble around the room one more time just to make sure I have everything.
Then I see the patch. There’s a fucking a huge ass swatch of carpet cut out of the fucking floor! Holy fucking shit, did I do that last night? Oh fuck me! This is bad. What the hell was I thinking? I have never been one to drink very much, but these last three days or so I have been drinking like a fucking fish. I would never have guessed I’d be prone to blackouts. Oh man…this is really bad. What the fuck was I thinking? I didn’t even realize I owned a knife. By the looks of the cuts it must have been a pretty damn dull knife I used. I look around the room for a good hour but I cannot seem to find the knife anywhere. I guess that’s a good thing. A search through my suitcase reveals the carpet swatch I cut out. It’s just lying there between my clothes. I guess I should be relieved though. No one’s gonna find any blood now so that’s good.
It’s nearly ten when I finally check out of that miserable room. The woman at the desk does her best to be pleasant but I must look like hell because she keeps shooting me these looks when she thinks I’m not looking. Fortunately when I walk out there is a cab sitting there waiting for a faire. I climb in.
“Take me to another hotel,” I command. “This one’s all full up.
Chapter Nine
The Alzheimer’s Call
While my cabbie drives I call ahead to a few hotels until I find a reasonable one that has a room for a week. It’s about two in the afternoon by the time I get settled into my room. In the past twelve hours I have received three calls from Jason and a half dozen from Stacy. I also received five other calls from an unknown number. Strangely no one left me any messages. I’m too terrified to talk to Stacy. I’m sure she’s trying to warn me about the club and I appreciate that but I don’t need to talk to her to know that I am in deep fucking shit.
There’s a much used and tattered phone book siting on the desk alongside what looks to be an untouched Gideon’s bible. It’s a sad state of affairs I’m thinking, when the yellow pages gets more attention than the Holy Bible. I pick up the yellow pages and let my shaking fingers do the walking. They begin in escorts and fortune tellers and finish in the guns section. Right now I’m not really interested in fucking, the future, or shooting anyone so I set yellow pages back next to the bible and consider what to do next. In one of the drawers there’s a pen and note pad. I take out both items and begin to scribble ideals regarding my current employment situation. As long as I stay on the west coast, in California, Oregon, or Washington I have a pretty good shot at relocating as long as whatever office I land in has a budget to pay my salary. Maybe I can even convince Stacy or Jason to work for me again wherever I end up. But who am I kidding. I’m on the run from the cops. Why do I keep forgetting that small detail? I need to find out where I stand; like how close the police are to catching me. Do they even know it was me? I have to assume that my biggest worry is the club and how they’re taking Cade’s death. Geeze, I just had a thought. Eddie can’t stand his twin brother. He might even want to thank me for the giant service I just did for him. With no blood on his hands he can fully control the club without ever having to worry about his brother trying to get the gavel back sometime in the future. What a strange bizarre turn of events this could end up being. Suddenly I feel better; for all of about twenty minutes before the loneliness hits me again. I don’t have anyone to call. My Hail Mary pass yesterday to my aunt ended up an exercise in futility. Oh well. It was a long fucking shot anyway.
I flop down on the bed and turn on the TV. For the next couple hours I flip around from channel to channel looking for anything interesting enough to watch. I need a distraction. The second I don’t have something distracting me my body begins to rebel. My heart begins to go nuts, I can’t seem to catch my breath, and my stomach threatens to spew forth what little contents still remain; but mostly it’s the dry heaves. I hate dry heaves so I decide to be proactive and drink some water so that if I start vomiting I’ll have something to spew forth and that’s so much better. I’ve never been prone to panic attacks until now. One more time I can feel a huge wave of fear crashing down over my head. I can feel my body tumbling along, head over heels and powerless to stop what is going on with me. I can’t live this way. I sit on the bed watching the antiques road show. I’ve got my hands pinned beneath my ass. I hoping if I just sit on them I won’t get into trouble. By trouble meaning I’m hoping to stop myself from attacking the mini bar in my room. I look at my watch. I give myself ten minutes.
Five minutes later I’m lying in bed cradling an arm full of those damn bottles again. I take a quick count while I nurse tequila. I’ve got a total of 3 more tequila’s, four Jack Daniels, and Two Vodkas. I polish off two more Tequilas and Vodka while the antique show raps up. Clearly these are not going to last long. By four I’ve got a pretty good buzz going on. More importantly, my episodes of panic are subsiding. By six my phone begins to ring again. Once more it’s that number I don’t recognize. Whoever it is called six times yesterday and five times so far today. Someone really wants to talk to me. I’m just not sure I want to talk to them. At seven Stacy calls three more times but declines to leave a message. When ten o’clock rolls around the anonymous person calls again. Half drunk and thoroughly pissed off I decide to answer the damn phone and tell off whoever it is that’s bugging me.
“What the fuck do you want?” I bark into the phone, not caring how much of my anger comes through in my voice.
“Morgan honey?”
“Mom?”
“Auntie Swift dearie.”
What the fuck? She’s got Alzheimer’s. How the hell is she calling me?”
“Morgan are you going to talk to me?” My aunt asks plaintively.
“I thought…how do you know it’s me. You know I called you a couple days ago. Why didn’t you talk to me then?”
“I didn’t know you called. Of course I would have talked to you honey. You’re like my own child. You are my child Morgan and I love you.”
Tears. Holy shit! Tears are streami
ng down my face.
“I tried calling you…many times, a long time ago but you… you didn’t know me anymore.”
“I didn’t know you called. Of course I would have talked to you honey. You know I love you right?”
“I-I know… Hey do…do you have any more of those letters from my mom?”
“Honey what letters?”
“You know the ones you used to give me that she wrote just before she died. Those letters. Do you have anymore?”
“Sweetie I don’t know what you’re talking about. Your mother didn’t leave any letters for you.”
“But you…never mind auntie forget it.”
I shouldn’t have asked her. She really did throw them away I guess. I went through the house after she moved to the retirement community hoping to find the remaining letters but I couldn’t find a thing except a letter from my mother to my aunt telling her to make sure to give me the letters. That was the only thing I could find. I can feel my heart drop even further as my aunt drones on about life in the retirement home. I doubt it’s even half true but I let her talk thinking she must have something really important to say as she must have called me twenty times in the last couple days. It doesn’t help that my head is spinning out of control again and I’m struggling to swallow back the bile that’s threatening to erupt. I unscrew the last liquor bottle and down it in a few quick swallows. I don’t even feel the burn as it goes down. As she continues to drone on I’m not sure if she’s becoming even more incoherent or my brain is just getting too fried to follow her logic. Then she suddenly sounds crystal clear like she hasn’t sounded in fifteen years.
“Morgan, what did you need to tell me when you called the other day?”
I freeze for a second, not sure if I really want to get into this now or not.
“Morgan, have you done something wrong? Did you get in trouble for insider trading or something?”
Wow, she is definitely lucid.
“I have to tell you something auntie and you’re not going to like it, but I have to tell you what I’ve done. I need you auntie, like I have never needed anyone before.”
“I’m here sweetie. Tell me what happened.”
I wasn’t really going to spill my guts like this but once I got started I couldn’t quit. Must be the alcohol lowering my defenses because I would have never confessed to her so easily. I tell her about the day I met Cade and how I feel about him. I even profess love for the dethroned president of the Iron Disciples although I’m not really sure what it means to love another person not related to you. I tell her how I went behind Cade’s back and ratted on him and how much I hurt him. Then I finally confess to the blackouts and waking up to find his blood everywhere. I feel so ashamed that about half way through my confession I begin to cry again and I just can’t turn the faucet off. Well, not until I’ve finally vomited up everything I have done these past ten days or so. My auntie’s a good listener, I’ll give her that. Finally I come to a slow crumbling halt. I take a deep breath, waiting for her to come at me with both barrels like she used to when I fucked up.
“Morgan honey, why did you call me the other day?” She asks.
Shit!
“Could you go to the corner market and get me some kale. I hear it has a lot of vitamin C. Are you taking enough vitamin C sweetie?”
And she’s gone again. We say our goodbyes with promises to keep in touch but I know for my part that this is the last time we’ll be talking on this earth. She had a few last moments of lucidity and I am grateful she called. During my thirty or forty minutes of confession I have no idea just how much she understood. I get the feeling that I may as well have been talking to the wall. For a few minutes it did make me feel better unburdening my soul like that, but now I just feel like shit again. I hobble over to the telephone and dial room service. With any luck they’ll still be open and I can score a bottle of wine or something. If I’m going to have any hope of sleeping I’m going to need some help.
By midnight I’m back in bed nursing a bottle of some moderately expensive wine. I’m sure to have a hangover tomorrow but right now I could care less. I cannot hope to maintain any kind of grip on my sanity without help. Everything I have done, all that I have experienced these last ten days is sitting on the edge of my consciousness and pounding on my brain, threatening to crush my soul into oblivion. I don’t know how people like Cade keep functioning after everything they have done. As far as I can tell Cade doesn’t drink very much and other than maybe a little weed he’s not really into drugs, so how does he do it? Well…how did he did he do it?
Chapter Ten
Sweet Lucidity
An unearthly loud clanging in my brain tears me out of a deep slumber. I open my eyes and have to close them immediately. The glare of the sun stabbing into my skull is intolerable. Instead I feel around with my hands until I come up with my cell phone.
“Hello?”
My voice sounds and feels like sandpaper. My throat is so damn dry I can barely speak.
“Is this Morgan Swift?” A woman asks.
“Who wants to know?”
“My name is Clarissa I’m one of your aunt’s caregivers.”
“Hi Clarissa.” I croak.
“I stumbled across something yesterday that I think you should see.”
“Okay…”
“Is there an address I can send this to?”
“Yes.”
Then after a long pause. “Ms. Swift, are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to give me an address?” She persists.
“Sorry… it’s the Holiday Inn in Berkeley, 2712 San Pablo Avenue, Room 403. Zip code is 94707 I think.”
I disconnect the call and feel around the bed until I come up with a bottle that is actually not empty. Without even looking I pop the cap and pour it down my throat. Strangely it both burns and soothes both my throat and soul. The next couple days feel like one long fogged out ordeal of misery as I try my best to drink away memories of the last two weeks.
By the time I come up for air I don’t know what day it is, what time it is, and how much time has passed since I last talked to my aunt. Slowly I sit up in bed. I blink several times and wipe the sleep from my eyes. My bed is littered with empty bottles. Absent is anything remotely edible. I have the idea I haven’t eaten anything in several days or more and have just been living on alcohol.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand shakily. The room is no longer spinning and I feel mildly lightheaded. My mouth tastes like shit and my stomach is only partially nauseated. I’m just about to head to the bathroom to pee when there’s a pounding on my door followed by a voice.
“Ms. Swift, you have mail.” A woman’s voice says.
“Just…just slide it under the door.” I yell.
“Sorry ma’am, but it won’t fit.” The woman answers.
Great. “Just leave it in front of my door. I’ll get it in a second.”
“Sorry ma’am but I can’t do that. If someone were to steal it we’d be liable.”
“Fuck! Okay fine. I’m coming. Just cool your jets for a minute.”
Instead of going to the bathroom I stagger over to the door and pull open, making sure to keep the chain intact. I don’t want some crazy pushing his way into my room. I peek out and it’s just one of the hotel staff and she’s holding an envelope out to me. I take it and shut the door. Who the hell is writing to me? Nobody sends letters in this day and age, and who the fuck knows I’m staying here? I look at the address where it originated. It’s from my aunt’s retirement community. Then it hits me like a ton of bricks. I totally forgot that her caregiver called asking for my address here. Holy crap, that means at least three days have passed since I hung up the phone and cracked open a new bottle of booze. I wobble over to the bed and sit down where I carefully open the letter. I recognize the familiar spidery scrawl from my aunt’s hand. Her normally difficult to read script has become next to impossible for me to decipher.
I’m told I don’t have many lucid moments anymore, so I’m going to use one of my last to offer some guidance like I used to do when you were a teenager. You may have been thinking that I wasn’t on my A game when we spoke the other day, but I was blessed that day with a few moments of clarity so here goes my two cents worth.
You are a good person Morgan. Don’t you ever forget that. Sure you are prone to some rather rash and impulsive decisions but you have become a fine young woman and you have accomplished a lot for someone who isn’t perfect. We all have our crosses to bear. Deep in your heart you know what you have to do. I know what you think you have done to that young man of yours, but I believe you’re wrong. Drinking too much lowers your inhibitions and allows you to do things that you might think of but would never do. Alcohol only lets you access parts of you that would normally stay locked away. You’re no killer Morgan! You don’t have that in you so no amount of alcohol is going to bring out what’s not there in the first place. I know you and I know what you’re capable of and killing’s not one of them. You said your friend Stacy has been trying to call you. You answer the phone when she calls or you call her right away and find out where you stand. Then you go find your young man and you stay there and you talk to him and bare your soul until you have made everything right with him.
Morgan you’ve become a selfish, thoughtless, ego maniac! I didn’t raise you that way and neither did your mom and dad so I don’t know where you learned that, but it’s time to unlearn it. Go spend some quality time with those less fortunate than yourself. Volunteer at the food bank or the food kitchen. Do anything so long as it’s not about you. Go pass out blankets to people sleeping under the bridges. Give out care packages. I don’t care what you choose to do, but just do it. It just might save your soul.
I know you’re not my daughter by birth, but your mine by love. I love you dearly and nothing can change that. You think about what I said. It may be the last piece of advice I’ll be capable of giving. I feel my mind starting to wander so now it’s time to say goodbye. Don’t feel like you need to come down to visit me; I won’t know you. I’d rather you remember me like this, before my brain gets scrambled again. So goodbye my daughter, goodbye and go with God until we meet again one day.
Old Lady (Iron Disciples Book 2) Page 8