Through the Wooden Door

by K Carr

  “Coming right up,” the bartender spun around to grab another glass and fill it up with some Coca Cola. She had done this before, like I said, I had been coming here for some time now. The offer of drinks was a hit and miss thing, sometimes I would be left alone, sometimes were like now. It was always easier to just get a soft drink and watch the man who’d offered to buy me a drink slink off in disgruntled entitlement. I would get drunk on my own dime, thank you very much.

  The bartender placed the soft drink in front of me and turned expectantly to the guy. Still trying not to frown he quickly handed some cash over to her. After she had given him his change, I picked up the glass and tipped it towards him.

  “Thanks.” I murmured before taking a sip. He hadn’t made a scene. I remembered one guy a few months ago had offered to buy me a drink. When I had opted for the soft drink, he had huffed and rescinded his offer. Guys were dicks. Refuse the drink - they get pissed off. Accept the drink - they think they’re going to get lucky. Switch it up on them and ask for something non-alcoholic - the reaction depended on the man. This one had taken it in his stride.

  Nursing his own drink in his hand, he sent me an unsure smile. “So, the ring is gone. Was it a bad divorce?”

  I took another sip of cola, and arched my eyebrows. “Nope.” It wasn’t a lie. I wasn’t actually divorced, ‘nope’ was technically the right answer.

  “Well then,” He put his glass down. “Congratulations. I’m Brady, by the way.”

  I stared at the hand he now held out, then raised my gaze back to his face. I didn’t take his offered hand. A lot of people didn’t wash their hands properly, or at all. And I wasn’t in a handshaking mood anyway. “Hey.”

  Brady dropped his hand and shifted awkwardly on the bar stool. “I’m divorced too.”

  The sheepish chuckle and bashful ducking of head from him rang false. I didn’t see a ring on his finger but that was neither here nor there. Take me for example, I was still very married yet my ring finger was still very bare.

  “Ok,” my non-committal answer did cause a slight tightening of his jaw, but he quickly resumed grinning at me.

  “So,” He picked his glass up and took a quick swig.

  I wondered if it was Dutch courage. I mean, he had already taken it upon himself to approach me at the bar. That in itself took courage. I knew my demeanour was not a welcoming one. Sighing, I figured it was best to cut this shit off immediately.

  “Listen, Ben,”

  “Brady,” he corrected.

  It had been deliberate on my part, calling him the wrong name. I hoped he picked up on that. “Listen, I don’t know what you’re expecting, but whatever it is,” I slid the barely drunk glass of cola aside. “It’s not going to happen. I’m not interested in talking,” I flashed him an insincere smile. “And it’s not you. Honest. It’s me,” Sighing again, this time loud enough for him to hear. “You see, I just got out of prison last year,” Yes, I would use this fake excuse. He looked like the kind of guy to freak out about something along these lines.

  Brady’s eyes widened. He let out a nervous laugh and a sarcastic, “What? Yeah, right.”

  I kept my face blank. “Yes. Right.”

  The unsure amusement died on his face. “You’re not kidding?”

  “Why would I kid about something like that?” I asked.

  Brady shifted on the bar stool and cleared his throat. “Um, what did you go to prison for? Tax evasion? Parking tickets or something?”

  Slowly, I shook my head. I looked over at the bartender then gestured to my empty whiskey glass. Turning my attention back to Brady, I said in a very quiet voice, “I did some very bad things,” Making my expression an earnest one, I managed to say without breaking character, “I mean, the docs say I’m rehabilitated but,” My nonchalant shrug had him slipping off his stool…slowly, as if he didn’t want to make any sudden moves. I bit my cheeks to stop myself from smiling. “I think I’m ok,” I tilted my head at the bartender and nodded a thank you as she replaced my empty glass with a fresh one filled with whiskey.

  “Bad things?” Brady queried as his gaze no longer stayed on me. His eyes were darting all over the place.

  I picked up my whiskey and took a dainty sip then smiled sweetly at him. “Yes.”

  “Ok.” Brady was standing up completely now. “I, uh, I guess I’ll stop bothering you then,”

  “That would be a good idea,” I widened my smile. “But thanks for the drink.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, backing away. “No problem.”

  Brady went back to his seat and I went back to my drinking. An hour later I tipped my bartender, grabbed my bag and carefully slid off the stool.

  “You good?” she asked as she caught my wobble.

  “Yes,” I enunciated with extra pizazz to hide any slurring. “My taxi is outside.”

  “Good,” she muttered. Then she turned to the other bartender who had started his shift – wait, when had he gotten there? I couldn’t remember – and said, “Gerry, walk her out and make sure she gets in her taxi.”

  I waved a hand through the air before he opened his mouth to verbalize the complaint I saw building on his face. “I’m fine. Don’t you worry about me. I have everything under control.” Hearing those words coming out my mouth…fuck. I couldn’t stop the tears from filling my eyes. Control? I couldn’t even control my frigging emotions.

  “Cover me,” My bartender ordered and without giving her colleague a chance to respond, she strode over to exit the little side door at the end of the bar.

  I watched as she approached me with what I thought was an exasperated expression lining her pretty face. “It’s fine,” I tried to reassure her while taking a few steps forward. There were more people in the bar than when I had last looked. A few glanced over in our direction as she closed the distance between us and firmly gripped my arm. “I don’t need an escort,” I said, somewhat insulted by her manner of dealing with me.

  “Come on,” she muttered and started walking me out the bar.

  “What’s your name?” I asked as she pushed the door open. The bright sunshine hit me right in the eyes and I winced. What time was it?

  “Eden,” she replied. “Why do you want to know? You’re going to complain to my boss?” she chuckled under her breath.

  I raised my arm, the left arm so I could see my wristwatch. 1:47pm, no wonder it was so bright. “No,” I snorted. “I want to thank you, Eden.”

  She dropped my arm and started peering around. Then her eyes rested on an idling car. “Is that your taxi?”

  I swung my gaze to where she pointed, clumsily pulled my phone out my bag and checked the details on the app. “Yes. That…is…my taxi.”

  “Come on,” Eden began to walk towards the car with me in tow. “You had a lot more to drink this time around, Sad Eyes.”

  “What?” I drew to an abrupt stop. “What did you call me?”

  Beckoning me on, Eden said, “Sad Eyes, that’s what we call you.” She huffed. It didn’t sound like a huff of annoyance, more like a huff of consternation. “You’ve been coming here for a while now. You sit at the bar, fluff your hair a few times, you drink, sometimes you cry when you think no one’s looking, but we see.” She shrugged and waved me forward again. “Hence the name ‘Sad Eyes’. You seem like you’ve got some bad things going on,” Eden sighed loudly. “But you’re a good tipper so I’m going to put you in your taxi and send you home.”

  “Because I’m a good tipper?” I almost missed a step. Wearing sneakers had been a good choice.

  “And you have sad eyes,” she said and went to open the door of the taxi. “Come on, in you get.”

  I walked over to the open car door, bent at the waist to check the driver was in fact the pictured female driver I had requested and nodded in satisfaction. “Hi,”

  “Hello,” she answered back impatiently.

  I got into the taxi, waved goodbye to my new friend Eden, who rolled her eyes and reminded me to confirm my destination wi
th the driver before she shut the door. I waved again, like the drunkard I was and my driver exhaled long and hard before switching on the radio. With the traffic, the journey to the hotel took twenty minutes, and cost slightly more than I expected but I didn’t have the strength to care. I had checked in earlier, allowing me to go straight up to my room without needing to speak to any staff. The bottle of whiskey was exactly where I had left it, on the middle of the bed with its seal intact. Ha, not for long. My sneakers were kicked off, my shoulder bag haphazardly balanced on the overnight bag I had brought for my stay, and ignoring the stern chastisement in my head, I plonked myself on the bed without changing clothes. My mom would blow a gasket if she saw this. I laughed out loud and grabbed the bottle. Lying on a hotel bed in my ‘outside’ clothes would be the last thing my mom freaked out about if she knew what I was doing today. The satisfying crack of the lid as I opened the whiskey was music to my ears. There was no need to source a glass, I drank straight from the bottle.

  What was this form of existing? I mused, taking another gulp of whiskey. Who was I? I mean, I was Mrs Jennifer Oakes. Married, soon to be divorced. Mother of – I took another swig from the bottle. Just mother. Daughter. Unemployed – was I unemployed? Technically I was still joint owner of our business. Why hadn’t Talia called me back yet? I had left a message with her office three days ago. What was happening with the divorce proceedings?

  But who was I?

  I wasn’t special; not quirky, or meticulous. I wasn’t genius level clever, or at the covetous level of ‘super-model-beautiful’ where I only needed to rely on my looks and everything went my way...huh, that would be nice. I hadn’t done anything to make the world a better place, but on the flipside I also hadn’t done anything to make the world a worse place. I was average – no, worse than average. I was unimportant. Yes, I mattered to my mom, to Meg, to my friends, but in the grand scheme of things I was completely unimportant.

  “Ah, an existential kick in the teeth,” I chuckled bitterly. “Good to see you, my friend.” Another hit from the bottle was needed so I obliged myself.

  I wasn’t an activist…and that was kind of shameful. There were so many things in the world which needed fixing. I wasn’t even in any pro-black women groups! I should be in at least one black women circle. Over the years Lala kept trying to pull me into a few of the groups she’d joined. Maybe I needed a circle of my people, ones who truly understood the life of a black woman in this country...but we weren’t a monolith. Black women, always unfairly grouped together as one organism by society, were anything but identical. Shit. Let’s be real, if I joined any of those groups I would only bring them down with the air of death which clung to me.

  Who was I? I thought I had known the answer but my life before felt like a lie. Had I ever known myself? Morosely, I took another swig of whiskey and got into a more comfortable position on the bed. Did other people feel this way? I didn’t doubt there were people in the world experiencing exactly what I was going through. The death of a child, a failing marriage, the need to keep going not for oneself but for the ones who loved you…who depended on you. My chest suddenly felt tight and a few deep breaths were required to ease the discomfort.

  Who was I now?

  It made me anxious, not having an answer to this very important question. The drinking wasn’t helping my state of mind, I knew that, but it didn’t stop me from taking another gulp of whiskey. The logic I was raised upon tried to rein me in, to remind me that to exist was to be in a constant state of flux. No one could know exactly who they were at all times. It was an impossible feat! Yet I wanted an answer. I needed to know who I was now, because the person I was before was gone, she was never coming back. Who the fuck was I now? What was my purpose?

  I tried taking another set of deep breaths to alleviate the tightness which had returned to my chest. The controlled breathing wasn’t working, and just like that I started weeping. I cried for so long my body went limp with exhaustion before falling into a deep sleep until the alarm I had set on my phone this morning sounded.

  It took a few minutes for my brain cells to start firing up but I managed to turn off the alarm and drag myself into an upright position. My body cried out for water, the inside of my mouth was Sahara dry. The curse which fell from my even drier lips was barely coherent and very raspy. Where was my water? After rolling off the bed and stumbling around the room, I located the bottle of water and chugged the liquid down to sate my thirst. Then I made the call.

  “Hi, Mom,” I croaked down the line.

  “You sound terrible,” were the first words she said, not in reproach but dripping with concern.

  “I fell asleep,” It wasn’t a lie and actually the reason for my groggy voice, of course my earlier drinking had played a role too.

  “How are Laura and Derek?” she asked.

  “Good,” I muttered. This also wasn’t a lie. I assumed my best friend and her husband were currently doing well, there was no reason to think otherwise. “Is Meg ready for bed?” It was the point of my call, to bid my daughter a good night.

  “Almost,” Mom chuckled. “She’s doing the usual and finding any excuse not to go upstairs.”

  Although I had glugged half the water in the bottle before, my throat didn’t feel up to returning my mother’s laugh. “Can you put her on?”

  “Yes,” Mom called out to my daughter then came back to me. “Did you eat?”

  “Yes,” Another truth mired in grey. I had eaten breakfast with Megan before taking her to school this morning. Summer holidays had been over for a while and the new school year was well underway. My daughter was already thinking about the next school break. She used to love school when she was little. What had happened to those days?

  “What did you have for dinner?” My mom was persistent. “Did Derek cook? What was that dish he’d done – do you remember? The one he said his mother had taught him. It was delicious-”

  “Did any mail come for me today?” I evaded her question with one of my own.

  “Were you expecting something?”

  “Erm, I thought something might have come,” Keep it vague. I hated lying to my mom. Keeping it vague meant my conscience wouldn’t bug me. “I might be mistaken though,”

  I could hear Megan in the background then her chirpy voice came on the line. “Hi, Mommy,”

  “Hi, baby,” I tried to inject as much cheer into my tone as possible. “Are you being good for Grandma?”

  “Yup,” she popped her ‘p’ and I smiled.

  “Have you done the thank you cards for your presents?” I asked. Her birthday party had been two Saturdays ago and a whole lot of fun. I had been on her case to do them since after the party, had laid the cards out with her glitter pens and reminded her it only takes fifteen minutes to write a quick message of thanks in each one. We were already halfway through this new week.

  “Erm, kinda,” she hedged. “I did most of them but I don’t want to do one for Eloise. She was mean to Wendy in class today-”

  “You should still do a thank you card,” I advised diplomatically. “But you don’t have to be friends with her if she’s being mean. The card is just to say thank you for the gift her parents got you. Ok?”

  “Ok,” she grumbled. “I’ll do one for her but if she’s mean tomorrow I won’t be her friend.” With her stance on that issue voiced, Megan launched into a long-winded recanting of her day. It was a blatant attempt to delay her bedtime but I let her waffle on. Her youthful exuberance lifted my mood until I had to draw the line and remind her it was a school night and she needed to get her sleep.

  “I love you, sweetie,” I hoped she could feel the strength of my love from my words. “Sleep tight and put grandma back on for me please.” We did a couple more ‘love you’s’ before she put my mom back on the phone. I re-confirmed Mom would be ok doing the school run in the morning and promised I would stop by the shelter around mid-day to help out.

  “Jenny,”

  I blinked slowly. It was
a rare thing for her to call me Jenny. Jennifer, yes. Jen, definitely. But Jenny was – my dad used to call me Jenny and she always wanted that to remain a special thing for me. It was weird, other people called me Jenny but I guess it was different with her. Like Connor and Megan. I rarely called her Meggie, that was Connor’s nickname for her. Other people sometimes called her Meggie, but I didn’t and honestly it would feel weird doing it.

  “Mom, what’s wrong?”

  She sighed softly before saying, “Nothing. Get some rest tonight. Love you.”

  “I love you too, Mom. Bye.” I ended the call, frowning at my cell and wondering what it was she really wanted to say to me but hadn’t. Was it the fact I had no plans to mark Cory’s upcoming birthday this year? I couldn’t – Megan wouldn’t notice the date without prompting and I felt it might be better to let the day pass. I was terrified it would trigger an episode with her. I planned on saying nothing and pre-emptively asked my mother to also refrain from mentioning the significance of the day when it arrived. She promised to follow my lead, but her worry had increased.

  The bottle of whiskey caught my eye and the couple of inches I had left in the bottle beckoned me. “I am a fucking hypocrite,” I sneered out loud to myself as I grabbed the bottle off the nightstand and cracked it open.

  The alcohol burned on its way down and it only took a couple of gulps to drain it all. I put the empty bottle back on the nightstand and flopped back against the mattress. I had the answer to my earlier question. Who was I?

  A failure.

  Chapter 8

  He hated this dream. Connor didn’t know what time it was. The bedroom was pitch black and he didn’t have the strength to twist his head sideways and check the alarm clock on the bedside table. Could he call it a dream? It could be classed as a nightmare…but if it was reality, wouldn’t that stop it from being a nightmare? Not a dream, or a nightmare, it was a memory, it was the memory.

  His throat was dry and he had yet to muster the strength, or urge, to move. He could still hear her words ringing in his ears even as sleep was replaced with painful awareness.