Other Broken Things

by C. Desir

  “Come to the meeting. I’ll meet you there. We’ll go in late. Just come.”

  I’m too tired and too wrung out, but I agree to go because if I don’t, I won’t be able to get Joe off the phone. He’s that guy. That friend. And as I watch my other friends dance and spin in the living room of Amanda’s house, drinking out of a bottle in front of her large bay window, I say a little prayer to a maybe-God to be worthy of a better friend. Because I’m pretty sure my old ones aren’t going to work out.

  Chapter

  Fourteen

  Christmas Eve brings an end to Elfie’s hiding, with his final resting place being the base of the tree next to gobs of presents I’m sure none of us really need. It’s incredibly quiet in the house this year, and I feel like both my parents are moping because they didn’t have a party. I tell them a hundred times they could still invite the neighbors over, but Mom holds her ground and instead we have a somber meal on formal china.

  Mom cajoles us both into going to church, which I’m actually okay about. I’m on the Third Step with Kathy and we’ve been talking a lot about things we have no control over and giving those things up to the universe. Church seems as good a place as any to let go of a bunch of crap I can’t do a damn thing about. Which Kathy says is pretty much the same as putting my faith in a higher power.

  Christmas Eve service at church is a pageant with a bunch of overtired kids, who all signed up to be angels or animals, so there’s only one magus and no shepherds. Mary and Joseph are usually played by the couple who had a baby most recently, so most of the service is hard to hear because of a screaming Baby Jesus. It’s pretty hilarious and completely disorganized. Which is one of the things I always liked about our church. Before I stopped going because I was too hungover to knuckle through it.

  Our church is really mission based, so they’re always mixing everyone up, pushing diversity and integration and all of us being children of God. There’s one big service: kids, old people, homeless guys, my parents. Together in one place. Tonight I catch sight of a couple of guys from AA who nod and smile at me. Dad glares at them when they give me a thumbs-up.

  “Chill,” I mumble. “They’re from my meetings.”

  “Wonderful,” he says. “Maybe you should invite them to the house afterward. That would cap off the evening pretty well.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic in church, Tom,” Mom says, which makes me snort.

  At the end of the service, one of the girls from the high school youth choir sings “O Holy Night.” I’ve seen her at school before, but she runs with a way cleaner crowd than me. Not that I’m running with any crowd right now. Her name is April, I think. Her voice sounds like an angel’s and even Dad shuts up with the snarky comments after she sings.

  On the way home I get a text from Joe.

  Make it through the day?

  I smile.

  Yeah. You?

  I should’ve asked him his plans. It occurs to me now that he might be alone and the thought of that makes me ache a little.

  Kathy and I burned lasagna and went out for Chinese.

  My stomach tightens and I pretend I don’t feel jealous, but it’s no use. And I’m at the point now where I can’t lie to Joe about it.

  I wish I could’ve been with you guys. Dinner was filet mignon served with a side of angry father and placating mother.

  My phone pings back right away.

  Sounds delicious. SFC is open all day tomorrow. 24 hours because there are lots of people who are orphans at Christmas and it’s one of the hardest times to stay sober.

  I look at Mom and Dad in the front seat. Not talking to each other. Neither smiling. Dad looking at stocks on his phone while he’s driving as if the market is still open. Mom holding on to her seat belt as if she’s anticipating imminent death.

  You going?

  Not sure. Are you booked all day?

  Hardly. Belgian waffles in the morning, then presents, usually done by 11 a.m.

  O’Hare Oasis is open too, if you want to have some biscuits before stopping by SFC.

  Noon?

  It’s a plan.

  I can’t stop the grin from spreading on my face. I should feel bad that I’m bailing on Mom, but I honestly don’t. Two Christmases ago I went to the gym after opening presents and sparred with Josh because I didn’t want to deal with Mom’s A Christmas Story marathon. Then I came home to a lecture from Dad and a mandate to stop boxing. Which I ultimately complied with. Last Christmas I was loaded by eleven a.m. from spiked eggnog and a few snorts of Ritalin. All things considered, my attendance this year shouldn’t be required, really.

  “I’m going to SFC tomorrow after we do presents,” I say, leaning forward a bit so I rest my hand on Mom’s shoulder.

  “What? No. Natalie. We’re spending the day together as a family.”

  I shake my head. “We did that today. We’ve had plenty of quality time. And SFC is open all day because a lot of people have a tough time on holidays.”

  I’m totally playing the pity card, but I don’t want to make a big deal of this.

  Mom turns back to me. “Well, is it open for everyone? Because maybe we could bring over some food and—”

  I wave my hand. “No. Mom. No. It’s only for the alkies.”

  This probably isn’t true. And I’m pretty sure no one would turn my mom away at the door if she were holding a roasted ham and a bunch of her cookies, but I don’t want her to be part of this. Part of me and Joe and our day.

  Her head drops for a second and she lets out a little sigh. I feel like a huge asshole, but I just can’t deal with them for another day.

  “If that’s what you want, Natalie. I’ll drive you over.”

  “Nonsense, Sarah,” Dad interjects. “That’s why I fixed up her car. She can drive herself, and you and I can join Steven and his wife for their Christmas cocktail party. I’m sure I can call tonight and let him know we’ve had a change of plans.”

  Dad’s so enthused about this I’m a little sick. I almost want to tell him to forget it just so he has to suffer with my company. But the carrot of Joe is too big to resist. “See, Mom? You and Dad have plans. It’s going to be fine. I’ll go to SFC, do a meeting, they’ll probably have a speaker or something, then I’ll come home. No big deal.”

  Mom’s shoulders slump. “Okay.”

  * * *

  Joe’s already at Popeyes when I slide into the seat across from him on Christmas. A box in red candy-cane wrapping paper and a green bow is sitting on the table.

  “Shit. We’re exchanging gifts? I don’t have anything for you. You didn’t say.”

  He smiles. “It’s not necessary. And I don’t need anything. But this, you need. Well, you actually don’t need it. But . . . just open it.”

  I’m curious and I have no patience and I hate surprises, so I rip it open like a little kid and he laughs.

  “Joe,” I say with a big grin. “You bought me a carton of cigarettes. You are a Christmas miracle.”

  “This is the part where I tell you that you probably shouldn’t smoke. You’re young and it’s a nasty habit.”

  “And yet here I sit with this spectacular gift and it’s perfect. And saves you from having to give up half your supply.”

  He gives me a partial grin and my stomach whoops, and yeah, that needs to stop happening. I look at the cigarettes and swallow down all the things I could say but definitely should not.

  “Oh wait,” I say at last. “I do have a gift for you.”

  I dig through my bag and pull out a pen. “Close your eyes,” I tell Joe. He closes them and I dig out Elfie. I write the letters KILL on his little plastic fingers, holding in my laughter as I do it. “Okay, you can open them.”

  Joe looks at Elfie and blinks. I hold up the plastic hand with KILL on it and he laughs. “It’s perfect.”

  “Yeah. Elfie’s just like you. Seemingly all chipper and put together, but he totally has a dark side.”

  “You think I have a dark side?”

&nb
sp; I nod and take Joe’s hand. Which maybe I shouldn’t have done because I don’t really want to give it back now. And I’m pushing, but I can’t help myself. I trace the letters on his knuckles and he doesn’t pull away and I look at his face, and I know he’s right there with me.

  “So. How’d you end up with this tattoo?”

  He shakes his head and pulls his hand back. “Funny story, actually. After I got out of prison and hooked up again with some of my old friends, we got wasted one night and they started talking trash about how I was the only ex-con they knew without ink. So I’m not totally clear on the details, but we found one of those all-night tattoo parlors and the next thing I knew, I woke up with this.”

  “Could’ve been worse,” I say.

  “Yeah? How’s that?”

  I shrug. “You could’ve ended up with ‘Property of Cook County Corrections’ inked on your ass.”

  “You’re such a classy girl.”

  I wink. “I try. Now go buy me some biscuits before I really start to talk dirty and you aren’t able to stand up.”

  He bolts from his seat and I choke on laughter. He turns back and smiles at me and now I know: he’s in just as bad as I am. Crap. Crap crap crap crap crap.

  Chapter

  Fifteen

  I’m at Starbucks at the butt crack of dawn on the Sunday morning after Christmas with a Venti double mocha and Kathy in front of me with a blank notebook and the Big Book.

  “So I assume you understand what the Fourth Step is, even if last time you only half-assed it,” she says.

  “Excuse me. I fully assed it.”

  She snorts. “No. You didn’t. Because we wouldn’t be here if you did. Now, mostly the moral inventory is about resentment, regret, booze, and sex.”

  “What?” I sputter.

  She shrugs. “Well, that’s pretty much what it is. You make a list of all the things you resent right now and figure out why that’s your problem, and not the problem of the people you resent. You make a list of all the things you regret, now and in the past, then figure out why that’s also your problem. Then you make a list of how you dealt with these resentments and regrets with alcohol or sex or both.”

  “I don’t remember them doing it like this in rehab.”

  Kathy shakes her head. “That’s because rehab is meant to dry you out, so you can start to do the real work.”

  “That sex thing seems sketchy. This isn’t Sex Addicts Anonymous.”

  Kathy flips open the Big Book and faces it toward me. “Read this section on the Fourth Step. The whole last bit is all about sexual relationships. Bill W. knew what was what.”

  If I’m being totally honest, I don’t want to get into this with Kathy. Not just because of my less-than-pure thoughts about Joe, but because I’m not sure I want this crusty lady diving through my notes about my sex life. I’ve worked too damn hard to shut all that down.

  “How do you even know if sex was a problem for me?”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Sex is a problem for all of us. And you probably more than most. Look at the way you chew gum or smoke cigarettes.” She waves to the wrappers of the gum that I’ve already chewed through since we’ve been here. “Tell me about your last boyfriend.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me that sex and alcohol weren’t all wrapped up together in how that ended—probably how it started too.”

  I take a sip of coffee. “His name is Brent. And yeah, I guess those were both involved.”

  “And does he fall into the category of resentment or regret?”

  “Don’t know. Both, I guess. I resent that I got sent to rehab because I was dropping his wasted ass off.”

  She scribbles something in the notebook. “And the regret?”

  I shrug. I have a world of regret when it comes to Brent but there’s no way I’m getting into that with Kathy. “I don’t know. I guess I feel bad because I sort of used him. For booze, for someone to party with, whatever.”

  She nods and scribbles more, then passes the notebook to me. “See? Columns: Regret, Resent, Reason. Now you need to fill in the rest of the list, and include every grudge you’re holding on to. Even the ones from a long time ago. Your parents. Your psychiatrist. Whatever. Get them all out. Then we’ll meet and talk about it. You’ll tell me your story about how you got here and include all the things on the list, and we’ll smoke a bunch of cigarettes and then it’ll be done.”

  When I did this in rehab, I had two things I talked about: my parents and school. I didn’t mention friends or anything from the past. I didn’t mention boxing or Jerry or the gym. I didn’t mention the accident or Brent. I didn’t want to get into all of that. Steps Four and Five in rehab took two fifty-minute therapy sessions. And I even had some time to kill afterward so we talked about holiday plans.

  “You want this for next week?” I say, and then take another piece of gum and shove it into my mouth. The cinnamon flavor goes really well with the mocha.

  Kathy snorts. “You won’t be able to have a full list by next week, but it’ll be a place to start.”

  * * *

  I enter my house after the pancake breakfast to a full-on battle. Dad is screaming at Mom to take down all the holiday decorations already and she’s bellowing back that it isn’t even New Year’s yet and she should be allowed to keep them up until then.

  I try to slip up to my room, but Dad hears me drop my keys on the table in the front hall. He storms out and stands before me with his hands on his hips.

  “You need to start coming to church with us on Sundays.”

  I blink. “What?”

  “We look like we’re not a functional family and with all the rumors flying around about your stint in rehab, we need to shore up and have a united front.”

  I hold my hands up. “What the hell does that mean? Are you listening to yourself? Shore up? Who says shit like that?”

  Mom has trailed in behind him and I can tell right away she’s been crying.

  “Watch your tone, young lady. It’s a privilege to be living under my roof, not a right. And I can have you out on your fanny before you even blink.”

  My mouth drops open. “I . . . I can’t go to church. I meet with my sponsor on Sunday mornings and then do my community service.”

  Dad glares at me, then turns on Mom. “Then none of us go until she can. Until her community service is over. I have more important things to do and I don’t want to be fodder for the gossips.”

  “I want to go to church,” Mom says softly.

  He shakes his head. “Then you’ll go alone. And the decorations come down today. We’re done discussing this.”

  He slams his way upstairs and Mom looks more broken than I’ve ever seen her. I want to reach out, but I can’t imagine she’d want that from me. So instead I say, “Do you need help? I can do the lights outside and the inflatable decorations.”

  She shakes her head. “I’ve got it. You’ve been up since five, why don’t you take a nap?”

  I make my way upstairs and hear her sniffling as she starts to take the ornaments off the tree, carefully wrapping each in tissue paper.

  After five minutes of listening to her, I go to my dresser and grab my workout gear. I pull on my thermals and call to Mom that I’m going for a run before I slam the door and take off.

  * * *

  Running feels fucking terrible. Like I’ve been living inside an iron lung. But I don’t care; I pick up the pace and try not to kill myself on the ice. I do a series of jabs, hooks, and uppercuts when I stop in a park to catch my breath. Then I take off in a sprint again. I used to run miles when I was boxing. I could jump rope for nearly an hour. Mom and Dad didn’t even really know. Not until they saw one of my fights. Then it was all concerned looks and discussions about other sports I might be interested in for a while. It wasn’t long before it reached ultimatum level.

  By the time I get home I’m drenched with sweat and frozen all at the same time. I feel like I’ve been rolling in the snow. Mom looks at me
and shakes her head.

  “It would be easier if you didn’t smoke so much,” she says.

  I point to the mountains of decorations she still has to take down in the house. “It would be easier if you didn’t decorate so much.”

  Her bottom lip trembles and she turns away from me. God, I suck as a daughter.

  I want to de-stress. I need to. When I get to my room I grab my phone and thumb through my texts to find Brent. But Joe’s name is there and on impulse more than anything else, I decide to text him.

  I need out or I need to shut off.

  My phone rings a second later.

  “Where are you?”

  “Home.”

  “What’s going on?” I can hear music in the background and figure he must be in his truck.

  “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m not even sure why I texted you.”

  He lets out a breath. “You texted because you want to drink and you want to not drink and you’re hoping I’ll help you into a more solid place with that.”

  I laugh. “Are you offering to take me on a bender?”

  “If you’re going to drink, I’d prefer you were with me, yes. But I’d like a chance to talk to you about why it isn’t a good idea, and I need you to tell me why you think it is.”

  His voice is calm, but my edginess is still slamming into me from all sides. My mom’s tears, my dad’s concerns about us being a functional family, the way my brain has stopped going blank and seems to actually want me to figure some shit out.

  “What’s your address?” Joe asks.

  “It’s 1121 Elmwood. Why?”

  “In case you want me to come over.”

  I’m not sure what to say to this. Or what my parents would think. Asking seems really fucking hard in this moment, but it is what I want. The pause is too long between us and I wonder if he’s hung up, but knowing Joe, he’s waiting on me.

  “I’m tired,” I start. “I went for a run and I’m tired. But not just from the run. From everything.”

  “Yeah. You know what they say in AA: Don’t HALT. Never be hungry, angry, lonely, or tired.”

  I laugh a little. “So all four is . . . ?”