Jersey Girl

by J A Heron

  “Call in sick,” I suggest. “Can’t you just tell them you’re ill?”

  “If I did that, my mother would send someone to collect me, and she’d make me suffer the sickie I pulled at their house. I can’t win.” She says the last three words with a huge amount of frustration, and she takes that frustration out on the sweater she removed from her body. She’s been trying to turn it the right way around and fold it, but in the last few seconds, that sweater has been flung across the room and lands in a heap by her dresser. She sits on her bed with a huge bounce on a sigh, and I’m immediately by her side.

  “Things will work out. They have to.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “Yes, I do. Good people aren’t destined for a lifetime of misery. We’ve both had our fair share, and we deserve something good.”

  “We both have something good in our lives. Connor and Raven.” She winks. I wondered how long it would be until she mentioned them.

  “Yes, we do,” I agree.

  “I’m falling for him.” Her confession falls on a whisper. I barely heard her.

  “I know.” I don’t have the courage to tell her I’m falling for Connor too. I’m scared that, if I confess my love, it’ll all become too real, and that opens my heart up to a world of pain. I’m not prepared to have my heart splintered again.

  “I hope Raven is feeling it too, otherwise I’m in deep shit.”

  “He adores you. Anyone can see that.”

  “Perhaps, but is adoration enough? Adoration does not equal love.”

  “It doesn’t, but it’s a start.” I place my hand on top of hers, and as soon as contact is made, she seeks out more comfort from me. She rests her head on my shoulder, and we both spend a few silent moments enjoying the closeness two friends can share.

  “I’m going for that shower, then an early night.”

  “I think I’ll do the same.”

  Freshly showered, I walk into my room and quickly check my phone for messages. Nothing.

  I change into clean pyjamas and snuggle under the duvet. Sleep evades me, and it’s getting worse each night. I know why I’m struggling to fall asleep, and I can do something about it, but I made a promise to my best friend and I don’t want to break it.

  But as I see my phone now shows three a.m., I need to take control.

  I walk quietly into the kitchen, open the cupboard, and pull out the only bottle of rum we have. I pull out a glass, but quickly change my mind and return it to where it was. We only have another week of the drought, so I hesitate for just one second, hoping I’ll have enough willpower to stop myself. But I don’t, and I drink straight from the bottle. Only a couple of mouthfuls, and then I stop myself. Guilt is getting the better of me, and if I value my friendship with the only person who has been by my side through all the shit, then I need to put the bottle back before I drink the rest of the contents.

  I only hope she’ll not notice any of it missing.

  Just that little bit of alcohol has helped me drift off, but as my eyes close, it has also stoked a fire within me, making me want more.

  The first thing that hits me when I open my eyes is what I did last night, and I’m plagued with strong feeling of shame. I need to rid myself of the embarrassment. I felt it enough when my parents died, and it’s something that has never sat right with me. The second thing I do is check my phone. I have a few messages from Connor, a few missed calls from Grumpy’s bar, and a strongly worded text from the man himself, telling me I’m fired if I don’t get to work in the next half an hour.

  “Shit! I’m late.”

  I throw the duvet off me and slip into my work clothes faster than they were removed the night with Connor.

  I throw my rats tails of a hair style up into a ponytail and rush to the bathroom. I relieve myself, splash some water on my face, and brush my teeth. I’m out of the apartment in less than fifteen minutes. I thank my lucky stars for having a shower last night, otherwise I’d be turning up for work smelling like a tramp’s armpit.

  On my walk to work, I get a few strange looks from passers-by as I mutter to myself over and over. “Who the hell is late for work when they don’t start until midday?” I answer my own question. “An alcoholic deadbeat, that’s who.”

  As soon as I walk through the door, Mr Grumpy is on a full-scale mission to make me regret being late. “Your pay will be docked, and you’re in the cellar for the first hour.”

  He knows I hate cellar work, and this is his punishment for my tardiness.

  “But…”

  “Don’t! The beer lines have been cleaned, so you know what that means,” he says with a cocky glint in his eye.

  “I do.” I sulk as I make my way down the creaky stairs into the doom and gloom of the cellar. It means I must spend an hour washing down all the walls and scrubbing the floor with a solution that smells worse than a hospital. He does this every Friday, never wanting anyone else to, or even asking them to. I only endure it when he’s away or not feeling well, and I never do it to his standards anyway.

  Today is payback on his part.

  I make a quick stop over at the local store on my way home. I’m knackered after the lack of sleep last night, the hour of cleaning in the cellar, and a busier than normal bar. I just want to get home, cook something delicious, and crawl into bed.

  But first, I have something important to do before Benny gets home.

  I’m the worst human being in the world. Okay, may not be as bad as murderers, rapists, and terrorists, but I come in a close fourth. I pull out all my shopping, and before I put away the groceries in the fridge, I replace the contents of the rum I stole last night. I judge the amount, and hope and pray to God Benny never knows the truth. My punishment would be a lot stronger than cleaning, that’s for sure.

  I hide the new bottle of rum at the back of my wardrobe, then start to prepare dinner, then give Connor my full attention by replying to the messages from this morning. I feel bad for making him wait, and the last thing I need is for him to think I’m ignoring him.

  Me ~ Sorry I’ve not texted sooner. Day from Hell. How’s yours been? Xx

  I don’t know whether he’s doing it on purpose to pay me back for not replying sooner, but it’s a whole hour before he replies.

  Connor ~ It’s busy here too, but you’ve been on my mind the whole time xx

  I blush at his words.

  Me ~ My day just got a whole lot sweeter ;) xx

  I can’t resist the wink emoticon; it will emphasise my point. It really makes me giggle when he sends me the aubergine and splash emoticons. I guess I now know in what capacity he was thinking about me.

  Me ~ My thoughts exactly xx

  Connor ~ Gotta go. Chat soon, Jersey Girl xx

  I love the friendly, flirty chat between us, but it makes sad me when he cuts it short. There are many people in need of his attention; I suppose I’m just one in a long list. I need it more, and he’s not here to give it to me. I sound like a needy teenager, and with the emoticons we keep sending each other, I’m acting like one too.

  “Katherine Powell!” I hear Benny shout my full name, so I know something shitty is about to hit the fan. I was so wrapped up in messaging Connor, I didn’t even hear her come home.

  When I enter the lounge/diner, I’m stopped in my tracks when I see her holding the bottle of rum I stole from.

  Oh, shit.

  Busted.

  I stand, open-mouthed, staring at my best friend holding the bottle of rum. She’s inspecting it, and part of me is a little confused. How did she know?

  The look she gives me makes me want to wither, curl up in a ball, and suck my thumb. The anger radiating from her sends a palpable shockwave screaming in my direction.

  “Come here,” she softly says. Her lighter tone calms me, but I know this is just the beginning. I tentatively stride towards her, our eyes locked the whole time. “See this?”

  I sweep my gaze to where her finger is pointing and notice something I didn’t se
e there before. There is a faint black line, probably scribbled on by a Sharpie. She marked the fucking bottle. I didn’t see that line when I topped up with what I’d consumed. The content is now just over the line she marked, so I guess that’s how she knows I’ve been deceitful.

  Our trust of one another has just flown out the window. She taps the bottle impatiently, waiting for me to respond, and the longer I keep my silence, the more infuriated she becomes.

  “I had two mouthfuls,” I say. “That’s all.”

  “Then you went out, bought a new bottle, and replaced what you’d drank. Isn’t that right?”

  This woman would make a great lawyer, presenting evidence to a court room.

  “Yes,” I respond sheepishly, dropping my gaze to the floor. I twist my fingers together.

  “Where’s the other bottle?” Her anger is diminishing, but only slightly. “Did you drink it?”

  “No. God, no!” I’m shocked that she even thinks I would get wasted without her. “I couldn’t sleep last night. I thought that just a little rum would help me fall asleep, and it did. I promise you, Benny. I promise only two mouthfuls passed my lips.”

  “Go get the other bottle.”

  I do as I’m told and saunter with purpose in each step. Once I retrieve the bottle from my wardrobe, I make my way back into the lounge. Benny looks up and sees the bottle I’m holding in my hand. Her eyes change from a warm, smooth brown, to almost black with rage.

  She rushes toward me, grabs the offending bottle from my grasp, and with a bottle in each hand, she races to her bedroom, slamming the door with her elbow, all in one smooth action. I guess I’m on her shit list for the time being.

  I must try and make it up to her, and the only thing I can think of to get in her good graces again is to make her something delicious for dinner.

  I set about making her favourite. Homemade lasagne, garlic bread, and a few sweet potato fries on the side. The lasagne won’t taste the same; it will be sans red wine.

  I won’t completely win her back with this meal, but it’s a start.

  An hour later, and the lasagne has been constructed, topped with lashings of grated cheese – just how she likes it – and it’s ready for the oven. I set the table then walk to her door and gently tap.

  “What?” comes her abrupt response.

  “Can I come in?”

  “If you must.”

  When I enter, she’s freshly showered and dressed in pyjamas.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I don’t care what you do. Go get wasted every night for all I care. I’m not your mother!”

  “No, my mother is dead, remember!” I shout back.

  “Here we go. Let’s play the dead parents card again. You know, you can’t keep using them as an excuse for all the crappy things you do. And you certainly can’t use them as the reason behind you being an alcoholic.”

  “I don’t use them as an excuse. And I’m definitely NOT an alcoholic.” My temper is rising the more she brings my parents into this.

  “That’s exactly what an alcoholic would say. I’ve read up on the signs.”

  “What have you read?”

  “Articles and blog posts. They all say that when a person starts drinking in secret, that’s the slippery slope towards alcoholism, and you, my dear friend, are showing all the classic signs.”

  A plethora of emotions, scenarios, flashbacks of all the times I’ve been wasted come rushing from my memory. Could she be right?

  Although it’s only been a week without any rum, the more I’m without it, the more I crave it, and apart from Connor, it’s all I’ve thought about.

  I could quite happily knock Benny on the head, grab the two bottles of rum sitting on her dresser, and swig them both back until empty.

  I start to cry, not searching for any kind of sympathy, but deep down, I know my friend is right. It makes me realise that I have yet another obstacle to jump over in my young life.

  “An addict in denial is in big trouble,” she says. “When you admit to yourself that you have a problem, that’s the first step to recovery.”

  “What do I do? I don’t know how to make this all good again.”

  “We’ll figure it out.”

  Benny is talking to me, albeit reluctantly, and I’m relieved to have her in my corner. “This is great,” she says, taking another huge mouthful, while I nudge my food around my plate with my fork. “Eat!

  “Insomnia is one of the symptoms of withdrawal, you know? So is irritability, and anxiety. You’ve been displaying these signs for the last week, and that makes me more certain you’re alcohol dependent.”

  She’s right. When I come home from work, I bitch and moan about Grumpy. I’ve hardly slept, and I’ve been restless.

  “I’ll make an appointment with a doctor,” I tell her.

  “Make it sooner rather than later. The longer you leave it, the worse it will get. This is delicious, by the way.” She rams another forkful of food in her mouth. Why she’s not the size of a cow is beyond me.

  The tension between us is waning after ‘rumgate’, and I’m thankful she’s not able to stay mad at me for too long.

  “I don’t know what a GP will be able to do about my… predicament,” I say sombrely. “But I have to see what he suggests.”

  “I think rehab is the way to go. You need a program to get clean, and I will do all I can to help you.”

  “Rehab? Really? Isn’t that a bit extreme?”

  “Yes, probably. I really feel it’s the best course of action to take.”

  I look down at my now cold food, feeling the swell of nervousness throughout my body. “I’m an addict,” I admit to myself. “When did it all get so out of control?”

  “Who knows? I don’t think we’ll be able to pinpoint the exact time it went from harmless social drinking to full scale addiction. But remember this…” I look up into my best friend’s kind eyes. “…We have caught on to the fact that you have a problem early, and that will more than likely make it easier for you to kick the cravings to the kerb.”

  She speaks a lot of sense, and whether she’s right or not, her words make me feel so much more secure.

  “Thank you,” I tell her wholeheartedly.

  “What for? I’m just doing what any good friend would do.” She finishes the last mouthful of food from her plate. “I need another promise, one that cannot be broken.”

  “Anything. Name it.”

  “I promise to help you all I can, but you have to promise me that you’ll help yourself.”

  “You got it.”

  She obviously doesn’t believe me. “Say the words, Kat. If you don’t, this deal is off!”

  “I promise.”

  I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Sleep is evading me again, but my mind racing is probably not helping. Insomnia is a bitch, and I’m trying everything I can to drift off, but nothing is working. The one thing that will help me is the one thing I’m not allowed. I made a promise to my best friend, and there is no way I will ever go back on that promise; not again.

  I am determined.

  I cannot kick the one person who has given me so much in the teeth by breaking the pact we sealed. Self-pity takes over as I wonder where this new and unwelcome chapter in my life will take me. For one, I work in bar, and that is something I’m going to have to give up. Secondly, I have a new relationship, and even though I’ve not heard from him today, I just know he’s thinking about me. He said so himself, and I have no reason to doubt his words.

  I must tell him, but I think I must wait until I know what will happen to me before I take that dive into uncertainty. I’ll keep it from him for the time being. I’ll wait until I’ve spoken to the doctor, and when I know what he advises, that’s when I’ll come clean to Connor.

  I’m not looking forward to telling him I’m an alcoholic and I need help, but if he cares about me at all, he’ll care enough to stand by my side while I fight these demons. If he’s quick to dump me, then he wasn’t worth
bothering with, or worthy of my time.

  I make a plan, and with the use of some information from a search engine, I name it ‘The Get Kat Back Plan’. I jot all the information down on a piece of pink paper and pin it to the notice board in my room.

  The first step is to reach out for help, and I plan on calling the GP’s surgery first thing in the morning. Each step I will be able to tick off when completed.

  The second thing I do is reach for my laptop and create a blog. Writing musings, struggles, and small wins are surely advantageous tools in aiding my sobriety.

  I write my first blog entry as Day 1- Lasagne minus the wine, and recount the conversation Benny and I had over a delicious plate of lasagne.

  It’s time to take control, and this is just the beginning.

  Today is day three of trying to get an appointment with our local GP, and with all the winter bugs affecting our elderly residents of Jersey, appointments are very scarce. The phone rings out, with no one answering. I’m losing patience. “If I offer my first-born child in exchange for an appointment, will you give me something, anyth… hi.”

  “Jersey Medical Centre, how may I help?”

  I think the lady on the other end of the line didn’t hear me, thank heavens.

  “I… I need to see a doctor. I’ll take any appointment you’ve got.”

  “We have a cancellation. Can you be here in fifteen minutes?”

  “Yes!”

  I give the lady my details, then run to my room to get ready. I’m nervous as hell, but I need to do this. For Benny. For me. As I pull on my jeans and jumper, I cannot get it out of my head that I’ve not heard from Connor for the last few days. I texted him three days ago, and so far, he’s not replied. I sound like a needy bitch when the voices in my head repeat over and over, ‘why hasn’t he text me? I wish he would text me’.