“Me, too,” I said. I closed my eyes and sent up a silent, “Thank you, God!”
[Friday, December 12]
Max must be eavesdropping on my phone conversations. Out of the blue, while I was cooking dinner, Max said, “I never knew you had a drinking problem, Mom. It never seemed like it to me.”
“Well,” I told him, “it runs in our family. Papa is an alcoholic. His father was an alcoholic. Grandma Martha was an alcoholic. Dad’s dad was an alcoholic. You’re going to have to be very careful when it comes to alcohol. I quit because I didn’t like the way I was drinking and I didn’t want things to get bad.”
“Oh,” Max said and thought for a moment. “But Dad’s not an alcoholic.”
“No. Sometimes it skips people.”
“Oh,” Max said and left the kitchen.
This time I didn’t think, Maybe I don’t have a problem, and I smiled at this small sign of growth.
After dinner, I went to a meeting and Eliza was there. She looks good and seems happy.
“My sponsor found me a room to rent and I have to walk to catch the bus for work,” Eliza said. “I’ve lost weight and feel healthier.”
I gave Eliza a big hug and told her to call me if she ever needs help. Life’s going to get a lot tougher once that baby is born.
[Saturday, December 13]
Charlie made dinner while I was at a meeting. He cooked the frozen lobster tails I bought a couple of months ago and was pulling them out of the broiler when I got home.
“We didn’t have any breadcrumbs, so I made my own,” Charlie said proudly.
I was impressed. We sat down and Charlie served up the lobster.
“How are we supposed to eat this?” Max asked.
I looked at my plate. Partially translucent meat protruded from where the tail had been connected to the body. The breadcrumb mixture was sitting on top of the shell, and the shell had not been split open.
“You didn’t split the shell?” I asked.
Charlie began to fidget irritably.
“How many times have you had lobster when the tail wasn’t split open?” I asked. “The breadcrumbs. What purpose do they serve sitting on top of the shell? They’re supposed to be on the meat, you know, so you can eat the breadcrumbs and meat together. Didn’t you read the recipe?”
“Yeah,” Charlie said angrily, fidgeting even more. “But the recipe didn’t say anything about opening up the tail.”
I got a serrated knife and began sawing through Max’s tail. I pulled out a chunk of meat that was half cooked. “Didn’t you thaw these before broiling them?”
Charlie angrily got up, snatched our plates, and put the lobster tails back in the broiler. When he returned the tails to our plates, the meat was still not cooked. I shut up and picked at what I could.
“The parts I can eat taste good,” I said condescendingly.
Charlie scowled.
“I can’t believe the cookbook didn’t say anything about opening up the tail,” I said. I got up and retrieved the cookbook he’d used. “Here, it’s right here.” I pointed to a long paragraph in the middle of the recipe. There was also a diagram showing how to prepare a lobster.
“That’s for a full, live lobster,” Charlie said.
“Yeah, but it shows you what to do with the tail,” I said.
Charlie blanched. “I can’t believe you pulled out that cookbook,” he said. “I never would have done that to you.”
“I never would have cooked the lobster like that and lied,” I said.
The look on Charlie’s face screamed, “Bitch!” He began slamming things as he cleared the kitchen. I started feeling bad. After all, he had tried to cook a nice dinner.
“I’m going to start calling you Little Emeril,” I said in a joking way, hoping he’d laugh.
Charlie shot me a look that said, “Drop dead.”
“Bam!” I shouted.
Charlie laughed.
“Thanks for cooking dinner,” I said. “It did taste good,” I lied. Charlie scowled and started to say something.
“Bam!” I shouted again.
He laughed, thank God.
[Monday, December 15]
Max stayed home sick with a wicked strain of the flu. Poor guy had to take care of himself for an hour because I had to leave for my dad’s oncology appointment at eleven thirty, and Charlie, whom I talked into taking half a vacation day, couldn’t get home before twelve thirty.
When I got to Dr. Newhart’s office, my parents had already been led to an examining room and a nurse escorted me to them. Minutes later, Dr. Newhart walked in and my dad repeated what he’d told McCreevy.
“I had my prostate removed, then radiation, and Dr. Barren told me those were the two worst things I could have done,” my dad told Newhart.
“That’s bullshit,” Newhart yelled.
My dad laughed and looked relieved. I knew at that moment Newhart was going to be my dad’s doctor.
“The cytologist is pretty sure the lesions on your lungs are prostate cancer,” Newhart told my dad. “The lesions are very small and there are many on both lungs. A surgical biopsy of one lesion out of many would not tell us much more, so cancel your biopsy. I’ll do another CAT scan in a couple of weeks to see if the hormones are shrinking the lesions. We’ll go from there.”
By the time we walked out of Newhart’s office, it was time for an early dinner. My parents took me to an Italian restaurant around the corner.
“I like this Newhart,” my father said apprehensively. “I just hope I’m doing the right thing. Dr. Barren says he can cure me.”
“Dr. Barren is a lying sack of shit who shouldn’t be practicing medicine,” I said.
“We weren’t going to tell you this,” my mother said, “but when we went to see Dr. Barren the last time, he called you an idiot and told us not to listen to you.”
“He made me promise not to see any other doctors,” my dad said. “He took my hands, looked me in the eye, and made me promise.”
“Your father looked like he wasn’t going to promise anything,” my mother said. “But Dr. Barren kept holding his hands and staring your father in the eye until he said yes.”
“We should report this guy,” I said, anger twisting my gut. I put my face in my hands for a moment and just breathed. “You don’t know how hard I’ve been praying for you to leave Svengali.”
[Tuesday, December 16]
Max was still very sick: fever, congestion, body aches. I called his school. Lots of kids were out sick. I babied Max, waiting on him hand and foot, and in the evening passed him over to Charlie and went out to dinner with Emily and a few of the Door County chicks.
“Donna has blood plasma cancer,” Emily told me when we made dinner plans. “Her prince of a husband told her he was having an affair and wanted a divorce the day she was diagnosed. She started cancer treatment and the treatment caused her to have a stroke. Now she’s legally blind. But through it all, I have never heard her cry or complain. She’s amazing. Instead of being resentful, she’s glad she’s alive. Instead of being upset that she’s blind, she’s happy she can see a little and still see her kids.”
Out of us all, Donna was the most upbeat person at dinner. If Emily hadn’t told me she was blind, I’d never have known. Not once did Donna bring up her crappy circumstances. If I were Donna, I’m pretty sure I’d be crying in my beer.
[Saturday, December 20]
Max was sick all week, leaving snotty tissues everywhere. But now that he’s better, Van came down with the flu.
I bought tickets a month ago for Charlie, Max, and myself to see the Joffrey Ballet perform The Nutcracker tonight, and Van is supposed to sleep over at my parents house. I called my mom and asked if she’d mind coming to our house to watch Van.
“I don’t want you to get sick, but I really don’t want Dad to get sick,” I said. “You should be fine if you don’t kiss Van and you put him to bed early. I feel bad asking you to watch him. If you don’t want to, I’ll understan
d.”
My mother, of course, said yes. She came to our house, and Charlie, Max, and I drove downtown. We went to Prairie for dinner, and while we were having soup, I called my mom to see how things were going. I wasn’t worried about Van, I was worried about my father giving my mom a hard time for being at my house when she should be home with him. My mother had already put Van to bed and was lounging on the couch reading a book, but as I suspected, my dad was being a dick. My father had spent the day hunting with his friends in southern Wisconsin. When he got home, he realized he’d forgotten his house keys and was angry that my mother wasn’t home to let him in.
“Your father called in a foul mood, swearing like a sailor,” my mother said. “He was especially mad because he’d practically driven past your house on his way home. He drove here to get my keys, scoured your pantry for booze, and got even madder when he couldn’t find any. He found your cooking sherry and polished it off. He just left.”
“What an ass. I’m so sorry, Mom.”
“Eh, it’s okay,” she said. “Hopefully he’ll be sleeping when I get home. He’s always sorry in the morning.”
When I hung up, Charlie asked, “Your dad?” I rolled my eyes and nodded.
Our food arrived and the waiter placed the pork chops Max ordered in front of him. The chops came with a red currant sauce and were topped with crunchy bits of sweet potato. A square of cheesy grits sat off to the side. Charlie got the mixed grill and I got beef tenderloin topped with grilled onions and mushrooms. Max eyed my plate.
“I thought I was ordering what you have, Mom,” he said.
“Don’t you like yours?”
Max shook his head. “I don’t like the sauce.”
“You want to switch?”
Max nodded. “That’s what I ordered.”
“No, you ordered the pork chops, but I’ll switch with you.”
We exchanged plates. Max scraped away the onions and mushrooms and dug into the tenderloin. For dessert, he had a hot fudge sundae, and Charlie and I split a piece of sweet potato cheesecake with caramel sauce and fresh berries.
The Nutcracker was beautiful. The dancers were spectacular. The scenery and costumes were gorgeous. And Max hated it. He began sighing loudly and checking his watch toward the end of the first half. The only upside for him was that he was wearing his suit. Max loved wearing his suit. He even asked to go to church just so he could put it on.
“Come on, let’s get a Coke,” Charlie told Max when the intermission lights went on.
“Will you hand me my jacket, Mom?” Max asked. “I don’t want to look like the manager of Osco Drug.” I looked at Charlie and we burst out laughing.
During the second half of the ballet, Max’s sighing and watch-checking was constant. The family in front of us was having the same problem. Their son, who appeared to be about thirteen, got up three or four times during the second half and disappeared for long periods of time.
While we were driving home, Max said, “I don’t know why you thought I would like that. I hated it.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help thinking that if I had been drinking, I would have ripped into Max for being a little ingrate. Instead, I was laughing.
“Yeah, I don’t know what I was thinking,” I said.
[Sunday, December 21]
Charlie and I decided not to get each other much for Christmas. We were going to save money, just get each other token gifts. But when the December issue of Harper’s Bazaar came out in November, I saw an ad for a watch I wanted. The steel wristband on my Kenneth Cole watch comes apart all the time and falls off my arm. The watch I want has an over-sized face with diamonds instead of numbers, has a leather wrist strap, and comes in hot pink or robin’s egg blue. I showed Charlie the ad.
“I know we decided to get each other inexpensive gifts for Christmas,” I began, “but I’d really like this watch.”
I learned on my thirtieth birthday, almost ten years ago, that I had to tell Charlie exactly what I wanted to avoid disappointment. I’d told Charlie I didn’t want a big party on my thirtieth, so he planned nothing. As my birthday got closer, I told him I wanted to do something nice, just the two of us. Charlie booked a room downtown at the Hotel Nikko. We had cocktails at the bar and took a cab to Shaw’s Crab House for dinner. When our taxi pulled up in front of the restaurant, Charlie turned to me and said, “I don’t have any money.” I paid for the cab. After dinner, the waiter placed our check on the table, and Charlie fished out a gift certificate my sister had given to us for Christmas and paid the bill with it. He then said he was too tired to go anywhere but back to the hotel, so we hailed a cab, which I paid for, and Charlie passed out in our hotel room. I spent the next hour in the bathroom scrutinizing my drunk naked body for signs of age while knocking off mini bottle after mini bottle of vodka from the mini bar.
A month ago, when I told Charlie I wanted the watch and handed him the magazine, he looked at the ad, snorted disgustedly, and chucked the magazine onto a side table. Last Sunday, while we were at church, my watch fell off my arm, hit the floor at Charlie’s feet, and I was unable to put the band back together. Days later, Charlie asked, “Do you have any thoughts on what you’d like for Christmas?”
“Yeah,” I snorted sarcastically. “You know my broken watch? If you don’t get me the watch I want, I’m buying it for myself.”
“Do you still have the ad?” Charlie asked sheepishly.
“The magazine is in our bedroom somewhere.”
Tonight, I decided to ask Max which color he thought I should get and began leafing through the magazine looking for the watch ad.
“Dad must have ripped it out,” I told Max.
“Why do you always blame Dad for everything?” Max asked.
“I don’t,” I said defensively. “He probably ripped it out because he’s going to order it for me.”
Charlie walked into the room.
“Did you rip the watch ad out of the magazine?” I asked him.
Charlie left the room and came back with the page. I gave Max an I-told-you-so look and handed him the ad.
“Which color?” I asked Max.
“Pink,” he said. “It’s your favorite.”
Back in November, I told Charlie I wanted the blue one. “You know,” I said, “I believe I would prefer pink.” I looked up at Charlie and he looked panicked.
“You may not have a choice,” Charlie said. “I think they shipped it.” He disappeared.
“At least it’ll be a surprise on Christmas: blue or pink,” I told Max.
I called my mother and thanked her for watching Van last night.
“You know, forty-two children in Illinois have died from the flu,” my mother said. “I saw it on the news. They say you can be contagious for six days after symptoms subside.”
I can always count on my mother for the worst news. Max had a wicked sinus infection several years ago that landed him in the hospital for a couple of days. After his release, I had to take Max to his pediatrician for two painful injections of the antibiotic Rocephin—one in each thigh. Before Max’s appointment, my mother called to tell me she’d seen a documentary on an Indian boy who’d received antibiotic shots in his thighs and now crawls on all fours because the injections deformed his legs.
“I’ve been a basket case worrying about Max’s infection, and now you tell me this crazy shit?” I howled. “I wouldn’t share that story with my worst enemy.”
I knew better than to worry about the injections crippling Max, but when I took him in for his shots, I asked his doctor about the hideous side effects my mother warned me about. Max’s doctor put her hand to her mouth and tried not to laugh.
I knew better than to worry about Van keeling over from the flu, but when I called Liv to tell her Van and I wouldn’t be at her Hanukkah party tomorrow night because he’s sick, I told her what my mother said about the flu being deadly contagious even after the person seemed well. I was thinking about keeping Max home, too.
“I’ll call Ma
x’s doctor tomorrow and let you know what she says,” I told Liv.
[Monday, December 22]
I called Max’s doctor and told the nurse what my mother had said about the flu. The nurse stifled a laugh.
“Tell Grandma that just isn’t true,” she said. “If your child has been fever free with no fever-reducing medication for twenty-four hours, your child is not contagious.”
I called Liv and told her Charlie and Max would be at her Hanukkah party tonight.
“Why don’t you and Charlie tag-team?” she suggested. “Have Charlie come for a while, then you come?”
When Charlie got home from work and began getting ready for the party, I mentioned Liv’s idea.
“I don’t want to go at all under those circumstances,” Charlie said testily. “You just go. I really don’t mind staying home.”
Passive-aggressive asshole. Fucking martyr. When I had asked Charlie what he wanted for Christmas, he sourly said, “Nothing. There’s really nothing I need.”
“How about a hair shirt?” I asked. “You’d get a lot of use out of that.”
Charlie snickered. “I could use a new gym bag and a pair of gym shoes. But that’s it.” We were standing in the kitchen and Charlie was pouring himself a cup of coffee. I saw the one lone plastic travel mug we owned in the cupboard behind him. Charlie had lost all of our stainless steel ones.
“I know,” I said, “I’ll get you travel mugs for Christmas.”
“Doesn’t that just sum it up,” Charlie said. “You get an expensive watch and I get coffee mugs.”
“And the hair shirt,” I said.
“Take Max to the party tonight,” I sighed. “I socialize more than you do, just go.”
I got out the chopped liver I’d picked up from Kaufman’s Deli in Skokie, scooped it into a nice crystal serving bowl, and stacked the Hanukkah presents I’d wrapped on the table. “There you go,” I said. Charlie picked up the liver and presents, and he and Max left for the party.
I put Van to bed and popped open a bottle of nonalcoholic sparkling wine I’d purchased for Christmas Eve. I took my champagne glass out on the deck and had a smoke. It felt like old times, me standing out there drinking and smoking. I spent a lot of time doing that. I’d even convinced myself it was healthy: Smoking got me outside looking at the stars and breathing fresh air, even in the most frigid weather. But it felt weird this time. I don’t want to smoke and drink on my deck and get messed up every night. I was standing in my old groove. I stubbed out my cigarette and walked inside.
Diary of an Alcoholic Housewife Page 30