by John Hunt
When he called Olivia before going home, she sounded nervous, as though she had spent it in the closet again. He hoped she hadn’t. He swiped a hand across his lips. Something he knew he did when he felt like a drink. Was there any beer in the fridge? He couldn’t remember. He thought there might be some but his memories of such things tended to blur together and become an amorphous blob. He would pick some up on the way home. He logged off the computer, threw on his coat and nodded and smiled his way to his car. His busy hand wiping at his upper lip, anxious for a cold bottle to press against it and let the amber liquid flow into his stomach, satisfying his need. Yeah, he should stop for a case. Didn’t matter if he had too much beer in the fridge but it did matter if he didn’t have enough.
-18-
“You think this will work?” Frank said.
Olivia had called him earlier in the week, planning an intervention for her dad. Sounded lame, even in her own head. Sounded so…dramatic. She preferred to think of it as a life assist to stop the slow self immolation her dad seemed hell bent on.
When she let Frank in the front door she knew his question referred to the intervention she was planning. She responded by engaging in an awkward hug. She saw he noticed the knife at her waist. He had always been reluctant to touch her, as though it would lead to caring or something. He cared about her in his own way, a familial obligation that dictated some interest in her well-being, she knew that, but she never depended on him for anything before. They had never been really close and their pattern of amiable acquaintance would take awhile to reassert itself. Olivia found herself reluctant to let others in. She trusted her father and he needed help. It was the reason she asked Uncle Frank to come over. Because she wanted Harry to get better. She offered Frank coffee. He accepted and then she placed herself on the couch, the crease in her brow deepening with the passing of every car.
“It has too,” Olivia said, her arms hugging her knees as she peered out the window waiting for her dad. Her hand strayed away from her knees and a finger played about the remaining tissue of her ear. She pulled her hair down over it.
Frank stood, leaning against the wall, looking almost bored.
He turned the coffee cup in his hand and said, “I could really do with a beer right about now.”
She rolled her eyes at him, “Not funny.”
He shifted his gaze from the window to her and said, “You’re right. Sorry. I’m just not comfortable with this…this whole intervention thing.”
“He needs it.”
“I don’t see it. I mean, sure, he has a drink now and then but don’t we all?”
“Of course you don’t see it. You’re never here.”
“Don’t turn this around on me.”
“I’m not. This is not about you at all. I’m stating facts. This is the first I’ve seen of you since…you know.”
“I wasn’t in the country!”
“You were supposed to come over for dinner that one time and cancelled, remember? But that doesn’t matter. Point is, you’re not here. And if you’re never here you can’t see what I see everyday. I’m telling you he needs help. He drinks himself stupid every night. Not one or two nights a week. Every night. I want my dad back. I need my dad back. If you don’t want to help, by all means, leave.”
“I never said that!” And then, “I’ll do what I can.”
The key turned in the lock. Harry walked in, saw Frank and smiled. It made him look young. He was carrying a case of beer in his hands.
“Frank! Holy shit! When did you get in?”
Frank shuffled his feet, his lips jerking into the semblance of a smile and then it faded away. Harry snapped a look at Olivia, confusion fogging his eyes.
“Dad. It’s time we talked.”
“About what?” But he knew. The panic flared his nostrils and without realizing it, he hugged the case of beer to himself, protecting it the way a running back would a football. For Harry, it was going to be a long night. The hard part wasn’t accepting that he needed help. He knew that ages ago even though he preferred to ignore it with the help of copious amounts of alcohol and a strong deflective shield called denial. The hard part was giving it up. Not drinking anything. Sweat dotted his brow. He wanted to turn around and run into the night. He even glanced back over his shoulder. The door was closed.
Olivia took the case from under his arms. He clenched his hands, refusing to let go but only for an instant. He released it and Olivia exhaled, relieved. She handed the case to Frank as he stood against the wall, his mouth a tight grim line.
His voice wavering, Harry said, “Now what?”
“Now we get you some help, dad.”
She hugged him and his body trembled.
. . .
That night, Harry attended his first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. Olivia sat on one side and Frank, looking equally bored and embarrassed, sat on the other. The stories, all different yet disturbingly similar fell on Harry’s ears and he listened. They affected him deeply. His eyes glistened and his lips wiggled tremulously throughout the meeting. These men and women were him. The self-loathing, the hatred, the nights choosing a bottle over a loved one, they were all him. Externally, they appeared different. Some looked homeless with their dirty clothes, unwashed scent and unshaven countenances. Others could be dock workers, truck drivers, nurses, doctors, lawyers all varying in education levels and income yet all the same in one way. Alcohol ruled them. Alcoholism could decimate and humble anyone. The great leveller. Like any disease, it choose whom to infect indiscriminately. And the person carried it like a black mark for the rest of their life. There was no ‘just one drink’ with people such as these. One drink lit a fire in the dark part of the soul that needed to be continually fed. One drink led to waking up in prison with a vomit bib on their shirt or a night they couldn’t remember lying beside a person they didn’t know, head throbbing and still reaching for the nearest bottle just to take the edge off. Had Harry been as bad as that? No. But on more than one occasion he dangled over the precipice, one foot on solid ground, the other, wavering over a dark hole, hungry for him, desperate to grind him up. Now Olivia had returned and she pulled and tugged him away from the gaping maw of oblivion. She wanted her father back. She deserved him. And he agreed with her.
Every night for two weeks they attended a meeting. Not Frank. He had enough the first night, saying he was busy at work, blah-blah. They were not always in the same meeting room or even the same building and so new faces showed and new stories were told.
Harry never considered himself a spiritual person. The twelve steps, written in 1952, contained a lot of references concerning God and surrendering to Him. It made Harry uncomfortable to read them over or even repeat them to himself in the quiet of his room when the thirst came upon him and soaked his sheets with the desire to give in, to give up. He sometimes dreamed of drinking from a river of alcohol filling him with equal parts guilt and immense satisfaction and woke up wanting to shred the twelve steps book with his bare hands.
He spoke to Olivia about the religious aspect. Nearing the end of the second week, they sat about the kitchen table each with a cup of coffee before them. The steam snaked into the air.
She asked him about the process and how he felt about it.
He said, “Sometimes it’s hard to take it seriously, even though I can’t imagine anything more serious. The God stuff. I’ve never been a big believer. One guy told me it helped, to read this out loud whenever the urge to drink came on.” He patted his pocket, “I carry a copy of it with me. The Twelve Steps. And I do read it out loud and, for some reason, it does help. It could be the repetition of the words, you know, is kind of like meditation. It calms me so I like that part of it. It’s the God part I have trouble reading. I stu
mble through it.” He held up the book, “It feels outdated. A manual from another time.”
She said, “Can I have a look? I’d like to read them.”
“Sure.”
She flattened the pages on the counter. He inwardly cringed every time her scarred hand appeared, doing normal everyday things. If she noticed, she never gave any outward indication.
The coffee steamed before her concentrated brow. In silence, she read.
Finished, she said, “It’s not outdated. It’s exactly what you need.”
“How so?”
“The repeating theme in the steps is powerlessness and admitting you have no control over alcohol.”
“Yeah.”
“So, the way I read it, it’s like you can’t turn to yourself for help, because you’ve tried and failed every time. So you substitute yourself with something better, something that loves you even though you so often hate yourself. Something that truly sees you. It encourages you to stand before this other, being, God, whoever, completely naked, with all deceits stripped away. It forces introspection.”
“So the God thing?”
“It doesn’t matter, not really. The point is, people lie to themselves all the time to rationalize bad decisions or to keep drinking or whatever. This other, you can’t lie to because it sees all. So, you’re not praying to God, you’re praying to the self inside you, the other that sees past all the bullshit and won’t let you pull the wool over your own eyes. It’s always been there, it’s just been hogtied and shackled by the need for alcohol. You’re providing it with the key. And if you do happen to believe in God? The easier it is to submit. You shouldn’t struggle with something so inconsequential. In the end, the purpose is truth. To find out why you drink. Then you can heal. And if you’re lucky enough to understand it, you can share the knowledge with others.”
He felt better after that conversation and every time he read the twelve steps after, he never stumbled over the ‘G’ word again. He felt well on his way to recovery and had to caution himself each time to take it slow because alcohol addiction wasn’t a beast easily tamed. Olivia provided him with the motivation and although he knew it’d be a lifelong battle, there was wisdom in the advice to taking every day one at a time. Sometimes, he would go a whole morning without even thinking about drinking and it would surprise him into smiling. He looked forward to going a whole day, hell, a whole week, without rubbing his hand over the upper lip, imagining the bubbly suds breaking over his tongue. That would be a time to celebrate…with coffee. Maybe even a fancy mocha! Yeah-yeah!
Three weeks into the program, Harry considered a sponsor. He was told most successful recoverers all had one. They would be someone to call, an alcoholic like him, when the urge became too strong and the demons pressed against his window at night, complete with frosty mugs of beer in each hand. Having someone to talk with, who has walked the same road as you, increased the chances of recovery and abstinence. Maybe Olivia could act as a surrogate sponsor. Smart kid, that one. She had plans for them. He already knew she wanted to move. They had been looking for places, not too far from his work yet far enough where they would both feel they were doing something new and of course, so the Jackal would have a harder time finding her. Making life changes while in the early stages of recovery was discouraged but he could tell Olivia couldn’t wait any longer. She prowled the house, glancing out windows, always tapping the knife at her waist. Terrified the bad guy knew where she lived and would pay her a visit. To tell the truth, it scared the crap out of Harry. Every time he walked into their home, he called out to her and for the split second before she answered, his guts coiled in turmoil, expecting silence in return. Compared to her, after what she had been through, his fear paled against it. This realization did nothing to lessen his own terror. Feelings were hard to compare between people because they were so personal and subjective. So they were going to move and he would just have to deal with it. He reviewed the real estate sites on his lunch hour. He hoped to find a place in his price range and not too far away from his work. The idea of a long commute fighting traffic wasn’t appealing to him. The move was the second part of her plan.
They talked of it one night after Harry, unable to sleep with sweaty and palsying hands, crept to the kitchen for a glass of water to clear his head. If there had been a bottle of anything lying about he would have downed it in one go. Before his first meeting at Alcoholic’s Anonymous, Olivia had him walk her all around the house to collect all the alcohol he had hidden. Every cache had been found. She even found the small bottle of whiskey he put in the back of the toilet. His emergency stash. Even though he would have loved to have a nip of anything, there was nothing left. Olivia had seen to that. And he fought the urge to buy more every day when leaving work. It lessened every day, but sometimes the urge to drink tackled him and held him down like a bully as if it were saying, thought I was done with you punk? Not by a long shot. You and me are welded together at the soul. Go ahead and have a drink. You know you will so just give in. So, that night, he went to get a glass of water because there was nothing in the house and the stores were all closed and lucky for him that they were. He would have crept out to get a bottle of something, of anything. He was sweating about it in the kitchen and didn’t notice Olivia walk in and when he did, her presence startled him and his face reddened with guilt. Being Olivia, she didn’t comment on it. Instead, peeling an orange, she smiled at him and said, “Couldn’t sleep either?”
“No. Don’t know why. What about you? What woke you up?”
“The night. The wind. Snow pellets tapping at my window. Take your pick. All noises are scary at night. I’m so tired Dad. Tired of being scared most of the time.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugged.
“Is there anything we can do about it?”
She nodded, popping a slice in her mouth. When she finished chewing she said, “I’m working on it. Part of a three step plan. To help me feel safe. Well, safer anyways.”
Harry, with water in hand said, “Three part plan huh? What are all the parts?”
“Part one: Operation get daddy sober. Part two: Give the bad guy the slip by moving. Part three: It’s a secret.”
“Even from you?”
“Oh, I know what it is. I’m ready for it and not ready for it, you know? Like looking through the tops of your skis before going down that giant hill. Exciting, scary and still unsure if you want to go through with it.”
“Really? Now, I’m intrigued.”
She winked.
And that was the last they talked of it. Curious. Very curious. He was anxious to get the move done so he could see what step three was.
The move would be a big change and any change was to be avoided on the journey to sobriety. He would have to give the sponsor idea a little more consideration. For now, he would be there for Olivia and that would have to be enough. On the computer screen on a real estate site, a house caught his eye. A smaller house. Still, the two of them didn’t need a lot of room. And it was close to work, hell, really close. He could bike to it in the summer. Even better, the house was situated a block from a police station. Why was it so low priced in the city? A fully detached bungalow? Must be something wrong with it. He perused the upbeat description and saw the problem. The classic fixer upper. The house needed a lot of work. Over eighty years old? No telling what problems were there. Harry and home renovations didn’t do well together. He once stapled his thumb to a baseboard. Frank still laughs about it. What about Frank? He’s a handy bastard. Hell, he has his own contractor business! He would help wouldn’t he? Harry would have to pay him and not just for the materials. It wouldn’t surprise him if he had to pay Frank for his time the frugal jerk. Frank made Scrooge seem generous, but c’mon! After what Olivia’s been through
and the fact they are related, that ought to count for something, right? Hmmm. Maybe, maybe not. Frank was a cheap bastard. Harry sent the link to Olivia’s iPad. He had sent her about twenty so far and everyone sent a trill of excitement through him. Who knew he wanted to move so much? Maybe the idea of a fresh start appealed to him. The problem lay in the fact that although the place may be new, the same old asshole (him) was moving there. The thought did nothing to diminish his excitement. He glanced at the clock. Time to go. Leaving the office, he couldn’t wait to go home and discuss the potential homes with Olivia. A house by the police station. He liked it.
-19-
He had seen her. So beautiful. How could he hope to stay away? Like bugs under his skin, he had to scratch. The itch wouldn’t go away by ignoring it or trying to find someone new to fill the void. No one could fill it. He would have to accept it. Even before he had taken her, the other girls he took were identical to Olivia and that was no accident. Early on, he recognized he would have to grab her and make her his. All those other girls, delightful distractions they were, yet they weren’t Olivia, not even close. Everything about her touched something inside him. He tingled everywhere, thinking about her. He couldn’t stay away, couldn’t think of starting another place without her. She was the key. She was his palpitating heart. He needed her. Her movements strummed the music of his soul.
He turned down streets, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white and his jaw ached from grinding his teeth. The familiar street. He was near her. He felt her pull on him, like a black hole sucking in matter. He couldn’t resist her. He had to see her.