The Light of Day

by Kristen Kehoe

  Sleep is the only time he’s completely still, the only time I can watch him openly and not worry that he sees more than me. Lying on my side, content to feel the weight and warmth of his arm, I started with the outline of his profile, those sharp cheek bones and slashing dark brows, his thick mop of brown hair curled into a disheveled mess from my fingers alternately twisting into it and yanking at it last night. Down my eyes swept, over his broad shoulders that are roped with muscles, apparent even in this relaxed position, further to his tapered waist and the slope of his lower back to his backside that disappeared under the sheet.

  It was that sight which had me getting out of bed, because it caused things to start stirring low in my belly, and however much I used to be a rock star who partied all night, I knew if I started something there was a distinct possibility I wouldn’t be able to finish it. Jake had out-sexed me last night, plain and simple, and as much gratitude as those memories evoked while they swirled and spun in colorful detail through my mind, accompanied by the requisite tingle or two, I was more than a little sore and even more grateful that he wasn’t awake this morning to watch me limp from bed, whimpering when I leaned down to grab his T-shirt from the folded but not yet put away laundry in the basket by the bedroom door.

  Now, I’m downing my second glass of water over the kitchen sink in the morning light that’s quickly turning to afternoon, and my head’s clearing enough from the sexual fog to see what I couldn’t when I walked out of the salon yesterday and into his arms. We’ve started our goodbye, and I can’t stop it.

  I think back to when he touched me last night, the first time and all others, how he transitioned from a careful, almost reverent lover to a brutal and demanding one, dragging responses from me that are terrifying on more levels than just the physical. I didn’t want him to stop touching me, ever; even more terrifying, I couldn’t have asked him to if I did. The power he has over me isn’t physical — it’s a connection of my soul that has woven him within its fabric, forever tying me to him and the person he’s let me be. Alone, I was surviving, finding my feet and learning how to get through each day, but with Jake, I’ve learned to be happy. He woke me from my slumber and showed me that life can’t be lived in the fear of yesterday, but has to be cherished for what I feel, what I can be, what I can offer today. And what everyone else offers.

  He offered me freedom from the walls I was living behind, and I’ll never forget that.

  My skin prickles, that natural warning bell that tells me he’s close, so I set my glass down and turn to face him, prepared, yet still shocked by the overwhelming swarm of desire that sweeps through me at the sight of him in low-strung sweats and nothing else, his long, lean frame a foot from me. I lean back against the counter and stare at him while he stares back, and then he’s moving forward, pushing into my space as he did time and again last night and has every night since we met really, until my hands grip his shoulders and he lifts me, settling me on the counter where he stands in the space between my legs.

  His hands stay at my hips and he inclines his head now that I’m slightly above him. I take my hands and run them through his hair, scraping my nails along his scalp and back, watching him the entire time.

  “How was training?” I ask again, and this time his eyes flutter closed and he leans forward to rest his forehead against mine, his hands slipping from my hips so his arms can band fully around my waist.

  “It was really good,” he says, and I hear it, the words we won’t say but are being forced to acknowledge as every day gets closer to the last. It’s almost done, it’s almost time for me to go. I nod and hold on tighter, knowing that soon enough I’ll hold him for the last time.

  ~

  The average addict relapses seven times before sobriety takes hold. This statistic is one I know well, not only because I’m a recovering addict, but because I’ve felt the pull of oblivion more than once since I left The House.

  I’m an alcoholic, but really, I only use that label because it’s the most straightforward and people need a label to understand other people, especially those people who are different. The reality is that most addicts are more than their substance of choice — alcohol is not my weakness, it’s my escape, my crutch to lean on when I don’t want to deal with everything else that’s weighing down on me. My weakness is control, fear, self-loathing, my never-ending need for more. More attention, more things, more fun, more love.

  I wasn’t a lovable child. No one had to tell me that for me to know it’s true. I was contrary from the moment I could speak, always saying no when someone else said yes, always pushing the envelope when everyone else accepted the limitations given. I didn’t feel loved because I didn’t accept it, and then when I realized I wanted it, no one knew how to give it to me, not even myself. So, instead I filled that void, that need, with substances and people. Lots and lots of people. Anyone, everyone, so long as I didn’t have to hear the silence that told me I was well and truly alone.

  I knew by age seventeen that I had pushed my mother far enough she wasn’t coming back. It took me until almost twenty-one to realize that every party I went to, every pill I swallowed or joint I smoked, and every morning after that I let her see me hung-over and used, I was challenging her to challenge me because even if she was done with me, I wasn’t done with her. How could I blame my mother for not loving me when I understood why she couldn’t? Why she shouldn’t. I wasn’t smart like Mia and Lily, her own sister’s children, or beautiful and dynamic like her friends’ daughters. I wasn’t athletic or motivated or perfect… I wasn’t anything, and that was the problem for both of us.

  Now, I feel like something, like someone, but I’m also scared as hell of losing that person, which is why I called my sponsor the weekend after Jake picked me up from the salon. I know that as strong as I am now, what I feel for him is so big, so terrifyingly real and wonderful that when it’s gone, I’m going to hurt. Since I don’t want to fall into an old habit, I called Kari, the fifty-year-old single law clerk who had dragged me back from the edge more times than Mia and Nina could ever even think of doing in those first few months. Mostly because she was an alcoholic, so she herself understood the pull of addiction, even when repercussions for it were staring you right in the face, giving you a goddamn good reason you should walk away.

  “There’s not always a reason we want to relapse, Blondie,” she once told me, using the nickname she first gave me back when I wore my hair as white as Gwen Stefani. “Sometimes, life’s enough to make you want the escape. When you feel the urge, you call me and we talk, then you find a meeting and you sit there and let other stories remind you why you’re stronger than your addiction.”

  “What about texting you?”

  “I’m fifty, not fifteen, so we’ll talk like humans and not those robots you young kids are turning into.”

  So, Kari and I talk, and even text sometimes, though she’s never happy about it. We talk less now that I’ve hit my one year mark than we did in the beginning, but I know she’s there and so I called, needing to tell her what I just figured out: Jake has to go and be who he was meant to be, and I have to let him, because however wonderful we are right now, there are things you have to face alone, without anything or anyone holding onto you.

  I wouldn’t hold Jake back, but I would hold on, and he needs someone who’s going to let him go and fight that battle and win, so he never feels the shame of failure his father did. And he needs to do that without worrying about me and the fact that I might get bored or lonely or needy for him while he’s gone for hundreds of days on end.

  “Blondie, I think you need to find a meeting.”

  Kari’s rough voice scrapes over the line and I bring myself back to the conversation. I’m standing outside of the salon, watching as pedestrians walk or bike by, bro-tanks and maxi dresses in full effect as April teases Oregon into bloom.

  “That’s why I called you.”

  “And I’m telling you that you’ve got too much shit going on to just call
someone. You need to sit down and face some people, listen to them and maybe let yourself talk, and you don’t need to just sit with someone, you need to sit with your people, people who understand what a trigger moment is.”

  I know all of this, which is why I called her instead of Mia. Sometimes, no matter how much people love you, it’s the strangers who don’t know you but who are like you that help the most. “I think you might be right.”

  “I know I am, that’s why I’m your sponsor. Listen to me, Cora,” she says and I know she’s serious. “You’ve got some heavy shit going down. You can handle it, I know you can, but that doesn’t mean you need to ignore the other things that are important, like your meetings and your recovery. It’s only been eighteen months, Blondie, that’s not that long. You need to take care of yourself, so you can take care of the rest of the people you love.”

  I sigh and close my eyes, understanding now why a sponsor is different than a friend, and why Kari’s always been able to be both. She’s like the Scientist with her no nonsense ways, her direct statements, and blunt attitude. She has a heart bigger than most and a shell that’s tough to crack, and she’s as different from my own mother as a person can possibly get. That’s one of the reasons I chose her. At my first meeting I just sat and listened, did what the counselor at The House recommended and watched, listening to people share countless stories, relapses, heartaches, and then I saw and heard from Kari. She didn’t cry when she spoke, and I could sense right away that her tears were private, something she wouldn’t share, but something I sensed were just below the surface. Kari regretted who she had been, and the limits it put on the person she was, even now. She was happy, and she was strong, but Kari was alone. Alcohol was a crutch that had taken her husband and her chance at a family away from her. Her battle was in reminding herself that she deserved forgiveness, even if she couldn’t give it to herself right away.

  I was lost at that first meeting, but, looking at Kari, I felt like she could help me find myself. She was strong, it showed in the sturdy set of her shoulders and the way she held the eyes of everyone in the room rather than looking over, around, or down as so many did. She challenged all of us to complete our steps, and I wanted more.

  I went to meetings for two weeks, not seeing her again until the last one at the end of that second week, and I decided right then that I wanted her to be the one to help me off the ledge when I needed it. A year and a half later, she’s not only telling me how to survive, she’s making sure I know I can, that I’m stronger than anything or anyone I’ve ever let hold me down, my fears included.

  “You there, Blondie?”

  I nod and then clear my throat. “Yeah, I’m here.”

  She sighs over the phone and I hear the heartache in it. “Life’s a real bitch, hon, that’s why we tried to tune it out. Now, you can’t tune it out but you do have a chance to change what you hear. How’s everything with your mom going?”

  I think back to the past few times I’ve visited her. The conversation hasn’t exactly flowed, but the silences are less tense and our rhythm feels more natural, less like a forced routine. And, oddly, she’s picked out a new color for her nails every time. Whether I should or not, I’m taking that as a sign that she wants to be something different than she was too, something more.

  “Of course she does,” Kari says when I tell her this. “Blondie, listen to me. Just because we’re adults doesn’t mean we think everything we do is right. Shit, half the things we do are unplanned, and even the half we plan don’t always turn out right. Your mama might not be able to say what she’s feeling, but she’s glad you’re there and, from everything you’ve told me, she wants to make things right, just like you.”

  I release a breath. “Thanks, Kari. I’ll find a meeting tomorrow, but this helped.”

  “That’s why I’m here. Let me know when you find a meeting. And Blondie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “One day at a time, remember that. You just survive one day at a time.”

  “What about all those days ahead that you can’t see, but that you know are waiting for you?”

  “You treat them like you do any other pushy person and tell them to fuck off until you’re ready.”

  The laughter is a relief as it rolls out of me. One day at a time. I can do that.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Jake

  Murph answers on the second ring, his voice cutting out as I hear the echoes of other voices around him.

  “Handsome Jake? Is it really fucking you?”

  I laugh and step out onto the balcony, angling my body so I can see the front door and Cora when she gets home. She had some things to do after work, like she has a few times since the morning we woke up and realized our time together was ending. I think she’s going to AA meetings, but since I sense that it’s private, I don’t ask, I just make dinner and wait for her to get home.

  Now, I’m standing here after my final workout with the trainer and I’m calling the guy I consider my best friend, because I’m getting my dream back, but in the process, it’s breaking my fucking heart. Not that I’ll tell him that — I’m hurt, not a woman.

  “Just calling to tell you only a pussy hits a double and three RBIs against Cal State. I expected a homerun and some stolen bases, but here Twitter’s telling me you’re barely scoring these days. I hope Mia isn’t too disappointed to realize you can’t find home plate.”

  “Leave my wife outta this, Pitch, and say that from the mound next time. I bet I can still hit you.”

  “You might just get a chance sometime soon,” I say and there’s a pause.

  “Hold on,” he says and I hear a few muffled thuds and a curse before a door opens and closes. “Jake?”

  “Who the hell else would it be?”

  “Jesus Christ, you did it. You’re coming back.”

  “That’s actually why I’m calling. I finished my rehab today — at least, everything that I can do on my own. The rest needs to be done with a team, and with the trainers down there. Got a room I can use?” I ask and he laughs into the phone.

  “Fucking A, just under ten months. I knew you could do it. Didn’t I tell you?”

  “Probably more like twelve when it’s all said and done, but, yeah, you told me.”

  “Well, Jesus, when are you coming down here? Our schedule’s in full swing, but Mia’s here and your room’s still open. We need to celebrate, have a welcome home party.”

  I nod and watch the front door. “Yeah, soon, I just have some things I need to take care of here first.”

  We’re both silent a second and then I hear Murph blow out a breath. “Shit, I wondered if that would be the case. Does she know?”

  I give in and shut my eyes, pressing the fingers of my free hand to them. “She knows I’m healing and that it’s only a matter of time before I go.”

  “What did she say?”

  I shake my head and open my eyes. “Nothing. Blue knows I can’t stay, just like I know I can’t ask her to wait. Won’t ask her to,” I add.

  “But does she know you want to stay? Jesus, Jake, have you told her how you feel? Because I can’t even see you and I know after a ten second pause exactly how you feel about her.”

  Fucking Murph, reaching the dream that disappeared isn’t enough, he thinks I deserve the girl too. For the last ten months, other than Cora he’s been the only person to text me, to continually encourage me, even when I ignored him those first few months after I moved. And still, as much as I want to do as he says, I can’t. “No, I haven’t told her. And before you ask, no, I’m not going to tell her. Shit, I’ve taken enough from her, Ryan, I can’t leave her with the pressure of my feelings too. We’re both just getting back on our feet — it was selfish enough of me to force myself into her life and make her care about me. If I tell her how much I love her and then walk on her, what’s it going to do to her?” I know what it’s doing to me: killing me, slowly, with every thought I have of walking away.

  “Why can’t y
ou just ask her to wait? Tell her you want to be with her but you need to try this too. It’s not like you’re leaving the country.”

  I shake my head, the image of my dad in various stages of depression and self-pity throughout my life popping up and running through my mind. I’d been honest the day I told Cora the minors were like war. Bad pay, a horrendous schedule, and no certainty of ever making it. Six months of traveling with maybe ten days off, hours a day at the field and a paycheck per year that’s lower than the national poverty line. How do you bring someone into that with the hope that loving each other is enough?

  “I can’t, Ryan. Waiting works for some, like you and Mia. What you have, it was here before, and it’ll be here after. Blue and me… I can’t risk her, man, I can’t risk losing her while I’m somewhere else, or worse, coming home broken and taking my failure out on her, hurting her because I couldn’t be the man I wanted to be.” I think of what it would do to me to know that Cora relapsed because of me, that she went back to being someone who couldn’t see her own worth. Someone who couldn’t look at me and see that she was loved. My chest contracts at the mere thought. I might have been able to risk myself, but not her, never her.

  “My dad never got out of the funk, Murph, he never stepped up and did anything else when the minors killed him, never got over losing the dream. You saw me when I thought I was done — it was girls and booze, all day every day. What if I fail and it changes me, changes who I’ve become since I’ve been with her? What will that do to her if she’s waiting for me and I come home a used up bastard, or worse, don’t come home to her at all?”

  My heart is beating too fast and I have to work to take slow breaths, in and out, while there’s silence on the other end of the line. I know he sees my point or Murph would have already told me I was being an asshole, to get over myself and go get my girl. Part of me was hoping he would say it so I could do just that, be selfish and ask Cora to wait for me, to love me even though I’m not nearly good enough for her. To belong to me because she’s made me a better version of myself than I ever thought possible. But he doesn’t. Instead, he blows out a breath and agrees with me. Bastard.