Jersey Girl

by J A Heron

  I have this sinking feeling deep in the pit of my stomach, and it’s a feeling of complete and utter despair.

  I’ve been dumped.

  Or he’s just too busy to reply to me.

  It’s fine either way, and besides, I’ve got enough going on myself, so dragging Connor into my sordid problems is the last thing I need. Perhaps I’m better off alone while I deal with all the demons invading my life. It’s hard to shake the feeling of being dumped, but I really hope that isn’t the case. I’ve yearned for him enough in the last few days, and that pull is just as strong. I wish he was here, by my side, holding my hand, but part of me doesn’t want to drag him into all of this. One: he doesn’t deserve this, and two: I’m far too embarrassed to confess to him my problems.

  This back and forth is messing me up. I wish I knew either way what was happening with us.

  I speed walk to the surgery, and each person I pass looks at me like I’m crazy. It might have something to do with the frantic waving of my arms, the grunting, and power strides. I’m a woman on a mission, and I certainly don’t need the appointment I’ve struggled to get being cancelled because I turn up late.

  I push my way through the door and almost fall on my bottom when I realise the door is lighter than it looks. I confirm my appointment on the self-check in computer on the wall, then take a seat. I made it with two minutes to spare.

  The voice comes over the loudspeaker, “Miss Powell, room five, please.”

  I walk down the corridor, trying to locate the room I need, and when found, I gently tap on the door and walk in.

  “Miss Powell, how can I help you?” The aging doctor doesn’t even look at me. I take a seat perpendicular to her desk. She’s wearing a thick navy cardigan over a navy and mustard floral dress, and matching mustard-coloured flats. Her hair has silver streaks and is tied up into an elegant chignon. Pearl dropper earrings hang from her earlobes. She looks tanned, so I’m guessing she’s been somewhere crazy hot for a winter break. I know I’m right when I see a picture on her desk of her surrounded by a couple of adults and children standing in front of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Pretty recent I’d say.

  The doctor notices me looking at her picture. “My family,” she explains. “They live in Sydney, and I’ve just come back from spending a month with them.” She suddenly frowns, obviously reminiscing about the time she’s spent there. If I were her, I’d be exuding an air of annoyance at being back from somewhere so tropical. I can’t blame her.

  Her persona suddenly changes, and she gives me a warm and caring smile. “What seems to be the trouble?”

  I twist my fingers, interlocking them with each other as I suddenly come over nervous. This is the best course of action. This is a massive step. This is me seeking the help I need to overcome all the demons fighting their way to the fore. I need to expel them all from my life, and with this woman’s help, that goal is becoming closer and closer; within reaching distance. I take a deep breath and breathe out all the issues I’ve been facing recently.

  “I have a drink problem. I mean, I’m a… I’m an alcoholic.” It takes me a few steadying breaths between words to finally spit out all the information I’ve been holding back.

  “I see,” she says, looking at me over the top of her spectacles. I’ve noticed she does that, and only looks through them while she’s staring at her computer screen. “How many units are you consuming per day?”

  “I don’t know how many units there are in a bottle of rum, but I’m guessing it’s a lot.”

  “You drink a seventy centilitre per day?” she asks without judgement. Her eyes are sympathetic, not pitying, and I really like that about her.

  “Most days,” I answer honestly. “Sometimes it’s slightly more, sometimes is a lot less. I’ve found that I’m becoming more and more dependant on the alcohol, rather than just drinking to be socially acceptable. My roommate is worried about me too.”

  “Do you ever lie to cover up your drinking?”

  “I have. Once recently, and a few times in the past.”

  “I see,” she repeats. “Thank you for being honest.”

  She taps the keys on her keyboard a few times, and I feel like I must be silent while she does whatever it is she’s doing on her PC. “I need help with sleeping, and drinking is the best way for me to sleep.”

  She turns back to look at me, giving me her undivided attention. “There is so much we can do these days, but the main issue is you. You’re the one who needs to learn to control the desire to drink. I’d really like to explore the reason for your drinking, as I’m guessing we have underlying issues, not just insomnia. Am I right?”

  This woman deserves a raise. She’s hit the nail right on the head. I nod, confirming her suspicions. “I guess you’ve heard it all before, right? People must come in here with some right sob stories.”

  “I probably have heard it all before over the years. But that’s not to say your problems aren’t very real. We need to deal with the triggers, and we need to suppress the desire to reach for the alcohol when life gets tough. I’ve seen so many cases of alcoholism and drug addiction over the years, and I have to say, most of my patients have successfully cleaned up and gone on to be highly successful. Not only their success at kicking whichever habit they’re suffering from, but they’ve gone on to hold down good jobs, and even start or keep their family units intact. I’m babbling, I know.” She giggles. “This practice has one of the best success rates with regards to rehab programs. We’re very proud of that fact.”

  “I bet you are.” Without knowing it, this woman has already helped me. Just those few words have given me the confidence to carry on sitting here and take whatever she suggests in my first steps getting clean. “We should all be proud of our achievements.”

  “My sentiments exactly.” She smiles warmly. “So, I can put a plan of action together. There are meetings…”

  “Like AA?”

  “Yes, and most people find them a great tool. Listening to other people, how they cope with the cravings, what drove them to drink, all the different conversations will certainly be beneficial. It’s not suitable for everyone, and not everyone continues, but I think it will be a great first step. How do you feel?”

  “I’m willing to give it a go.” I’ll try anything.

  “That’s a good attitude to have.” She taps away again on her keyboard. “Now, have you heard of the twelve-step program?”

  “Yes. I did a little research on their website.”

  “Good. Looking for help, where to get it, and what’s right for you are the basics, and you’ve done the right thing by coming to see me. I can refer you, but there could be a waiting list, so my suggestion is for you not to stop drinking altogether straight away. Please try to cut down first. Be honest with yourself and write each drink, each day, in a diary. This will help you understand the amount you’re consuming, rather than just swilling it back each day without a care in the world. Please try not to get caught up in the counting. If you don’t have a drink one day, write it down. If you drink a full bottle, write it down. For this to work, you must be honest. Does that sound feasible?”

  “It sounds perfect.”

  “I’m so sorry, but this is only a ten-minute appointment, so I’ll have to cut it short. By all means, come and see me again when needed, but with regards to your alcoholism, I’d rather see you again in three weeks’ time. I want to see your diary, and I want to discuss what else we can do to support you.”

  I’ve begun to fidget my fingers again, and I hadn’t even noticed. The doctor places her hand, palm side down, on my forearm, and gives a gentle rub.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, almost on a sob.

  “My pleasure. Please don’t feel like you’re alone in this, because you’re not.”

  Ten minutes with someone who understands and hasn’t judged me has given my confidence a boost. I can do this.

  Armed with a huge amount of information leaflets, I step out of the doctor’s surgery. Ther
e is purpose in each stride. Each step I take is powered by a determination to succeed. I have to take responsibility for my own actions, and only I can kick the demon liquor. I have Benny’s support, and the support of the lovely lady doctor I just saw, but at the end of the day, it’s all down to me. I’m eager to return to the solace of my personal space. I need the comfort of my room, my duvet, and some warm pyjamas.

  Once in my room, I strip down and curl up in a ball on my bed. I open the ornate carved walnut box and pull out my only treasured possession. Holding the necklace close to my heart has the power to make me feel close to my parents. It brings me great comfort, but at the same time, it has the ability to bring great sadness, reminding me of everything I lost in such tragic circumstances. Each mixed emotion this piece of jewellery brings tears me in so many different directions. I’m not strong enough to keep up with the war going on in my own mind. I need something solid, concrete stability in my life. I’m so tired of juggling multiple balls in the air, scared of dropping just one. If one falls, I fear everything will crumble, and my whole life will lay in ruins at my feet.

  I do have something keeping me grounded. One thing that I must do. I have it in me to help Benny get out of an arranged marriage, so that she can live her life independently.

  With Christmas coming up, and the thought of her spending time alone with her parents, and that giant cock – Giles – I feel the need more than ever to help her get out of something she has no intention of doing. Whenever we talk about the issues she’s facing, we struggle to come up with a plan. Raven is aware of the path chosen for her by those two people who are supposed to love her more than anyone else. I really hoped he’d come up with some way to get her out of this situation, to help us, but so far, he’s remained tight-lipped about it all.

  My best friend needs rescuing from a life she shudders at the thought of. So do I, for that matter. In fact, we both feel nauseated just contemplating what they have in store for her.

  We’ve discussed running away, but that would mean living on the streets. For me, it would be an unwelcome return to my former life, and with my experience of it, it wouldn’t be the wisest idea. I can’t see my best friend – the one who’s lived a privileged life so far – taking to life as a homeless person. We’ve joked about robbing a bank and moving to the mainland UK.

  As Benny sits in front of me later that evening, we discuss everything. I tell her all about my appointment with the doctor and the steps we’re taking to curb my cravings for alcohol. We read all the leaflets I left with, every single one, and we’re both encouraged by the amount of help available. The wealth of information handed to me is enough to increase my confidence levels, and it also seals the promise I made to Benny. We both stare off into space for a while, neither of us saying a word.

  It’s hard to stop myself from daydreaming as I focus my attention on the corner of the room. I’m fixated on the spot where two walls meet, topped by the ceiling. I could really do with a drink, and fighting the temptation is hard, but I manage to conquer that craving by focussing on a small speck of wall that was missed when decorating last, and the fact that I cannot, and will not, let my best friend down. She needs me, more than ever, and if I turn my back on her, succumb to my demons, it will be the biggest mistake I ever make. Failure to overcome my alcoholism is not an option.

  Two days we’ve been brainstorming. Two days we’ve been trying to come up with a plan, but nothing is working, and we’re stuck in limbo. It’s the Sunday before Christmas Eve, and I lie in bed, preparing to say goodbye to Benny for a few days. I’ve already seen the look of dread in her eyes as the time to leave draws nearer, and it hurts me to see her despair. She knows she has no choice, and if I could, I’d make it so that she doesn’t have to go. I’ve made a wish for the last few nights as I’ve stared up at the night sky from my bedroom window, whilst clutching the pearls my mother left me.

  I guess wishes don’t come true.

  She’s all packed ready to go, and last night, as she packed the last few things into her small suitcase, she broke down and cried. Massive sobs wracked her tiny frame, and all I could do was comfort her, as she’s comforted me more times than I can count.

  I’m preparing to work extra shifts over the next few days, and when I say Mr Grumpy is overjoyed that I’ve agreed to do this, it’s an absolute understatement. He keeps saying ‘thank you’ repeatedly, and even though I’ve told him he doesn’t need to keep thanking me, that I’m happy to do it, for the money, of course, it still doesn’t stop him from showing his gratitude. I’m a little reluctant to work, but I have to. I don’t want to let him down. I seem to be letting down a lot of people lately. I don’t want to add Grumpy to that list.

  My text alert pulls me from my thoughts, and my first instinct tells me it’s Connor. When I pull my phone from my bedside table and flip to lie on my side, I light up the screen. I feel my heart jump with a joyful explosion when I see Connor’s name on the text. Then my heart crashes back down, shattered into a million pieces when I see the one-word message.

  Connor ~ Sorry x

  What is he sorry for? Is he sorry for not replying to the many messages I’ve sent him? What the hell is he sorry for? I mull it over for a few moments before curiosity gets the better of me.

  Me ~ What are you sorry for? X

  I watch as the message gets sent, but it doesn’t deliver. Perhaps there is a problem with the network. It could be a problem here, or there, wherever he is. I don’t know, but the longer I see the message as undelivered, the feeling of dread gets stronger and stronger. The pain in my stomach increases, so I wrap my arms around myself, seeking reprieve from the agony. I sit for a moment, coping with the pain, to let Benny be alone while she composes herself, preparing for when the time comes when she has to leave. Flashbacks appear, as if from nowhere, of the time me and Connor spent together; a brief period, but significant nonetheless. His whispers of Jersey Girl in my ear, his smile, his strong arms, all jump into my mind’s eye at once, causing a flutter of excitement and a tingle down my spine, reminding me of a time I will cherish forever. I remember his skilled hands working my body into a frenzy the times we made love, and how those hands touched every single part of me, his eyes searching my soul, and opening up my heart just a smidgen so he’ll always have a tiny piece of it.

  I’m royally screwed, and even though my feelings for him are slight, I know it will take me a while to get over the fact I’ll never see him again. It hurts, but I’m strong enough to get through this. I guess I’m just disappointed that we’ll never be anything more than a brief fling. When we were together, I got the feeling that what he wanted would turn into something more, and now I know I was wrong.

  I shrug, pick up my winter jacket, and prepare to venture out into the frosty night air. I have a long shift ahead of me, but I know Grumpy’s will be busy tonight; the time should fly by. First, I have to give my best friend a pep talk.

  When I walk into the living area, she sits with her elbows resting on her knees, and her head hangs low. It breaks my heart to see her in such a sorrowful state. I make one last wish as I approach her carefully. I gently place a hand on her shoulder, and she doesn’t even flinch at the contact. A minute or so passes before she speaks, as I continue to show her a small piece of comfort.

  “Thank you,” is all she says on a whisper. I barely heard her.

  “What on Earth could you be thanking me for? I haven’t done anything.”

  “You’ve done more than you know.” She slowly raises her head, and her teary eyes meet mine. My heart cracks a little when I see the pink hues from unshed tears. “What do I do?”

  She’s almost pleading with me to find the solution to all her woes, and I want to. I want to help her escape the hell she’s living, but right now, I don’t have the answers. All I can do is stand firm and be her rock. “We’ll find a way.”

  The conviction in my tone surprises even me. She nods her head slightly, and instead of letting her head fall again, she
straightens her spine, wipes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. There’s my girl. “You call me anytime if you need me.” I take her hand and help her to her feet. “Don’t let them walk all over you, and most of all, don’t show weakness. Stay strong.” I say the last two words harshly.

  “You’re so right.” She slightly shakes her head, as if ridding her mind of some horrid thought, and brushes down her long khaki skirt. “Get going, or you’ll be late. Wish Grumpy a Merry Christmas from me.”

  “I will.” I half turn away, then immediately turn back towards my guardian angel and pull her in close to me, wrapping my arms around her. “Merry Christmas,” I whisper in her ear as I remove myself from her arms and make my way to the door.

  It hurts me to leave her this way when she needs me the most, but I know my friend. She’ll make it through the next few days, providing she hasn’t committed three counts of murder in the process. As I close the door behind me, I hear her shout, “Merry Christmas.”

  Grumpy’s Bar is pumping when I burst through the doors with five minutes to spare before the start of my shift. As I walk past the bar, I get a nod of acknowledgement from Yan. Marnie does a two-fingered wolf whistle as I pass to walk to my locker, which makes me chuckle.

  Rob is sitting at the end of the bar in his usual spot. “Thank you,” he says again.

  I stop dead in my tracks and place a soft kiss on his cheek. “Enough with the thanks now,” I warn him, giving him a hard but tender stare. “I’m happy to be here.” He gives me a look that says he knows I’m lying. We both laugh.

  I have a moment’s reprieve in between serving customers, and in this precise moment, I hope to God I don’t behave like some of the drunken idiots in here when I’ve had one too many drinks. I still have half of my shift to go, not to mention the cleaning up to do before I leave, and half the patrons are wasted. The other half are either catching up with the already drunken clientele or are designated drivers. I’ve never seen so many drunk people in one place at one time, and I’ve worked many Christmases in the past. As I watch people making a fool of themselves, I cringe at the thought of me behaving like this in my many past inebriated states. I know everyone is just letting loose for the festive period, but the sight before me makes me hang my head in shame.