by Carla Rossi
He pulled his keys from his pocket and spotted Candi’s car under a street lamp several yards down the parking lot.
The information didn’t register at first, but then, whoa. That’s Candi’s car under a street lamp several yards down the parking lot.
Uh...what a coincidence?
Bright light bounced off her shiny, wet silver roof and caused a glare. He couldn’t clearly see inside, but spotted a series of jerky movements. She was definitely in there. Car trouble?
He took a sip from his steaming cup and trekked toward her passenger side door. She had to have seen him coming, yet she didn’t respond or roll down a window.
He opened the door and leaned in. “Candi?”
The leather seat squeaked as she crossed her arms and glanced at him with a grin. “You’d feel pretty stupid right now if you’d opened that door and it wasn’t me.”
“I knew it was you.” He rested his arm against the wet door frame. “You OK?”
“Fine.”
“Car OK?”
“It’s fine.”
He looked around as if to somehow make sense of why she was sitting in the near-empty lot. “What are you doing here?”
The leather squeaked again. “I came here to pick up some music and I saw your truck. I went looking for you.”
“Oh,” he replied. That made sense. Then it hit him. “Ohhhhh.”
So much for the progress they’d made. He’d already sensed she had issues with his appearance. Finding him at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting had probably finished her off.
She looked up at him. Scattered beams of light illuminated her perfect skin and sea-green eyes. She pushed a lock of chestnut hair away from her face and secured it behind her ear. Another came loose and fell across her forehead. She brushed it away. “Can you get in a minute?”
“Uh...sure.” He slid in and closed the door. “Nice car.”
“Thanks.” She twisted to face him and tugged the sleeves of her hoodie down to trap them in her hands.
He fumbled with the controls on the side of the seat until he found the one that moved it backward. “You could have come in, you know.”
“Come in where?”
“To the meeting.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t.” She flinched when she said it.
He couldn’t stop his expression of disappointment.
“No, it’s not like that,” she rushed to add. “I’m just sorry I invaded your privacy. First I thought you were cheating on me with Brett, then I thought you might be working, so I was going to find you and say hello but—”
“What?” His voice squeaked like an adolescent boy. He tried again. “What?” He set his coffee in the cup holder. “You’re not making any sense.”
“I am so making sense.”
“On this planet?”
Anger flashed in her eyes, but what did she have to be mad about? He wondered if he should push it. She glared at him. Oh, yeah, he was gonna push it.
“C’mon, Candi, you caught me at an A.A. meeting and went ballistic. But rather than just deal with it, you sit in your car like a control-freak-stalker and think of ways to make me squirm. You can’t even form a whole coherent sentence.” He picked up his cup. “If you want to talk, I’m an open book. Otherwise, I need to see about possibly pushing my truck home. I don’t have time for games.” He shoved open the door and got out. “And who is Brett?” He slammed it before she could answer.
He headed for his truck. What had he been thinking? He liked Candi more every day. Especially the Candi from the pond. But though it was clear she could handle worms, catfish, and tadpoles, it was painfully obvious she couldn’t handle tattoos, ponytails, and A.A. meetings.
A door slammed behind him. “C’mon, Shade, get back in the car and we’ll talk.”
He spun around. “Why can’t we talk out here?” He waved his arms toward the dark and cloudy sky. “Are you afraid someone will hear us and it will embarrass you?”
“Of course not,” she said. “Get in the car.”
He caught her looking over her shoulder and toward the entrance of the building. “That’s it, isn’t it?” he shouted back across the lot. “You don’t want anyone to know we’re fighting.”
“I don’t even know why we’re fighting,” she shouted back.
“I don’t either,” he said and scuffed the ground with his boot. “But maybe it’s because I’m an alcoholic, or have long hair. Or maybe,” he said and tossed his cup into the bed of his truck, “it’s because I’m covered with demonic tattoos.” He paused when her shoulders sagged and her mouth fell open. “Yeah, that’s right; I know what you said about me.”
He punched the left front fender of his truck.
Bad idea.
It hurt like crazy and wasn’t the wisest thing to do with his already nerve-damaged right hand. The woman just made him nuts. And it wasn’t over yet. He caught a glimpse of a pink and denim streak as she raced toward him.
“First of all,” she started and waved a finger in his face, “I do not care if you are a recovering alcoholic. I only care if you currently have an uncontrolled problem with alcohol. That is not acceptable on the worship team. Secondly, I’m not a control freak.”
His laugh was loud and hearty despite his aching knuckles. “Aw, c’mon. You didn’t want our discussion to leave your car because everything has to be on your terms and on your playing field.”
“O-K,” she ground out between gritted teeth. “So I’m a little bit of a control freak, but it was not my intention to stalk you and make you squirm.”
“Then what’s going on here?”
“I. Don’t. Know.” Now she was yelling. “Why don’t you tell me? You’re the one punching a truck!”
The light mist that hung in the air developed into a gentle rain. People leaving the building paused to look their way, then hurried on.
He motioned toward the spectators. “Happy now?”
She pulled up the hood of her sweatshirt, ran around his truck, and hopped inside. “See?” she said and slammed her door as he opened his. “I can fight with you in your truck, too.” The hood came off again.
His hand throbbed too much to further respond to her sarcasm.
Seconds ticked into minutes before she spoke again. “All right, the truth,” she said. “When I came here to pick up the music, I saw your truck and thought you might be practicing with the worship team from this church.”
“You’re kidding, right? That’s what you meant by cheating? You thought I was going behind your back and playing with another worship team?” He burst out laughing. “That’s hilarious.”
“Oh, stop. I’m not proud of myself.”
“Brett is their worship leader?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll have to stop by and meet him next week.”
“Don’t push it,” she warned. “Anyway, after I almost stumbled into your meeting, I thought I’d wait and talk to you about it.”
“How long did you listen in?”
“I didn’t. As I said, I felt like it was an invasion of your privacy so I left.”
“And, as I said, you could have come in.”
“I don’t know what that means, Shade. I thought A.A. meetings were for alcoholics.”
“They are. But there are all kinds of meetings. Open meetings, closed meetings, men only meetings, mixed meetings. This meeting is open. Anyone can come in. It’s not like we take roll or make you talk. You just have to respect the rules of the meeting and confidentiality and be there for a reason.”
“Yeah, well, I happen to think surprising you at an A.A. meeting would have been kinda weird for us both.”
She had a point.
“I’m just sayin’ it wouldn’t have mattered. It’s not a secret. Those meetings are all about support.”
“How long have you been sob—?”
“Three hundred and twelve days.”
“That’s amazing.” She tugged on her sleeves again. “I know that’s one of the
hardest things you’ll ever do. You should be proud of your progress.”
Maybe proud. Definitely thankful. Humbled. Grateful. And a million other things...
He could never shrink years of alcohol abuse and one tragic night into a small enough box for her to open and handle in one conversation. It didn’t seem possible to adequately convey the horror of addiction, the pain of physical injury, and the difficult road to recovery all at once. He had no idea where to start or if she wanted to hear.
Soft rain tapped a steady rhythm on the roof. She reached for his hand, held it toward the light, and turned it over in hers. She gingerly poked his knuckles. “Is anything broken?”
“No.”
“Does it hurt bad? I could go inside and find some ice.”
He snatched his hand away. “No. And I’m sure if you stop poking it, it will stop hurting.”
“Sorry,” she whispered.
Now he’d hurt her feelings. “Don’t be sorry.” It wasn’t her he was aggravated with. “Hitting the truck is the stupidest thing I’ve done in months. It won’t happen again. Ever.”
“I believe you.” She turned in her seat and pulled one leg under her. “You know, Shade, after all we’ve been through this evening, I think you should just tell me about it.”
“All we’ve been through?”
“Yeah,” she nodded. “My jealous stalking behavior, you punching inanimate objects, both of us yelling in the parking lot—all of this for no discernable reason.”
“Yeah, I get it.” He concentrated and cleared his throat and launched into an analogy he wasn’t sure if he’d heard somewhere before or had dreamed it up on his own. He just knew it made the most sense of what was completely senseless.
“When you’re an alcoholic,” he began, “it’s like you’re in a certain kind of orbit. And you turn and turn and turn in that orbit and feel powerless to get out because the people and places in that orbit with you are all doing the same thing. And you don’t want to get out because those people drink and buy you drinks and justify your lifestyle because theirs is just as messed up. It’s a vicious cycle, but you’re stuck there. And you lose everything and sometimes die there unless you’re forced to propel yourself out of that orbit and into something else.”
“I understand that. Are you saying your whole experience with Dead Lizard Highway was one big orbit of alcoholism?”
“I’m saying it didn’t help. It’s a hard life. You don’t eat when the rest of the world eats or sleep when the rest of the world sleeps. It’s all backward and crazy and screams down the road at a hundred miles an hour. It’s no surprise so many people in the entertainment industry are addicted to one thing or another. It’s available. It’s cool. It’s constant.”
Candi shifted in her seat. “I went to a dinner theater one time to hear a jazz musician. It was for a class so a group of us went. I noticed that every twenty minutes or so someone would go to the bar and bring back a drink and set it right up on stage in front of him like an offering or something. He drank every one. And they were all different. I kept thinking, ‘he doesn’t know what or how much he’s put away’. I turned to someone and said, ‘if he tries to stand up, he’s going to fall off that stage.’ Sure enough, he did. And someone told us he did the same thing every night.”
“But the music was good, right?”
“It was great. And people put down money to watch him play his horn and fall off that stage six nights a week.”
“Well, there you go. It’s a business and no one cares what you do as long as you put on a show.”
“No one forces you to do that to yourself, Shade.”
“I agree. And I know a whole lot of good musicians who don’t touch the stuff. It’s not all bad.”
“What about all those other alcoholics? Homemakers, police officers, teachers. It’s not all about the glitz and glamour of being a successful musician or a star athlete. Wonder what happens there?”
He let out the breath he’d been holding and flexed the fingers on his sore hand. “Everyone has their own orbital hell, I suppose.”
“What happened to you? What caused you to look around and decide you wanted to propel yourself into a more constructive orbit, and how did you do it?”
Now came the hard part. He just hoped he didn’t cry like a baby when he had to tell her about Pete. “It was the accident.”
“I figured as much. You said it was bad. How did it happen?”
“I was with Pete. He was our drummer and we were doing what we always did. We played until about two in the morning at a gig not far from Pete’s mother’s house. We were going to go there and crash for the night. The whole day was a combination of bad choices. Pete had some weird summer cold, and he’d been taking prescription cough syrup all day. I didn’t know that at the time. Then we drank all evening while we played. A lot of our friends were there because we were close to home, so it was like your jazz musician. Every time we turned around, someone put a drink in our hands.”
“So when it was time to leave...”
“When it was time to leave, Pete and I got in his car and left.”
“I don’t understand that. Didn’t anyone see what shape you were in and offer to drive? Where was everyone? I mean, I’m not trying to rub salt in a wound here, but even the drinkers in my late Friday afternoon session of music theory have designated drivers. They talk about it before they leave class to go party.”
“It’s not the same, Candi. You have to remember, I’m an alcoholic. Most days I didn’t know whose couch I woke up on, let alone how I got there. Alcoholics drive drunk all the time and don’t think a thing about it. It’s not like a bunch of friends going to a bachelor party and one of the guys stays sober to watch out for the others and call a cab. For an alcoholic, being drunk is a lifestyle, an all day, every day affair. One of our greatest talents is being able to not look drunk.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be dense. It’s just hard for me to grasp.”
“It didn’t help that we were all young, dumb, and bulletproof. Cockiness and alcohol is not a good combination.”
“What happened next?”
“Pete was driving. We were about a mile from his mom’s. I put my head back on the seat rest and closed my eyes and the next thing you know it was over.”
“You didn’t see what happened?”
“Pete was goin’ about sixty. No seatbelts ‘cause that’s another thing you don’t think about when you’re drunk. The general consensus is between the codeine in the cough syrup and the alcohol he just flat passed out and drove off the road. Clipped a tree, spun around, and somehow both of us were outside of the car. Pete died instantly. I don’t remember much, but there’s this movie in my head, and I can feel myself lying on the ground. Everything is quiet. I call for Pete and he doesn’t answer. I try to move, but my legs don’t work.”
“When did this happen?”
“June twentieth last year.”
“What’s the next thing you remember?”
“Pain. Hospital. Couldn’t move my legs.”
“Why not?”
“Spinal shock.”
“Isn’t that what happens to football players, sometimes?”
“Yeah, your spine takes a hard blow and swells. It temporarily causes paralysis below the point of injury. They think I bounced off a fallen tree branch on the ground or something. No one knows how I didn’t sever my spinal cord. Plus I had the injury to my hand. I had to lie completely still. It was six weeks until any feeling came back to my legs. I might have recovered sooner, but I exacerbated my injuries as the doctor would say.”
“How in the world did you do that?”
“What do you think happens when an alcoholic ends up in the hospital and can’t drink?”
“You detox in the hospital.”
“Yep, and let’s just say jerky involuntary movements and hallucinations are not good for a spinal injury.”
“I imagine they didn’t want to give you a whole lot of med
ication to alleviate that.”
“I got some help, but only because they thought I was dead, anyway.”
She arched one brow and met his gaze. Drops of rain on the windshield cast a dappled shadow on her cheek. “Did you really come that close to dying?”
“I wanted to.”
She scooted closer. Her touch was light on his shoulder. “So why are you alive?”
“Because God saved and healed me.”
“He did, indeed. That’s quite a story.”
She didn’t know the half of it. “I wish it weren’t mine.”
She scooted closer still. “I’m sorry about your friend.”
“That’s the hardest part.” As if on cue, the tears rushed to his eyes. He blinked hard and prayed she did not see. “It was my fault.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“I should have done something.”
“Pete made some choices too, Shade. At some point you’re going to have to forgive yourself for any part you had in the accident and move on. God spared your life for a reason. Focus on that, because you can’t change what happened. You can only make the best choices you can today.”
It sounded so simple when she said it.
Candi had always known he’d come to Cornerstone Fellowship a bit broken, and toting baggage. She had no idea it would fill an airport luggage carousel. She settled back in the seat and grew silent.
She admired his strength and resolve. So many people fought those battles and never won. Her heart broke for him. “Thanks for telling me about Pete.”
“Sure.”
“I’d like to hear more about him, and your band, and everything else, sometime. You have a great testimony. You’ll have to work your way up to sharing your story at the youth service.”
“I’ll say it again.” His tone was clipped. “I am not a leader or a speaker, and I’m not an evangelist of any kind.”
“Yeah, yeah, keep tellin’ yourself that.”
He looked away and placed his sore hand between them on the seat. A shaft of light illuminated his puffy knuckles. No wonder he was irritated. Visions of their petty behavior flashed through her mind. Seemed like hours ago they acted like such morons. She was embarrassed, to say the least.
Then there was that other thing that pricked at her heart. She needed to settle it. “Shade?”