by Harper Bliss
Since The Pink Bean had found its groove and Kristin’s presence downstairs was less and less required, she had made the kitchen her domain. Because she was a woman who succeeded at most things she put her mind to, she had soon started turning out stunning dishes and dinner parties had become more frequent.
Kristin was the kind of independent home cook who didn’t much tolerate company in the kitchen, and Sheryl usually spent time in her office or downstairs. But that day Kristin had involved her in the cooking, and only raised an eyebrow when Sheryl hadn’t diced the carrots the way she had wanted her to do.
It had been an enjoyable day. It could have been an ordinary one, if it weren’t for the nerves running through Sheryl at the prospect of entertaining without the support of alcohol. She had somehow forgotten to hold court like that, even though well into the first years of their relationship, Sheryl did it all the time. She had never needed alcohol. She had despised and stayed away from it and doing so hadn’t had any adverse impact on her life.
Martha was the first to arrive, a bunch of tulips in her hand. She was soon followed by Micky and Robin, who offered her, upon opening the door, a bouquet of roses.
Sheryl refrained from making a snide comment—something along the lines of “do they come with a commiseration card, saying how sorry you are for my loss of alcohol?”—and dutifully put them in a vase.
Kristin had—of course—researched virgin cocktail recipes and while Kristin plated the hors d'oeuvres in the kitchen, Sheryl served their guests kumquat spritzers with pomegranate seeds in cocktail glasses. As she did, she couldn’t help but wonder who was secretly wishing for a shot of something stronger on the side.
“When is Amber coming back?” Martha asked Micky.
“I’m not entirely sure,” Micky said. “She keeps extending her stay.”
“She must have a lot to think about.” Robin sipped from her drink and, Sheryl could swear, pulled one of those disgusted faces that are entirely involuntary.
“She’d be much better off thinking less about almost everything,” Micky said. “But it’s who she is.” She gave Martha a look that bordered on pity—one, Sheryl knew, Martha would not take well.
“We can only wait patiently for the return of our great yogi.” Sheryl stood around awkwardly with a carafe of what was basically funny-colored juice in her hands.
It was that exact moment that she needed a drink the most. Just a little something to take the edge off. To lubricate her tongue and steer the conversation the way she was used to doing, without qualms or hesitation. She cleared her throat, sensing that the subject of an alcohol-free dinner should be addressed properly, but just then Kristin walked into the lounge with a platter of miniature quiches, and all three guests cooed.
“You’re not asking them to give up a limb or ignore a vital part of their personality,” Kristin had assured her the day before, “just by requesting them not to drink. It really isn’t such a big deal.”
Perhaps it wasn’t. In theory, Kristin was right. But why did everything feel so off? Why did Sheryl feel like she was depriving her friends of the required relaxation a Saturday night merited, as though it all depended on how strong the booze was? If anything, Sheryl thought, as she headed into the kitchen to put the carafe in the fridge—Kristin had suggested an ice bucket, but Sheryl had believed that to look too ridiculous—she should be happy she had friends who were willing to consider a night like this. Awful though it sounded, she knew for a fact that proposing an alcohol-free Saturday evening wouldn’t go down well in most groups of friends in Australia. Everyone had their own excuse to drink, perhaps not as much as she did, and not with the same consequences, but all the same, Australians liked their booze. And, thank goodness for their blooming business, their coffee the morning after.
She remembered the oft-spoken words, like a chant the morning after, amongst her college friends, back in the LAUS days. “A coffee, a painkiller, and no whining allowed. Hangovers are for wimps.” Back then, they’d barely felt the negative effects, and Sheryl had missed her body’s prime time for drinking excessively.
At any other previous dinner party, Sheryl was always firmly planted in her seat, while Kristin did all the running around. Kristin had never minded because it was the natural flow of events that matched their respective personalities. She’d much rather hear Sheryl challenge Micky on visibility as an out lesbian, or cause Martha to shuffle nervously in her chair while she tried to come up with a reply that matched Sheryl’s quick wit, than have her serve the fish course. Kristin was the cook; Sheryl the entertainer. Except tonight.
Rather clumsily, Sheryl insisted on carrying out the starters of seafood terrine, even though Kristin had spent a long time plating them and they required a steady hand to transport them from kitchen to dining table. Sheryl’s hands looked anything but steady. She was twitchy, stroking her chin nonstop, even curling a strand of hair around her finger once in a while—a gesture Kristin had never witnessed before.
It was expected that Sheryl would be off her game, and conversation might not be as fluid as they were used to, but Kristin had not anticipated long silences from Sheryl, as though she was mourning something. Perhaps she was.
“Are you all right, babe?” she asked after Sheryl had cleared the starter plates.
Sheryl heaved a big sigh. “I didn’t think it would be so hard.”
“Take a deep breath,” Kristin said, “you’re doing just fine.” Depending on their definition of fine, this could very well have been a lie, but if it was, it was a white one at most.
“I think you’re right about one thing, at least,” Sheryl whispered. “I’m going to need some outside help dealing with this.”
“Then that’s what you shall have.” Kristin walked over to her and took Sheryl in her arms.
“What the hell have I let myself become?” Sheryl’s breath was moist in Kristin’s ear.
“Nothing a smart and gracious woman like yourself can’t come back from.” Kristin held her a little tighter.
“Perhaps now would be a good time to tell them a bit more about my decision.”
Kristin nodded. “The mains will be out in a few minutes. And yes, I can handle it on my own.” She kissed Sheryl on the cheek for a long moment, hoping the imprint of her lips on the soft flesh there could somehow inject her with the power to make it through this more easily.
Then Kristin’s mobile phone started ringing. They both jumped, the way they’d been doing every time Kristin got a call since returning from Trevor’s, and both of them seeing with their very own eyes the sorry state he was in.
Kristin picked up.
“Is this Sheryl? Trevor Johnson’s daughter?” an unknown voice blared through the receiver.
“Yes,” Kristin said, because it didn’t matter who got the news, and she figured that, either way, Sheryl would be better off hearing it from her.
“This is Harold Robinson from Robinson Funeral Home speaking. I’m very sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m afraid Trevor’s no longer with us. He didn’t wake up from his afternoon nap. The paramedics have come and gone and he’s now in our care. Everything’s been taken care of, so no need to worry about practical arrangements.”
Kristin found Sheryl’s eyes and gave her a small nod. “Thank you for letting me know.”
“My condolences, Mrs Johnson,” he said, in a tone so practiced it made Kristin’s stomach turn. “My thoughts are with you in this difficult time.”
Kristin hung up and opened her arms. “It’s Trevor,” she said. “He’s gone.”
Sheryl’s first thought upon hearing the news was that she needed a drink. To cope with the death of a man who had drunk himself to death, she needed a little something to process it.
“Everything okay in here?” Martha stood in the doorframe.
Sheryl loosened her limp body from Kristin’s embrace. “My father died,” she said.
“I’m so sorry.” Martha stepped closer and rubbed Sheryl’s back. “Wh
at can we do?”
Sheryl shook her head. “Nothing.”
“Shall I whisk Micky and Robin discreetly out of here?” She looked at both of them.
Sheryl figured she didn’t reply fast enough, because Kristin said, “Yes, that would be a good idea. Thanks, Martha.”
“Consider it done.” She squeezed Sheryl’s shoulder. “Call me if you need anything at all.”
Sheryl watched her walk off, then heard murmurs in the living room. “I should probably say something to them.”
“No, babe. It’s okay. Stay here with me.”
Sheryl did, because she didn’t know how she would feel accepting condolences for the death of her father from people who had no idea what her relationship to him was.
After the whispers and shuffles in the living room had died down, Kristin escorted Sheryl to the sofa.
Sheryl’s voice came out all shaky when she tried to speak. “I promise you on everything I hold dear that I will stop tomorrow, but will you please pour me a drink?”
Kristin looked her in the eye. “We don’t have anything.”
“Then let’s go somewhere where they do.” They lived in Darlinghurst and it was Saturday evening, barely past eight in the evening. There was a bottle shop on the same block as The Pink Bean. Alcohol was everywhere, ready to fill that gaping wound that had just opened in Sheryl’s soul.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Kristin took her hands in hers. “Let’s talk.”
“It’s as if he was just hanging on until he had seen me again,” Sheryl whispered, changing tack. If Kristin wanted to talk first, fine. She would get that drink later.
“Maybe he was.” Kristin stroked Sheryl’s palm with her thumb. “The funeral director told me everything was taken care of. That we shouldn’t worry about anything.”
“How is that even possible?” Sheryl asked. “The man had nothing left.”
“The truth is, we don’t know what he had and how he arranged for this. He was sober for five months and deadly ill. He could have made all sorts of provisions.”
“I don’t even know how he got by all those years. I always assumed he was on welfare or something, sponging off the state. He never asked me for anything.”
“How could he have?” Kristin tipped her head. “The most important thing is that you don’t have to worry about any of it.”
“Just show up at the funeral and say my good-byes?”
“If you want to. We don’t have to go.”
“You know he tried to stop me from going to Mom’s funeral. Well, it wasn’t an actual funeral, more like a memorial service. Because she had committed suicide she couldn’t have a service in the church. Anyway, I insisted on going, sat through the whole thing as stoically as I’d ever been, braved all the glances of those who automatically believed she was a coward for taking her own life. It was horrible, but I had to do it. I was twelve, so not exactly a child anymore. Not someone you can still hide the truth from.” Sheryl’s voice broke. She coughed, trying to sound like herself again—her old self, no matter who that was or if she would ever be that woman again.
“How do you feel?” Kristin asked.
“I’m not sure. I suppose I’m glad I got to see him before he died. I wouldn’t have put it past him to have lied about the state of his health to garner my sympathy, but I guess he was telling the truth.” She stared at her hands. “It’s just so strange to have any feelings at all about a man who hasn’t been in my life for such a long time. But I do feel sad, for him. For the life he could have had. For the relationship we could have had. Mom’s death could have brought us closer together, but instead it did the opposite. Perhaps I should have tried more, like you are trying with me now, to get him off the booze. Book him into rehab. Whatever it took. But just like he never had it in him to be there for me, I didn’t have that in me either.”
“Babe, you should never forget that he was your father, your only remaining parent when you were only twelve. You can’t compare the two. You didn’t owe him anything.”
“At this stage, I think I might need AA and a damn good therapist.” Sheryl managed a little chuckle, tried to lighten the mood a bit.
Kristin nodded and gave her hands a squeeze.
“When all my friends first started drinking, my wish to not be like Trevor was so great, it easily stopped me from drinking with them. It was just so ingrained in me. It was the most sacred vow I made to myself after it became clear he was destroying himself with booze. It was a given, you know? And I had an answer for every wisecracking boy with a can of cheap beer in his hands who dared to question me. I was so tough back then. I wish I could get some of that back.”
“So much happened to you. You carried it all with you in silence for so many years. No child is supposed to go through what you went through. You are so incredibly strong. I’ve believed that about you ever since you took me to your family’s cabin. You are, by far, the strongest person I know. The one who has endured the most. That’s how I know you can do this.”
“You think too much of me.” Sheryl smiled regardless of what she had just said.
“On the contrary,” Kristin said, pulled Sheryl toward her and held her in her arms for a long time.
Chapter Thirty
Sheryl took a deep breath and entered the community hall. Kristin was close on her heels, followed by Martha, Micky, Robin, and Caitlin. It was a Saturday afternoon, two weeks since her father had died, and the room was filled with more people than usual. Sheryl would know, as she’d been there almost every day since she’d started coming ten days earlier.
She hadn’t sneaked out for a drink on the day she found out about her father after Kristin had nodded off. Their apartment had remained an alcohol-free zone. On Sunday, they had researched AA meetings together, of which there were at least a few every day spread out over Sydney. Sheryl had chosen a local meeting in Darlinghurst, mostly out of pure convenience. She didn’t know any university staff who lived in her area, and if she were to run into someone from school at one of the meetings, she hoped it would become their secret.
Her sponsor, Bert, a man who reminded her of her father, mainly because of his age and spindly frame, greeted her. He had brought his wife and introductions were made all around. Though the crowd was bigger than usual, the atmosphere remained the same: solemn and full of hope.
A very different vibe than when they’d attended Trevor’s funeral the week before, where all of ten people had showed up. The mood, as they stood around his grave, had been one of doom and gloom because of the wasted opportunity the funeral of a man who had drunk himself to death represented. If Sheryl were to guess, she figured that she’d finalized her decision, truly vowed and swore on the ghost of her mother, to stop drinking altogether right there and then. It was the only way. And yes, it would be hard, and temptation would always be lurking around the corner, but if the options were dying alone the way Trevor had, a broken and disappointed man, or living a long and healthy life alongside Kristin, then it was an easy choice. Theoretically, at least.
That day, she was sixteen days sober, and she already felt like a different person. Not only because starting the day without a hangover made all the difference, but because of her ability to make the decision. It was clear cut. It was definite. And perhaps Sheryl had her father to thank for it. Perhaps, in his final days on this earth, he had, in some way, managed to come through for her. Though it was too late for him to take any comfort in the fact.
The AA group usually formed a circle, but today they all sat auditorium style because it was an open meeting at which participants had been encouraged to bring their loved ones. Sheryl had brought her true family, which consisted of Kristin first and foremost, but also Caitlin, whom she’d known much better twenty years ago, but that didn’t matter—some friends are for life. And Micky and Robin, who had only recently come into her life but had become Pink Bean family, and for whom she felt, at times, an almost motherly affection. And finally Martha, who had brav
ely come out a few years ago, at the age of fifty-two.
Sheryl didn’t know yet if she would speak today. It was one thing to open up to a bunch of strangers who shared her addiction, but another entirely to do so in front of their family and, most importantly, her own. Especially without the loosening effects of alcohol. Because that was, of course, the crux of it all: a life without booze. Without the warm glow of comfort sliding down her throat when she drank vodka. Without the knowledge that after a few glasses of wine on a Friday, everything would be all right. Without the carefree way in which she used to clink her glass against her friends’, look them in the eye, and feel so emboldened by the most intoxicating combination of all: friendship and alcohol.
In the end, it didn’t matter if she said anything or nothing. It mattered that she was here. And that Kristin and their friends were. And that every morning, when she woke up with a clear head, she could add another day to her tally. The Alcoholics Anonymous age-old adage of “One day at a time,” which she had often mocked while tipsy, was the only way forward. Most importantly, though, Sheryl knew that she stood a much better chance than Trevor, because unlike him, she hadn’t lost it all. She had Kristin by her side.
When the moderator opened the meeting and asked if anyone wanted to start, Sheryl ignored the usual awkwardness of the moment, and this time made brave by a much more powerful source of intoxication than alcohol—friendship and love—she raised her hand, walked to the front of the room, faced the stare of a dozen people she didn’t know, and quite a few she knew all too well, and said, “Hi, I’m Sheryl and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Coffee on the house,” Kristin said as they all walked into The Pink Bean. It was near closing time and the place was empty, save for Josephine who was manning the counter.
“How generous of you, boss,” Micky said. “To not make your best employee pay.” She winked at Kristin.
“I’ll have to dock your wages if you keep talking back to management.” Kristin headed behind the counter.