What Do Monsters Fear

by Matt Hayward

  This time, things would be different.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Three days ago, I shit myself.”

  Mary shifted her position on the couch, watching her grandson with wide eyes. Peter continued.

  “I did. I woke up and just felt it there. The worst part? I didn’t even care. It didn’t surprise me. Earlier, on my way home from work, you remember the coffee shop? I got a bottle of cheap whiskey with the last of my money. Hadn’t eaten all day. I know I should have bought myself something for dinner, something to line my stomach, but I didn’t. I was beyond feeling depressed, I suppose. Lower than low, you know? I’d reached out to Robbie and Bill. Stupid, right? Tried to convince them to meet with me, talk things over, maybe try get the band back on track. But they both said no. So, I bought a bottle of whiskey instead.”

  Mary’s eyes glistened and she lifted a hanky to clear them. It hurt him to see her like this, but he needed to get it out, so he continued.

  “I went home, put on the television, and downed the bottle in pretty much in one go. My throat and stomach burned but I kept drinking. I can’t sleep anymore, so I needed to pass out or risk staying up all night with my head rotating the same bad thoughts again and again and again. I didn’t just want to get drunk, I wanted to sleep and never wake up . . . Anyway, I remember gagging, and I remember my mouth salivating. You know how it happens right before you get sick? I leaned forward, like this, so I wouldn’t puke on myself. I didn’t puke. I must have made it to my bed instead, but I don’t remember that part. I just remember waking up in my own mess. And ever since, I’ve been in a, a sort of a daze? Like watching myself in a movie or something. I needed to end it, Grandma.”

  Mary’s voice was low and weak. “Peter, sweetheart, I can’t take seeing you like this. I really can’t. You were always so full of life, you know that? To hear you talk like this, telling me what you’ve done . . . I just don’t know what to say.” She reached across the coffee table and took a hold of his hands, her palms dry and hard. Beside them, their tea mugs steamed, untouched. “It’s taken a lot of courage to come to me.”

  Here she goes again, Peter thought. Justifying my actions. I’ll always be the golden boy in her eyes. No matter what.

  “Grandma, I can’t do this anymore. I need help—”

  “And I’ll give it to you, Peter.”

  “No, you don’t understand. You’ve done too much for me already. When I got that apartment you practically paid for everything. I need to straighten myself out, once and for all. I need to go to rehab. I have to.”

  The old woman didn’t reply, instead she leaned back and rubbed her hands together on her lap, letting him talk. Somewhere in the kitchen, a clock ticked.

  “Beth was by.”

  “Beth?”

  “Yes. She and I . . .”

  Don’t tell your grandmother about your sex life, you idiot . . .

  “We . . . She’s pregnant, Mary.”

  “Oh . . .” Mary looked about the room, not meeting his eyes. “Remember the day you gave me that?”

  She pointed to the photograph of Throttle that hung above the fireplace. Peter’s band. The center of attention. A young and healthy Peter smiled back from the picture, sandwiched between his drummer, Robert Greco, and his bass player, Bill Harris. All three of them looked so happy in the promotional shot for their debut album, and they were. The sky was their limit and people were paying attention to their music. Throttle was talked about all over the world. One of the best new rock bands to come out of York County. Their name was on everybody’s tongue in the industry.

  “I was so proud that day,” Mary said. “So, so proud. Your mother would have been, too.”

  Peter swallowed down a lump in his throat. “She would have been, wouldn’t she?”

  “Of course she would have. You know, when we left Ireland and she was only a little thing, she said to me that one day she would do something amazing and make me proud. Moving to the U.S. flooded her imagination with possibilities. She had this look in her eye, this look of determination. And you know what? Like most other people, she wound up working an underpaid job that she hated. Remember Cleary’s bar? Jesus. She hated it there. If they’d have taken a shot and promoted her to manager like she’d asked, she’d have turned it around, but they just wouldn’t ever listen. Useless fecks. Too late now, anyway.”

  Peter sat forward. “I’m . . . I’m not sure what you’re getting at?”

  “She never felt good enough, Peter. Ever. And she’d tell me that. Always tell me that. But I just wanted her to be happy, that’s all I ever wanted. No matter what she did, as long as she was happy, she was good enough to me. And when she had you, she was happy. She’d found her calling. She was a born-to-be mother and didn’t even know it. She just wanted you to be happy, too. And when we lost her that night, Jesus, my heart still hurts just thinking about it . . . I know that all she’d want is for you to be happy. Going to this place, this rehab, it’ll clean you up, won’t it? And then you’ll get in touch with Beth, that’s what I’m understanding. Will that make you happy?”

  “It would.” Peter found it hard to talk. He cleared his throat. “I need to clean up my act. I’m a disappointment.”

  “Well you’re not to me. You know that? People, good people, fall into problems with drugs all the time. And I’m not surprised, with all the rock and roll, I was half expecting it.”

  Peter smiled and tried to sound polite. “You know you always try and justify me? I’m a wallowing mess at the moment, Grandma. And as much as you don’t want to hear it, I’m a bad person.”

  “No, you’re a good person who made some bad choices. Want to know how I know? A bad person doesn’t know they’re bad. That’s the difference. You have a conscience. And you’re still so young. You’re so handsome . . .” Tears spilled down her cheeks, patting on her blouse. “I knew about Bethany already. She called by yesterday. Wanted you to be the one to tell me so I waited for you to call. Then when you didn’t, I went to call you. It was like magic, the phone just rang in my hands. She likes you an awful lot, you know that, right?”

  Peter nodded. “Did she seem happy?”

  “Ecstatic.”

  “I like her a lot, too.”

  The words seemed to come from somebody else’s mouth as Peter slipped deeper in his own mind, replaying that fateful night over and over. Just as he did so many times lately. He’d gone to visit her on a Saturday, helping her move to her new apartment. Like Peter, Beth grew up an only child just outside the city, a neighbor of his grandmother’s. They’d played together every day, just the two of them. No other kids their age lived out this way. In truth, she’d been his only real friend. And last month when he’d visited, their friendship finally took the next step, just as they knew it would. In the movies, their experience that night would have been magical, with music and a happy-ever-after ending, but in reality, it’d been a lot different. Peter spent the night sipping his beer and battling the urge to chug the whole case down his gullet. They’d played Monopoly, their favorite game from childhood, because Beth’s TV hadn’t been installed yet. Each time she won, Beth did a laugh that made Peter’s sensitive stomach flutter. Then he’d kissed her.

  Unlike a fairytale, they’d woken up the next morning a little embarrassed, awkward, and hung over. He’d left with a hug and a peck on the cheek.

  After that, Peter had gone back to his nine-to-five coffee shop gig with nothing more than an incredible memory and a little hope for the future. Until that bottle of whiskey. Then he’d hated himself. In truth, he thought Beth far too good for him. She deserved more than he could ever hope to give. Beth deserved someone with their head screwed on, someone who knew how to cook exotic meals, say stimulating things, all that kind of stuff. Someone with a suit and tie and a million-dollar smile. Someone unlike him. Peter knew if Beth gave him a chance, he’d spend every day trying to hide his habits and fight his troubles. One day out of a month, maybe, he’d be able to do it (that night
he’d only had four beers, after all), but a lifetime was out of the question. He couldn’t risk Beth seeing him for what he truly was. A monster.

  “. . . And now she’s pregnant.”

  “What’s that, dear?”

  Peter shook his head. “Nothing. Just rambling.”

  Mary smiled, her lips trembling. “You’re all I have, you know that? Jesus, what would I have done if you’d followed through with that stupid, stupid thing?”

  The lump in Peter’s throat came back like a lodged golf ball. “I know . . . I’m . . . Sorry.”

  “Promise me, promise me you won’t do something like that again.”

  “I promise.”

  A solitary tear spilled down Mary’s cheek. “You mean it?”

  “Of course I do. I really am sorry, Grandma.”

  Peter stood and went to her. He wrapped his arms around her fragile figure and breathed her aroma, a pleasant mixture of lemon and lilac, possibly from her shower gel. The soft fabric of her blouse moved beneath his hands, and he squeezed her. “I’m so sorry.” His voice came out muffled from her blouse. “I want to change.”

  “Then let’s get you changed, Peter. For you, and for this child.”

  Mary pulled him back to arm’s length and looked into his eyes. Her worn face was as rough as leather, but when she smiled, her face lit up. “You’re going to make a great father. Even if you and Beth don’t want to be an item, she knows that you’ll be there for the kid. I know it, too. So let’s get you cleaned up, okay? Tell me about this place.”

  Peter returned her smile. “I saw an advertisement in the back of the paper today. Never heard of a rehab center advertising, have you?”

  Mary shook her head.

  “Caught my attention. This place offers you a two-week detox course with group and personal support. From what I gathered, they give you jobs to do on this farm and you live and work there for the two weeks, talking to each other and getting counseling, working in the fresh air.”

  “You always liked working on the farm here, I think you’d enjoy it. And you will make a good father.”

  Peter smiled. His own father (a faceless sperm donor, nothing more—Grandmother’s words, not his) left when he was a baby. Peter didn’t know the man’s name and was happy keeping it that way. He knew his mother, Karen, moved into his grandmother’s place when she got pregnant and worked in a local bar just a short drive away to save money to get back on her feet. Because of that, she worked long hours, but Peter remembered her as a good mother. Caring. Until the icy night her car had skidded and—

  “Are you okay, Peter?”

  “Hmm? Yeah, I was just . . . Daydreaming.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “I . . .” The word caught in his throat. Come on, Peter, just ask. You know it’s the last time you will. “I need to borrow some money.”

  The old woman didn’t flinch, as Peter expected. “And?” She said. “How much?”

  “I have five hundred, but that’s only a quarter. I’d need a grand and a half to make up the rest . . .”

  “Well then that’s what we’ll do. I’ll give you the money, Peter, don’t worry. And in two weeks, when you’re out and clean and happy, we’ll have dinner here and celebrate. Me, you, and Beth.”

  The thought of that day made Peter’s head whirl. A day he’d be clean and happy and moving on with life? Hell, it might be possible.

  “And what will you do after the detox place?” Mary asked. “Go back to the coffee shop?”

  “No. I don’t know what I’ll do. At the minute I just want a fresh start, after that I don’t know.”

  “So you need to call them, I guess. The detox place. Call and book a place?”

  “I guess so. I’ll need to get the time off work, too.”

  “But you’re not going back there?”

  “Good point.”

  The idea of never having to hand over another cardboard cup full of steaming hot muck to a too-busy-on-the-phone businessman at seven in the morning made him grin. He never understood how people drank that stuff, anyway. Coming from an Irish family, they were tea drinkers to the end, by God.

  “Then I’ll call and quit.”

  “Well, you know where the phone is. And Peter?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Call her, too. She’d like that. I’d imagine she’s scared.”

  Peter nodded and crossed the room, the scent of baked bread drifting from the kitchen. Peter’s stomach rumbled. His appetite had returned, it seemed.

  Unfolding the torn piece of newspaper from his back pocket, Peter dialed the number shown. He didn’t pause to think, in case he got cold feet.

  The phone gave a solitary burr.

  Maybe I should save up the money myself . . . But that could be months, and what if I take a drink?

  A second ring.

  Grandma would want me to take it, I can always pay her back when I’m clean and—

  The phone buzzed a third time before being answered by a cheery, elderly man.

  “Hello? Dawson Rehabilitation, Harris speaking.”

  “Hi . . .” Peter said, his mouth dry. “My name is Peter Laughlin, and I’d like to . . .”

  . . . Commit myself? Send myself to? What phrase do I use here?

  The old man chuckled with good nature. “You’d like to come to Dawson Rehabilitation, sir?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “That’s not a problem, sir. How do you spell your name, please?”

  Peter spelled it out. They talked for ten more minutes while the old man filled him in on the logistics and details of the center. Dawson Rehabilitation, he said, operated from a small work-office in New York City and was owned by Doctor Harris Dawson, a renowned psychologist and well regarded counselor. As Peter found out, it was him personally on the phone.

  “My partner, Jerry Fisher,” Dawson explained, “is the man you’ll be dealing with on the retreat. Like me, he is a counselor with a very good history to his name, and that you can research for yourself, should you have any concerns. Jerry is forty-five years young, you see, and because of that he is much, much more suited to the manual labor you’ll be doing on the farmhouse than myself.” The old man wheezed a laugh and Peter smiled to himself. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel good for making the call. “We have two more places available for the course,” Dawson said. “Once they’re filled, should be later today or tomorrow going by the other calls, we’ll be in touch and give you our set date. Does that sound okay?”

  “Yes. That sounds fine.”

  “Any more questions, Mr. Laughlin? Please, don’t be afraid to ask.”

  “Could you tell me more about this farm?”

  “Of course.” The old man cleared his throat. “The Dawson farmhouse is located in the woodlands of Pennsylvania. In fact, believe it or not, it used to be my family home. I’ll admit I’m not much of a country buff, Mr. Laughlin, so I leased it year-in year-out while I moved to New York and got the business off the ground. It was always my idea to use it for Dawson Rehab as a center for retreats, and I’m glad that I now get to.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “It is. The main house is a two-story, beautiful old place with a good-sized porch out front. The trees have been felled and cleared, leaving a very nice yard I plan to get graveled soon enough. I think you’ll enjoy your time there, Mr. Laughlin.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Dawson.”

  “My pleasure. Please, call me Harris. I’ll be in touch. And good luck, Peter. Welcome to the Dawson Rehabilitation program.”

  Peter lowered the phone to the cradle and took a deep breath. He’d done it, and he felt better than he had in weeks. He was going to be a dad, after all. Not just a biological father, a goddamn good dad.

  Mary smiled from the living room doorway. “All done?”

  “All done, Grandma.”

  She shuffled over and gave him a hug. “I’m proud of you. You know that.”

  Peter placed his head on her shoulder a
nd squeezed back.

  “Now, call her,” Mary said. “Please.”

  Without another word, his grandmother shuffled to the kitchen. Peter heard the radio come to life and the old woman humming to some country music. He lifted the phone for a second time and dialed Beth’s number. He knew it by heart.

  “Hello?”

  “Beth?”

  “Peter!” She sounded relieved. “I’ve wanted to talk to you.”

  “I know.” Hearing her voice, tension drifted from Peter’s body. All of his troubles dissolved. “I’m at my grandma’s place.”

  Beth sniffled, sounding as if she’d started to cry but still happy. “And? How are you? I’ve been worried about you.”

  “I feel amazing, Beth.” His own voice cracked with the weight of the words. He cleared his throat. “I really do. Honestly. Beth, I want to do this. Be a dad . . . Will you let me?”

  Beth sighed. “You have no idea how much I wanted to hear you say that. I’ve been so frightened, thinking I’ll do this alone, or if I can’t then going and getting it removed and . . . I’ve been so scared.”

  “I know, I know. Look, I have to go somewhere for the next two weeks, but when I’m back, I’m here for good. I’ll be here for you, okay? We’ll do this together.”

  “I’m so relieved you called.”

  “Beth . . . We’ll take our time, all right? We’ll do this right. I promise you.”

  “I know.”

  Peter let comfortable silence sink in, listening to her breathing. Then Beth said something that sent his world away. “I love you.”

  Without hesitating, Peter said it back. They talked for fifteen minutes, and with each passing moment, Peter couldn’t believe the events of that morning had happened to the same man. Afterwards, they said their goodbyes, and Peter returned the receiver to its cradle.

  “I better get going, Grandma,” he shouted into the kitchen. “I need to get home and pack.”