by Gia Riley
“There’s more,” she says with a grin. “You’ll never find all the bottles.”
I don’t doubt her for a second. I’m sure she has bottles stashed all over the property, and what am I going to do? Walk around, looking for every last one?
“Get up, Meadow. It’s time to go.”
She listens this time, and I’m stupid enough to let my guard down. My wife’s thin, more bone than muscle these days, but I’m not expecting her to try to take off without me. I end up stumbling backward on a loose board, snagging my foot on a stray nail that slices directly into my foot. The pain’s so intense, I scream.
The sound is as cathartic as it is necessary, and it stops Meadow in her tracks.
She doesn’t care about me though or about the blood covering my body. All she sees is the bottle I’ve uncovered beneath the deck’s surface.
She claws at the wood, and the paint peels beneath her fingertips. I somehow manage to grab the vodka before she does, immediately smashing it against the pillar. And then I turn toward her and grab her arm.
I’m relieved when she lets me lead her toward the field. If I’m lucky, I’ll take the same path as when I came, and we’ll make it to the road without getting lost.
I can’t tell you how much time has passed. Each minute feels more like an hour, but eventually, the light from Teddi’s car is bright enough to show us the rest of the way. But I’m not prepared for the cops standing on either side of her.
The red and blue lights from the cruisers create a kaleidoscope of colors that look more like the Fourth of July than a chilly fall night. Meadow loosens her grip on my arm, mesmerized by the show.
I’m tempted to pull her back into the field, following the line of the corn farther down the road until we can come out closer to the house. An officer spots us though, and I know there’s no going back. It’s time to face the music, and it’s not pretty like the song Meadow was singing. This verse is embarrassing and ugly.
For me anyway.
My wife’s oblivious to everyone watching her. She spins in a circle, following the lights as they rotate across the corn. I chance a glance at Teddi, wondering why she went ahead and asked them to come after I begged her not to.
She mouths, I’m sorry.
Maybe she really is, but I’m not sure she realizes what she’s done or how far this could set Meadow back. I had a plan. I have a plan.
I get it. This looks bad. Really fucking bad. Two grown adults walking around in a field, wearing next to nothing. One’s drunk, and the other looks like he’s been to war. I’d have questions, too, if I saw me alongside the road. But I’m not the bad guy in this story. I’m fighting hard for the both of us.
The first officer makes his way to me, and without giving me a chance to explain the circumstances, he says, “We have to take her in. And we’ll need to ask you a few questions down at the station, too.”
I don’t understand why I don’t get a chance to plead my case and take my wife home. What have we done that’s so awful?
But then I remember the blood, the argument at the farmhouse, the shattered bottles, the screams. It’s quiet enough out here in the country that they probably already heard it all for themselves. No amount of explaining could get them to do as I ask.
I’ve run out of chances to help Meadow on my own.
I’ve failed her.
I’ve failed us.
“I fell asleep,” I tell the officer as my battered knees give out, and I crumble to the ground.
Teddi’s by my side in a second, and though I don’t want Meadow to go to jail, I don’t think I’m even mad at Teddi. I’m just tired. So damn tired. And, after what happened tonight, I have to face reality. Meadow’s problems are more than I can handle. I’m waving the white flag, begging for help, despite the awful scenarios running through my head about what will happen to her at the station.
What if she tries to push them like she pushed me?
Who will take care of her if she gets sick?
I don’t know how long it’ll take before the symptoms come back.
“Don’t let her die,” I whisper.
Teddi wraps a blanket around my back and rubs something cold on one of the cuts. It stings like a bitch, and I pull my legs closer to my body, so she stops touching me.
“I’m a nurse,” she explains. Another nurse, like Meadow. “The officers said I could look at your cuts while they talk to Meadow.”
Turning my head, I watch as they surround my wife. I should be over there, helping them. What kind of man am I if I sit here on the ground and do nothing?
“This isn’t your fault, Cash,” Teddi tells me.
The pain from my legs is forgotten. Teddi can see the true source written all over my face, evidence of a night from hell.
But she’s wrong about one thing. This isn’t Meadow’s fault. It’s mine.
We’re headed to the police station, about to be interrogated by strangers. Everything we say will go on permanent record, so even if Meadow turns her life around, we’ll never shed the harsh reality of tonight.
I wasn’t strong enough to protect my wife.
I messed up the plan.
And, now, our secrets aren’t secrets anymore.
seven
MEADOW
TWO WEEKS LATER
For the second time this week, I leave the group therapy session in tears. When I agreed to ninety days in rehab, I didn’t think it would feel this much like a prison sentence. Okay, I take that back. I didn’t agree to anything.
I barely remember the night I was arrested. Cash was mad at me, but he usually was, so that was nothing new.
After he found me in the tub, he smashed some of my bottles, and then I let him drag me toward the road. There was no use putting up a fight. Once he was asleep, I planned to sneak out again and go right back to the farmhouse.
But, once the officers surrounded me, my freedom was gone. I’d worked so hard to get out of that hospital bed, and there I was, being pushed into the cruiser with my wrists cuffed behind my back. The fact that I was locked inside my own body wasn’t enough; they wanted to torture me some more, and they didn’t even ask if I was okay.
I sobered up fast when Cash didn’t get inside the police car with me. Being on my own wasn’t something I was good at. There were too many voices inside my head, reminding me that I had no clue who I really was. And being forced to listen to each one of them scared me more than jail.
We were barely two Stop signs away from the field when the officer glanced at me in the rearview mirror. I wanted to ask him what he was looking at, but that was when I noticed I had forgotten to put clothes on before I snuck out of the house. I had been in such a hurry after I barricaded Cash in the bedroom that I left wearing next to nothing.
It didn’t matter though. Whether I wore a lot or too little, if I was drunk enough, I was just the way I was supposed to be. I only felt the things I wanted to feel, and the rest I blocked out.
I wish I could do that with my entire life—just tuck it all in the safe where Cash keeps the important things I’m not allowed to touch. At least then, I wouldn’t have to watch his disappointment over and over.
He doesn’t need to say the words out loud. He doesn’t trust me, and it’s like living with my parents all over again.
I’ve gotten good at shutting down the pain. Most days, the only way I can tell that I am not dead is to stand in front of the bathroom mirror and watch myself breathe. The rise and fall of my chest seems like such a lie because I can’t feel those heartbeats inside my body anymore.
Pale skin, glassy eyes, and a face that hasn’t seen makeup in months, I’ll place my hand on my breastbone to feel the breaths, and then I do my homework.
Studying the woman I am supposed to be has become my obsession. I figure, if I look at her enough, I might even start to like her.
But there is nothing more depressing than paging through wedding photos, staring at hundreds of choices I made and not remembering a sing
le one. The cake was the hardest. I spent hours searching for little poppy seeds in the icing. Cash told me there weren’t any, that it was vanilla buttercream, but I had always wanted Grandma’s favorite—lemon poppy seed—and I couldn’t believe I’d have settled on something so plain. Not when she had taught me how to bake.
I miss her so much, and I know that, if she were still alive, I wouldn’t be here, fighting it out with Cash. I’d be at her house, and my memories would have returned by now. Without all the stress, I wouldn’t be so afraid to start living again.
Grandma is still with me though. I wouldn’t have had the dream about the house if she hadn’t visited me in my sleep. The day I found the farm was the happiest I’d been since I woke up in the hospital, which I guess isn’t saying much. But, when I sat in that old tub on the farmhouse porch, I heard her voice.
If I closed my eyes, the energy would get even stronger, and I would be back to being ten years old, baking cookies and catching lightning bugs in jars. She kept me up late, usually until just before the sun rose, telling ghost stories. That’s why I always went at night. Grandma had the best imagination and encouraged me to be everything my parents didn’t want me to be—a free spirit, a girl with a mind of her own, happy.
My parents never saw me like that. They only knew the quiet girl who said please and thank you at all the right times. The girl they insisted attend their important business parties even though they would ignore her after the introductions were made. I was as much a trophy as the awards that lined their office shelves. Only Mom didn’t dust off my bruises the way she kept those awards polished and shiny.
I wish I could go back and start over. I’ve told my therapist that a million times, and I get the same look of pity thrown back at me with the same lame response.
All she says is, “Hold on to the memories you still have. Good or bad, they’ll heal you.”
She’s a liar.
All those memories do is frustrate me.
Why can I remember one period of time and not another?
If life was so good with Cash, then why didn’t it pick up where it’d left off?
College, graduation, my first job—gone. They were supposed to be good times, and I desperately wanted them back. All I have as a reminder is a framed degree that’s not even valid. Nobody will hire a nurse who doesn’t remember nursing school.
That’s why I tore the degree right off the wall and broke anything I could get my hands on, including Cash’s patience. Every encouraging smile he gave me, I made sure to wipe it off his face. It’s not fair that he remembers, and I don’t.
“Start fresh,” I’m told, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to do.
Starting over means all of our firsts are really seconds.
Nobody understands that.
Even my therapist acts like I should be thankful for second chances, that I have a life left to live and a man who loves me. But that’s the thing. He doesn’t love me. He loves her—the woman he had.
Cash thinks I’m oblivious to the cameras and the babysitting and even the woman who turned me in.
She’d driven by me too many times for it to be a coincidence. I wasn’t sure where Teddi worked or what she did, but night after night, she was always there. A couple of times, she got bolder and braver, attempting to roll her window down and speak to me. I wasn’t sure why she wanted to talk to me so badly. She wasn’t someone I was supposed to know, so I never opened my mouth. I’d just run faster and darted into the field the first chance I had.
I knew the corn like the back of my hand, just like at Grandma’s house. I could run in between the rows without a single stalk touching my skin. It was a game I liked to play, and I was good at it.
But Teddi was the reason I was so scared at the police station. I caught a glimpse of her going into a different room, and I had no idea what she was telling the officers other than how many times I’d gone to that house.
I wasn’t a criminal, but my skin prickled when I thought of Cash finding out about all those nights I’d escaped.
He’d be questioned, too, and Cash would have no choice but to go all the way back to the beginning. He’d start with the surgery on my stomach and the sob story about how I might never be able to have kids because of all the scar tissue. That little piece of information was usually enough to turn hardened stares into pitiful waterworks. By the time he finished the entire story, he’d be out of breath from pacing a hole in the floor, and all our secrets would be exposed.
Nothing was sacred anymore.
My therapist thinks I do what I do because I want Cash to hate me. That life would be easier if he didn’t care anymore. As hard as it is to admit, I know she’s right. If he stopped loving me, I could move on. The pressure to be the woman in the pictures would go away.
I’d be free.
That sounds like the best thing in the world—until Cash’s face flickers in my head, and I see his kind eyes pleading with me to give it one more try. But all those tries add up. Days go by with more losses than gains, and time isn’t on my side. I ran out of it a long time ago. Why else would I be here?
I have ninety days to figure myself out.
It’s either that or jail.
Jail is terrifying.
After I was processed, they sat me in a room with a table and two chairs. Neither of them rocked, but my body naturally did it on its own.
A woman came to sit with me. I didn’t pay attention to her name. She’d told me, but all I heard was Cash yelling from the hallway. His voice made my heart race—and not because of my feelings for him.
At least ten times a day, I would tell him how sorry I was for screwing up his life. The more I said it though, the less of a reaction I got from him. I thought he might be giving up on me, and where would I go then? So, I’d say something that he wanted to hear just to keep him close.
We were both playing a dangerous game, and I wasn’t sure who would win. He constantly searched for signs that I loved him while I looked for clues that he didn’t.
How do you love someone you don’t know?
Cash did it.
Every single day.
Why couldn’t I?
I didn’t understand why he hadn’t given up on me. No matter how terrible I was, he stood by my side. That terrified me, but I was thankful he was at the police station. Because whatever he had shouted at the officers worked.
There was no formal interview and nothing specific I had to repeat or promise not to do again. The farmhouse wasn’t even mentioned.
Other than the fingerprints I’d left behind and the signature I’d written on the incident report, I was free to leave.
Cash seemed relieved, and once we got outside, I realized why. There was a car waiting by the door. He didn’t have to worry about dragging me off to the treatment center on his own anymore. They’d come to pick me up themselves. Turned out, the last paper I’d signed was my rehab agreement.
I’m sure they’d told me that, and though I was nearly sober by that point, I’d zoned out. That’s what I do when life is too much to process and the voices suck me deeper. I pretend I can’t hear them instead of doing what they tell me to do.
I didn’t see her at first, but once I stuck my head inside the car, I noticed Teddi in the passenger seat. Before I could run, Cash grabbed my hand.
“It’s not what you think,” he told me.
But it sure felt like a setup, like they were both playing a game, watching and following my every move as a team.
I wanted to believe Cash. After he told me about the deal he’d negotiated with his lawyer, a man who happened to be his boss, I think I did.
Instead of jail time, I would be spending ninety days in rehab. But neither jail nor rehab had alcohol, and for that reason, I’d be miserable regardless.
“Thank you,” I told him—two words that I hadn’t said often enough but probably didn’t even mean at the time.
I had bigger problems than Cash, like figuring out why Teddi was
in the car and where I’d get my next drink.
“I thought you’d be mad at me,” he whispered.
Shaking my head, I took a step toward Cash. The feeling that came over me was new, and I thought I wanted to hug him. Instead of reaching for him, I froze, waiting for him to decide for me.
He took a second or two, and then he wrapped his arms around my back. I fit underneath his chin like I belonged there, and he rested his scruffy face on the top of my head and exhaled.
For those few seconds his body was pressed against mine, we looked like a real couple. I begged my brain to remember what it was like to be with Cash. We had so much life left to live, and I wanted to want him as much as he wanted me.
He was mine.
I had a ring to prove it, but in my heart, I knew I’d never be worthy of that shiny piece of platinum. As long as I remained this empty shell, I’d keep hurting him. Especially when my desire for vodka was stronger than our connection.
Drinking was my true love.
“I love you, Meadow,” he whispered before we slid into the back seat of the car.
I had yet to say it back, and that morning was no exception. Because, the next time I said those three words, I wanted to be in love. I just didn’t know if that was possible.
I’d try though.
I’d try for Cash.
eight
MEADOW
Wednesdays are visitation days, and Cash is currently pacing back and forth inside my tiny room. I’m not sure why they allow guests in the middle of the week, but it doesn’t much matter when he comes. I never feel like socializing.
Other than the AA chip I earned after surviving the first twenty-four hours of sobriety, I have nothing to tell Cash. What is there to talk about when I’ve spent most of my time with my head in the toilet?
In two more days, they’ll hand me my one-month chip and applaud my efforts all over again. I’ve seen the production when other patients hit recovery milestones. Everyone smiles, seemingly proud of their accomplishments, but sometimes, I think those chips are more for the staff than us. I guess I can’t speak for everyone here, but I know I’d rather down a celebratory drink than add a coin to my collection.