Until We Are Gone

by Riley, Gia

  The plan is to leave first thing in the morning, before the drinking begins, so she’ll be as close to sober as possible. Maybe then I’ll have a chance at rationalizing an unscheduled therapy appointment. It’s not like I can spring a three-to-six-month rehab stay on her before we’re even out of the driveway.

  God, how am I going to pull this off?

  Instead of panicking like I want to, I concentrate on folding each one of her shirts and neatly place them in the bag, like that will somehow make tomorrow go smoother.

  I’m so lost in thought, I don’t hear her chair’s familiar rocking pattern stop. There’s no warning when the door opens, and she pops her head inside the bedroom.

  I attempt to stuff the rest of the clothing inside the bag, not caring about wrinkles or matching up outfits so that she doesn’t run out of pants before shirts. I’m just desperate to hide the evidence, and Meadow can see that written all over my face.

  I’ve been caught red-handed.

  Her eyes smolder, a sign that she’s downed more than a couple of shots in the short time I’ve been in the bedroom, and she’s angry.

  “What’s going on, Cash?”

  I’m tempted to lie and tell her I’m leaving for a business trip first thing in the morning, but she’ll never buy it. The sleeve of her favorite sweater is sticking out of the top of the bag, and she’s staring right at it.

  “It’s not what you think,” I tell her.

  She pushes my hand away from the zipper and pulls the clothing out of the bag and onto the bed.

  “You’re finally getting rid of me,” she says like she’s a piece of garbage I can toss away or an old sofa I can leave sitting alongside the curb to donate to a local charity.

  “We’re taking a drive tomorrow. That’s all, Meadow.”

  “A drive,” she repeats. “To see my dad?”

  “We can’t drive to London.”

  “You know what I mean,” she snaps.

  I want to tell her yes, that we’re finally flying to London to be with her dad. I would have taken her a long time ago, but with her fear of flying and her drinking problem, we’d never make it onto the flight, let alone clear customs.

  If she’d just stop with the alcohol, there’s so much we could do together. I’d use all of my vacation days to do whatever she wanted.

  “We’re not going to see your dad.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest, and I start to gather the clothing into a pile. Anything to avoid her stare.

  “Then, where are you taking me? Where’s your bag?”

  I take a deep breath and rack my brain for a logical explanation that won’t scare her. This is exactly what I didn’t want to have happen tonight—an explosion after I’m forced to tell her about rehab. We have twelve hours until it’s time to go. We’re so close, and I’m about to blow it because she caught me packing.

  “You’re going to see some friends,” I tell her, instantly regretting my choice of words. Of all the things I could have spit out, I brought up a sore subject.

  “What friends?” she questions.

  Meadow doesn’t remember most of hers. The two or three faces she does recognize, she wants nothing to do with. I was just hoping to make the people at the facility sound a little more appealing than intimidating psychiatrists and doctors.

  “We’re meeting some people tomorrow. They’ve been through similar situations, and they think they can help you.”

  “And what if I don’t want to meet them? You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to go.”

  Because you don’t have a choice.

  She lost the ability to make her own decisions the night she almost died in my arms.

  “It’ll be a good experience. You’ll stay for a little while and then come back home after the program’s over.”

  “Program?” she says in a panic. “I don’t need a program, Cash. You know I don’t like people trying to figure me out. I want to stay here, where it’s safe.”

  She lets me pry her fingers off the bag, and then I sit her down on the edge of the mattress.

  Kneeling in front of her, I watch her quivering lip and wait for the first tear to fall. She’s scared, and when she’s drinking, she uses her emotions to try to break me down. Usually, as soon as I catch a glimpse of moisture on her cheek, I give in. I hate watching her cry when I used to be able to make her laugh so hard.

  “You need more than I can give you, Meadow. I wish I could take away your pain and make you better, but I’m not strong enough. And I don’t want to let you down again. I’ve already failed you more than you deserve.”

  “No, I’ve failed,” she whispers. I think she might understand where I’m coming from until she adds, “I’m ruining your life because I don’t remember any of the things I’m supposed to remember. Just say it.”

  She couldn’t be more wrong if she tried.

  “I can’t say that because it’s not the truth. Our lives are hell—I won’t lie about that—but I love you. I’ve never stopped loving you.”

  “If you loved me, you’d let me stay.”

  Her words rip through me like a knife, and it takes every bit of strength I have left to keep from changing my mind about rehab. But I can’t watch her die either.

  “I’m sorry, Meadow. I wish it didn’t have to be like this, but you have to go.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  I’m not prepared to toss around ultimatums tonight. All I want is for the both of us to get a decent night’s sleep, and come morning, I hope to get her into the car with as little fight as possible.

  Once we get to the facility, I’m not sure what’ll happen. But I figure I’ll have a better shot if I am at least in the parking lot. Now, I’ll be lucky to make it out of the garage.

  “Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” I tell her. “They’re waiting for you.”

  Her tears drip off her skin and splash onto my hand, and then without warning, she kicks me square in the jaw, knocking me flat on my ass.

  “I hate you!” she screams. “Just divorce me. Go live your life and let me live what’s left of mine.”

  We’ve had our fair share of arguments, but this is the first time she’s ever gotten physical with me. Usually, it’s the house that takes the beating, not my face. And, no matter how upset she’s gotten, neither one of us has ever mentioned divorce.

  “You don’t mean that, Meadow. You’re drunk.”

  A woman of sound mind would apologize and help me up off the floor. Meadow’s behavior proves just how badly she needs to go to treatment.

  She stands up and rolls her eyes. “I’m always drunk, Cash. You never let me forget how ashamed you are.”

  “I’m ashamed of what you’ve become,” I tell her. “Not about who you are. There’s a difference.”

  “Well, at least you’ve finally admitted it,” she says. “I’ve been trying to tell you for months that I’ll never be that girl in those pictures. Why do you think I drink so much? Because I can’t live up to some insane standard you have in your mind about who I’m supposed to be. I can’t be her! I’m not her!”

  “You want to be her just as much as I want that for you. So, don’t try to twist this around on me!” I yell back, hating that I’m raising my voice.

  I’m trying to help her. From the moment I got the call from the hospital about the accident, that’s all I’ve been doing.

  “You’re my wife, Meadow. Let me help you.”

  “I’m not your wife, Cash. I might have the same name as her, but we’re different people.”

  Between the throbbing in my jaw and the hole in my chest, she keeps digging the knife deeper, and I can’t take it.

  “You’re right, Meadow. My wife wasn’t a drunk.” It’s a low blow, one that I instantly regret.

  After I get up off the floor, I focus on matching up the rest of her socks, stuffing them in the bag with her clothing.

  My silence pisses her off, and she grabs a shoe, launching it at the wall. The matching one f
ollows and tips the lamp over, sending it to the floor.

  I haven’t gotten around to replacing the bulb that shattered the last time she was this upset and did something similar. She hates having the lights on anyway, so it doesn’t much matter if the lamps work or not.

  Our house is as dark as her mind.

  There aren’t any frames left on the walls because she smashed all the pictures inside of them. I didn’t trust her with matches, so I threw away the candles she had sitting around. If she had knocked one over or forgotten to blow it out, the house could have burned down while I was at work. And I wasn’t sure she’d have even tried to escape.

  Just a couple of weeks ago, I got the shock of my life when I woke up to find a six-foot circle of carpet missing around her rocking chair. She’d gotten her hands on a pocketknife that I had accidentally left lying out in the bedroom. While I’d been getting a couple of hours of restless sleep, she’d been hacking away at the fibers until she was down to the bare boards. It was a miracle she hadn’t sliced herself open.

  “Why’d you do it?” I had asked.

  She had shrugged and said, “It’s easier to rock without it,” like it made perfect sense.

  Who cares that it looked like hell or that I’d spent a fortune on new carpet only a year before. Meadow only cared about herself, and since nobody ever came to visit anymore, it didn’t matter what the place looked like.

  But it matters to me.

  I’m tired of my home looking like the inside of my mind—a dark, dreary mess. I’m finished with the destruction, and I can’t live another day, being a prisoner to her addiction.

  She might be mad as hell, but she’s going to treatment.

  four

  CASH

  Meadow eventually stopped pacing the length of the living room. Either the alcohol had worn her down or she’d just resigned herself to the fact that tomorrow was happening whether she liked it or not. I’d put all my money on the alcohol though because, when I finally lay down in bed, she was out cold in the chair, snoring like a chain saw.

  I didn’t intend to fall asleep—I can catch up on all the lost hours once Meadow’s settled—but when I glance at the clock, three hours have disappeared. It’s been too long since I’ve checked on her, and I jump out of bed so fast, I make myself dizzy.

  Blinking away the head rush, I think something must be wrong with my eyes. It’s pitch-black, and I can’t figure out why the night-light isn’t lit up in the corner of the room like it usually is.

  Meadow hated the stupid thing when I bought it and went on and on about how she wasn’t a baby. But she had been having trouble finding her way in the darkness, and I’d thought the light would help. Of course, I couldn’t tell her that, so I pretended like I’d bought it for myself. It was easier to make up a lie about stubbing my toe than to get into another argument about the drinking.

  She’d deny whatever I accused her of anyway. Once she hits the blackout stage, she doesn’t remember much. And, with no sense of direction, she uses the walls as a guide to hold herself up. Eventually, she gives up trying to walk altogether and collapses. I’ve found her slumped against the hamper, in the bathroom, and facedown in front of the bedroom door.

  Finding her passed out in the tub was the worst. She’d scared the shit out of me. I hadn’t been awake more than ten minutes, and my mind was still foggy from another night of broken sleep. I was brushing my teeth when I caught a glimpse of her dark hair cascading down the side of the tub.

  My toothbrush fell from my mouth and clattered against the sink. I spit little blue bubbles all over the mirror as I yelled her name. And then I forced the rest of the paste down my throat and screamed.

  Considering she didn’t budge, I thought she was gone, but there wasn’t any water in the tub, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Meadow wasn’t dead.

  She hadn’t drowned.

  And I thanked God that she hadn’t turned the water on before she passed out.

  In that moment, mad wasn’t a word I’d have used to describe how I felt. My heart was pounding so hard, I could feel my pulse thumping in my ears. I was pissed, and I was walking a fine line between anger and relief.

  On one hand, I wanted to scream at Meadow for being so stupid and for not having the willpower to stop drinking. She was a grown woman who had limits, yet every warning sign her body gave her, she ignored. That made me crazy. But I also wanted to pick her up, cradle her against my chest, and tell her how much I loved her, that I understood even if I didn’t.

  I was still coming to terms with the fact that a bottle of liquor was more of a comfort to Meadow than I was, that she felt safer wasted and out of control or asleep in a bathtub instead of in a bed with me.

  Her choices would never make sense to me, so I had done what I needed to do to calm down. Then, I’d scooped her up and carried her into the bedroom. Tucked beneath the covers, I’d kissed her forehead and watched her sleep.

  That was when I did my best pretending. I’d watch her sleeping and imagine her waking up with a smile on her face, happy to see me. We’d pick up right where we’d left off before the truck hit her. She’d be my Meadow again.

  The woman who passed out all over the house would never understand how cold she was when she was drunk or how empty her actions made me feel. I was just supposed to accept whatever she said or did, no matter how unbelievable it was.

  That’ll never happen. I’ll never stop wanting her sober. Like right now as I’m about to open the bedroom door, I’m praying she’s not facedown on the floor in the hallway.

  But I can’t get out of the room. The knob doesn’t budge. No matter how hard I push, pull, and twist, nothing happens.

  Pressing my ear against the wood, I listen for any signs of life in the rest of the house. I even get on my hands and knees and try to peek through the crack between the door and the carpet. But that’s pointless, too.

  Silence is the scariest noise on the planet, and this is all my fault.

  All I had to do was make sure she made it through the night, and then the next morning, she’d be on the road to recovery. But she saw the damn duffel bag, and I was stupid to think she was okay with going to rehab.

  Images of her drowning in the tub flicker through my mind, and I know that time isn’t on my side. I have to get the door open, so I rummage around in the closet for anything that I can jam between the door and the wall. Stopping short of my golf clubs, I stare at the bare floor. All of my shoes are gone. She must have taken them so I can’t run after her. And that’s how I know she’s not in the house.

  Sinking to the floor, I bury my head in my hands and scream.

  Meadow left. She ran away before I had a chance to help her, and now, she’s outside, all alone and drunk. And I’m trapped inside the bedroom.

  I wouldn’t wish this feeling on my worst enemy.

  I’m the sober one.

  It’s my job to take care of her and keep her safe.

  I shouldn’t have let her out of my sight.

  Meadow was too calm, too agreeable, after she saw me packing. Crazy me thought I’d made progress and that she’d realized that treatment was her best option. But that wasn’t the case at all. While I was asleep, she plotted an escape.

  The bedroom door isn’t stuck. The knob didn’t break. Meadow trapped me inside the bedroom, and now, the only way out is through the window. Breaking the door down with a golf club would take too long and leave me with an even bigger mess. If I want to get to Meadow fast, I have to open the window and jump.

  Fuck!

  Meadow could be anywhere by now, but at least she doesn’t have the car. The keys are in the safe, and there’s no way she has the combination. I just changed it yesterday, like I secretly knew there was a chance something like this could happen.

  Now, she’s out there in the dark, her favorite time of day, staggering down a road. Depending how drunk she is, she won’t remember how far she’s gone or the way back home if she gets too tired or too
cold.

  Images of her being hit by a car scare me stupid, and I can’t catch my breath. The shock of what’s happening removes the little bit of air that’s left in my lungs. Anxiety creeps up the back of my neck until the muscles in my body lock up.

  What if I’m too late?

  What if I slept through her last breath?

  My hand shakes as I unlock the window and stare down at the ground. All I have to do is lift the glass and jump. And then pray like hell that I find her before it’s too late.

  five

  CASH

  There’s no cushion of grass beneath the window, not even a bush to break the fall. I know it’s going to hurt like a bitch, but not even the worst-case scenario prepares me for the pain that shoots up my shins when I connect with the rock-hard cement in the driveway.

  The force is so intense, my ankles give out, dropping me onto all fours. Little stones dig into fresh cuts, and I clamp my jaw shut to keep from screaming loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood.

  If anyone had seen me jumping from my own bedroom window, they’d think I’d lost my mind. Maybe I have.

  Never in a million years did I think my life would come to this, a grown-ass man dressed in thin pajamas and socks, dropping two stories to the ground in search of his wife. I’d thought we’d already reached it, but this is our new rock bottom.

  But, no matter how bad my body hurts, I peel myself off the concrete and look around for clues about which way Meadow ran. There’s not much between our house and the center of town other than some fields.

  After we got married, we moved into this development because it was quiet. Meadow wanted to raise a family with wide-open spaces for our future children to play. She envisioned sandboxes and sprinklers, a swing set on the edge of the yard with worn-out patches of grass beneath each swing.

  Those were her favorite childhood memories, and she’d have done anything to re-create them. Her children weren’t going to suffocate in the city in a high-rise; that was for sure.

  I thought her plans might change after the accident, considering she no longer talked about raising a family, but she didn’t want to go back to the familiar hustle and bustle she remembered.