by M. Leighton
“Do you blame him for your problem?” she asks.
At first, I’m confused. I want to ask her, What problem? But then I remember.
I can’t keep the sneer out of my voice. “I’m nothing like him.”
Violet is perceptive enough to know when to stop, so she does. “Oh, okay.”
I wait several seconds before continuing. I don’t owe her any explanations, but I feel the need to give her one anyway. It bothers me that she’d even suggest such a thing—that I might resemble my father in any way.
“My father hurt people with his ways.”
“But you don’t.” It’s not a question, but it feels like one.
“No, I don’t.”
She’s tentative when she asks, like she knows I’m sensitive and she’s trying to be as gentle as possible, “What about your mother? Does it hurt her?”
Violet is tweaking the only real raw nerve that I have—my conscience. And, even though I’m trying not to let it bother me, it’s still pissing me off.
“What I do is none of her business,” I reply firmly.
“Then I’m sure she’s fine with it,” Violet replies.
She glances down at her coffee and leaves me to think. Her words say one thing, but her tone says something else.
“Why should she not be?”
Why can’t I let this go?
Violet shrugs. “Well, if she sees you following in his footsteps, I could see how it would bother her. Or hurt her.”
“For one thing, I’m not following in his footsteps, but even if I was, I’m not doing it to her.”
“But you’re her child. I’m sure she would want more for you. It might hurt her to think of you ending up like him. Or for your children to end up feeling like you do. It’s a vicious cycle, and I’m sure she knows that.”
My smile is tight when I say, “Damn. I didn’t realize I’d get coffee and therapy.”
She has the good grace to look sheepish. “Sorry. Occupational hazard.”
“And what occupation is that?” I ask, more eager at the moment to get the focus off me than anything.
“Social worker. Not that we do therapy. I just hear a lot and see a lot. A lot,” she finishes.
“I bet you do. So tell me about the background of a social worker. What was your perfect childhood like?”
To end up with a sexual addiction, it must have been a bitch.
Suddenly, Violet seems inordinately interested in her napkin. “I’ve been surrounded by addiction in one form or another my whole life. My mother is a rock band groupie. She has all the habits to go along with the lifestyle. She couldn’t even stop using drugs and drinking long enough to carry my younger sister to term. Marlene was born with a heart defect. She died at sixteen months. Mom just couldn’t make the transition to settled life. She’d disappear for months at a time then show back up like nothing happened. Until four years ago. She left and never came back.”
Now I feel like a dick. “Violet, I shouldn’t have—”
She holds up her hand. “No, it’s fine. It’s no secret. I’m used to it. My father has a drinking problem. Both my aunts have substance abuse problems. My cousin is addicted to painkillers and men. Even my best friend has a pretty significant impulse control problem. I guess I learned at an early age to look beyond the surface, to look for the reasons and the causes, to try and figure out why so I could help fix it. But I shouldn’t have done that to you. Your reasons and causes are none of my business. I’m very sorry.”
“Violet, please. Don’t be. I was an asshole, and you didn’t deserve that.”
“I shouldn’t have pried.”
“It’s fine. And the reason I reacted the way I did is because you were right. It does hurt my mother. And I feel like shit about it.” I take a deep breath and lean back against the cool wood of the booth. “I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. I guess I just like to get lost in things that feel good. That take me away from everything that sucks. Maybe that’s the real weakness my father left me—that I can’t face the hard stuff in life. That I’ll find something to drown it in—a bottle, a woman, a song.”
Every word that’s coming out of my mouth feels like it’s being dragged out from under a mountain of repressed emotional baggage. And it disturbs the piss out of me to know that every word of it is true.
“Nobody likes the hard stuff. We all cope in different ways, some good and some bad. The trick is to do something about the bad ones once you recognize them.”
I nod slowly, taking in the new dimension I’m seeing to this increasingly interesting female. Not only is she gorgeous and sexy and a little bit shy, but she’s smart and has it together in a way that I don’t see in women very often.
Before I even realize what I’m doing, I give her something truly honest. “You’re a pretty amazing woman, Violet. Wilson, is it?”
She smiles, a radiant, relieved smile that mirrors the . . . lighter feeling that’s taken over my gut. Evidently confession really is good for the soul.
“Thank you, Jet. Blevins, is it?”
“Yes,” I laugh. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
“And it’s very nice to meet you,” she returns in her shy way.
As I stare at her from across the table, I wonder for the first time if maybe the guys were right. Maybe even I’m not that cold.
Or maybe I am. Because I still want her. I want her more than I want to tell her the truth.
SEVENTEEN: Violet
It’s been ages since I’ve spilled my guts like I did with Jet over coffee last weekend. On the one hand, I feel good. Still. All these days later. I feel lighter, cleansed. But on the other hand, I know it’s a huge mistake to get too close to him, to let him in when the basis of our entire association is a lie. That could be devastating for someone like him, someone who’s just looking for some help. For that reason, I’ve decided to be extra careful and not let him get too close.
As I drive to a client’s house, I let my mind wander to the SAA meeting tonight. I tell myself that there’s nothing wrong with looking forward to it. Not only am I helping my best friend and supporting her by going, but I’m helping Jet, too. I should be excited about going. I should feel exhilarated. Because I’m doing something good for others. Helping them. Fixing them. Enjoying the company of them in the meantime is only a bonus. Nothing to be concerned about.
At least that’s what I tell myself. I ignore the fact that my stomach is jittery just thinking of seeing him again tonight. I ignore the fact that I can’t seem to forget the way his lips felt on mine or the way his body fit against me. I push all that aside and remind myself that I’m just helping.
Just helping. Just helping, I chant, hoping that the ache I feel behind my eyes won’t erupt into a full-blown headache.
My phone rings, jarring me out of my thoughts. I glance down at it as I roll slowly toward a stop sign.
I sigh. A deep sigh.
I can’t help it. I feel forty pounds heavier than I did ten seconds ago and I haven’t even answered the phone yet. For one millisecond, I consider not answering. But that’s just not who I am.
I hit the talk button. “Hello?”
“Violet?” comes a tiny voice.
“Hi, DeeDee. How are you?” The question is a nicety, a courtesy. I’m pretty sure I don’t really want to know the answer. DeeDee is my much-older cousin. She is addicted to painkillers, she’s an undiagnosed hypochondriac, and the only goal of her existence is to have a man in her life at all times. Even if it’s a crappy man.
Normally, her calls involve some kind of drama that ends with me going to her apartment to rescue her from someone or something. Just another family member I’m trying to help. Or fix. Or, in some cases, just survive.
“I’m just awful,” she whines, her voice trembling.
“What’s the matter?”
I listen to her draw a deep, steadying breath as I pull into the driveway at my client’s house. Rather than getting out of the car, I simply cut th
e engine and lean my head back against the seat, bracing myself for the onslaught to come.
“Well, I ran out of toilet paper last week and I didn’t have enough money for gas to get to the store, so I used paper towels instead.”
“DeeDee, please tell me you’re kidding.”
“Why would I joke about something like that?” she asks, truly perplexed. “Well, evidently all those paper towels stopped up the pipes and the sewer started backing up. Violet, the smell was terrible!”
“I imagine that it was,” I commiserate, glad she can’t see me shaking my head and pinching the bridge of my nose to fend off the migraine that is now more an inevitability than a possibility.
“I called the landlord and he sent Maintenance up to fix it. They couldn’t get it unclogged even after they pulled up the toilet, so they had to leave it like that until a plumber could come. Those rascals opened up the floodgates for those fumes and, after a few days, I started feeling sick and getting headaches. I felt so weak I could barely get off the couch.” DeeDee says this like it’s an abnormal thing, but considering her long list of pseudo-medical problems, she spends more days on the couch than not.
“Did you go to the doctor? Maybe you’re getting sick.”
“I did go to the emergency room, and you’ll never believe what they told me.” I think to myself, Probably not. But I refrain from voicing that thought. Instead, I wait for her to tell me, which she always does. “They told me I have methane gas poisoning. Those maintenance men could’ve killed me, Violet!” she cries shrilly. Everything with DeeDee is a matter of life and death. Like everything else about her personality, there is no middle ground. It’s high or low, wonderful or horrible, black or white.
“What did they suggest you do?”
“They said I need to get out of there until they fix that mess and let the place air out.”
I can feel my day taking a turn for the worse. “When was this?”
Shamefully, I’m praying that she’ll say this was days ago and that the danger has passed, and that she’s back in her apartment again. But I realize this is likely a stretch.
“Last night.”
I sigh. Again. I can’t help it. I know what’s coming. I’m going to offer her a place to stay, because that’s who I am. And she’s going to accept it, because that’s who she is. And she’s going to turn my neat, orderly home and life into a pigsty in two point two seconds, because that’s the way it goes. She doesn’t know the meaning of the word clean and I’d say she hasn’t even seen a broom in a year or more.
But then, miracle of miracles, she continues, saving my Thursday from the apocalypse of houseguests. “But John, the guy who lives in 3C that I was telling you about, offered to let me stay with him so I could be close to all my stuff.”
“John? The one who told you he has a problem with his temper? That John?”
“Yes. He’s never gotten hateful or mean with me, though.”
“But that doesn’t mean he won’t. You barely know him, DeeDee. Do you think this is smart? Why don’t you just come and stay with me?”
DeeDee has the best track record in the history of track records for picking the absolute worst man in a fifty-mile radius and attaching herself to him. She’s been married more times than I can count and is convinced that she cannot have a happy life if it doesn’t have a man in it.
“I’ll be fine. I think there really might be something between us, Vi.”
“But DeeDee, you said he—”
“He might be the one,” she interrupts, triggering a cringe-hiss-sigh combo in me. I’ve heard this too many times before. They’re all “the one,” and yet not one of them sticks around.
“But what if he’s not? What if he really does have some anger issues? What then?”
“I can leave anytime I want. He’s not making me stay there.”
“I know, DeeDee, but—”
“It’ll be fine, worrywart,” she assures in her completely oblivious fashion. When she’s like this, she can’t be reasoned with. Even less so than on a normal day.
“Will you call if you need me? If he gets rough or mad or starts to spout off, will you call me? I can come straight over and get you.”
“I’ll call if he gets rough, Vi, but he won’t. I guarantee it.”
“You’ve known the guy for a couple of months and gone out on two dates that didn’t go well. How can you guarantee it?”
“A woman just knows these things,” she declares mystically.
Oh Lord!
“How about I come by and check on you later?”
“I won’t be there. John is taking me out to dinner tonight.”
“Then tomorrow?”
“He’s taking me to get groceries. I told him I’d buy since I’ll be there eating his food. I’m gonna show him what a great cook I am.”
I hold my tongue. There’s no point in arguing with her when she gets her sights set on something. Or someone. I just sit quietly in the silent interior of my car, waiting for her to get to the reason she called. She has to need something.
“But there is one thing . . .”
And there it is . . .
“What’s that, DeeDee?”
“I just bought all my medications a few days ago, so I really don’t have any money to buy the groceries. Do you have a few dollars you could spare? Just until I get my check?”
DeeDee receives aid from everyone that will help her—the state, the federal government, the local churches, and, of course, family. “Family” in this case translates to me. Everyone else is pretty much tired of her never-ending state of distress, but I just can’t turn my back on her. She’s family. And that’s not what family does. Family sticks around when everyone else leaves. At least they’re supposed to. Most of mine just haven’t figured that out yet.
“I’ll bring something by after work.”
“Just put it in my mail slot. I’ll be back and forth most of the day.”
“Okay. Just . . . just be careful, okay?”
“I’m always careful, hon.”
I swallow the derisive snort before it can make its way out. “Call if you need me,” I say, totally unnecessarily. DeeDee always calls if she needs anything.
“Oh, I will.” And I have no doubt she will. I just hope it’s not from the hospital or from a battered women’s shelter.
After I hang up, I sit in the quiet, reminding myself that I love this, that I love helping people. It takes several minutes of convincing before I feel patient enough to go in to my client’s house. As I walk toward the front door, I hear a screaming child and I know this is going to be one long and nasty Thursday.
* * *
I’m feeling a little off-kilter by the time Tia and I reach the meeting. I don’t know why, but I suddenly feel stupid for rushing home to take a shower and taking special care with my hair and makeup tonight. I wouldn’t normally do that, and I know it has everything to do with the prospect of seeing Jet.
I feel even worse about my silly decision when, fifteen minutes into the meeting, Jet still hasn’t shown.
Part of me is a little worried that something has happened. I mean, he seemed pretty serious about the process thus far. Another part of me is disappointed that maybe he’s pulled the wool over my eyes, that I believed him because I wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that there’s hope for him. I now realize I was a little too personally invested in that hope.
The biggest part of me, however, is upset that I don’t get to see him, and that he didn’t want to see me enough to come to this meeting. And that is unlike me, which shows me that I really was getting too close. For that reason alone, this is probably a good thing. Tonight, I’m officially pulling the plug on being his sponsor. If he’s not any more committed to healing than this, I’m not going to waste my time.
Even though I’m not a real sponsor and I’ve lied to him from the very beginning, I think.
I refuse to let the guilt I feel over that take hold, though. This is all for th
e best. I just need to see Tia through these meetings and then put it all behind me. The end.
If only it were that easy. Because it’s not.
By the time the meeting is closing, I’m feeling antsy and angry and in the midst of a desperate need to blow off steam, something I’ve never really felt before. Normally, I cope well with whatever comes my way. But tonight, that’s not the case. I don’t know how to explain the particulars of it, I just know that I want to go out and prove something to somebody, whether it’s me or someone else, or the world at large.
When Tia and I are settled in my car, I turn to her. “Do you wanna go somewhere?”
She frowns. “Like where?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Just somewhere. I wanna do . . . something.”
“Huh?” She’s looking at me like I’ve grown a second head. Even Tia realizes this isn’t like me.
“I don’t know. I feel . . . antsy. I just wanna go somewhere and do something.”
“Like where? You mean like a bar or a club or something?” She looks doubtful because I’ve never wanted to do those things.
Until tonight.
“Yeah, maybe something like that.”
“Why?”
“Tia, I don’t know. Why are you asking so many questions? You’re the party girl. Can’t you just run with this, like you usually do?”
“I’ve always done this part solo. Or with other friends—friends who go out. Never with you. You’re throwing off my game.”
“Well maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe, for once, you don’t need game. Maybe I need game.”
“What the hell has gotten into you?”
“I don’t know. And I don’t want to spend the rest of the night thinking about it. Now are we going somewhere or not?”
Her eyes get wide and she holds up her hands. “Okay, okay, okay. Untwist the panties. We’ll go out. Damn.”
“Good,” I tell her with a relieved smile. I start the engine and back out of the parking lot. “Where to?”