I was angry with him for leaving me in the first place. I didn't care that he was doing what was best for us. I didn't care that he promised me forever. He told me to wait, but he got to go on with his life, and he wanted me to decide if he stayed in the Air Force or left. I didn't see it as him including me in one of the biggest decisions he would ever make; I saw it as him pressuring me to decide his life for him. It made me mad at him—when it didn't matter, he cared about my opinion, but back then, when it did matter, he made the decision for us. I used my anger at him as another excuse to drink.
I used anything as an excuse to drink. I had a problem, and I couldn't see it. At least I was pretty good at hiding it, or so I thought.
Aunt Aerin would talk to me often about my mom's drinking. She said Mom didn't turn into the slobbering drunk she was overnight; it took time. Mom stole alcohol from their parents and would always pressure Aunt Aerin to drink more than she wanted because Mom always wanted to drink more and more herself.
Then Auntie would ask me if I had urges to drink. I only told her about the old times with Clayton and Mom, not about now. I felt like her eyes could bore straight through me and see the truth. Once, at the shop, I lost my temper with her over it. It was better than having to admit I had a problem. Luckily there weren't any customers in the store. I had been putting shot glasses up on a revolving shelf, replacing what had been sold earlier that day, and the sight of the shot glass in my hand set her off. She started recounting when she first realized she and my mom had a problem.
“Are you accusing me of being like you guys?”
“No, no dear, it's not that at all. I'm sharing history, letting you know what to look out for so you can spot it in your own life. The chances of you becoming an alcoholic are ... ”
“I know what the chances are! You tell me every five seconds. I don't need this lecture again. My mom was a lousy drunk who never got sober. I get it, I get it! You've told me a million times, and if you hadn't, I would still know because she was drunk every day of my freaking life! And you're not. You got sober, and you want me to be like you and not her. I know this, Auntie; I'm just tired of hearing it. And she's my mom, OK? I can't take you badmouthing her all the time.”
“I didn't mean for it to come out that way.”
“No, you didn't, but it did.”
“I'm worried for you, Haylee. When you got here you were more open, you did more with me and with your friends. Now you hide out in your room—like she did. You have to understand why I worry.”
“It doesn't mean I'm up there chugging on a fifth of Johnny Walker!” (That's exactly what it meant, and even though I denied it, it felt good to let the words escape.) “It means I want my privacy. You're so nosy; you always have to be up in my business. Can't you leave me alone? I do everything you want me to do. I help out at your stupid store and put up with your man-of-the-month dates. Can't you put up with me shutting myself in my room? I lost my mom!”
That's what I did to get pity: bring up the dead mother. I didn't cry much anymore, except when I was alone in my room, so instead of crying I chucked the shot glass across the store, aiming low for a ground hit. I wanted to make a point but didn't want to break any of her stuff. I ran out of the door and yelled behind me, “If you need me, I'll be in my room getting drunk!”
It was the truth. That's exactly what I did. She knocked on the door later that night and found me half drunk with a letter to Justin half written beside me.
“Haylee? Haylee, honey, can I come in?” It really wasn't a question she was asking, more like a statement. I was busted again. My room probably smelled like a bar, and I was in no condition to talk. “Why won't you leave me alone?”
“Oh, Haylee. You've got a problem; can't you see that?”
“I'm fine..”
“If you were fine, you could stop. But you can't, can you? You need help.”
“I don't.”
“What will it take to make you quit?” She sat on the edge of my bed and rubbed my shoulder. She wasn't mad; she wanted to help me. I expected her to yell, to ground me or to punish me, but it was an ear she offered, and I wasn't used to that when I'd done something wrong. Clayton yelled; Mom ignored, she grounded, Justin fixed things. Listening was a new thing.
“I can quit any time.”
“We've been down this road before, and you didn't. You're obviously not drinking for the fun of it or you wouldn't be drinking alone in your room after a fight. You say you don't have a problem, so then why are you drinking?”
I knew right away.
“Justin. I miss him.” I tapped the paper with my pen.
“OK, so did you drink when he was with you?”
“Yeah, but ... ”
“No, honey, no yeah, but. If you drank with him, he's not the reason you're drinking. What is it?”
“My mom's dead.”
“But you drank when she was alive, didn't you?”
“Yeah.”
“There's something inside you making you drink. It might only be that you are addicted and you need help to quit, but it might be that you're running from something: memories of the past, regret for what you've done. I don't know; only you can figure it out. But you'll need help.”
“I don't know,” I said trying to make my eyes focus on her. The room was starting to spin and her face was doubling up. I knew I drank too much that night; I wished I hadn't had those last couple chugs, but it was too late to take it back. Usually that was when I told myself next time I wouldn't drink that much because it felt gross. Always next time.
“Maybe I'm just an alcoholic.”
“Do you want to quit?”
“Sure.”
“Really?”
“Of course.”
“If you want to, you will, but you can't do it alone; you need help. Are you sure you really want to quit drinking, for good?”
“Yes, I said.”
“Quitting is a huge commitment. It's forever, for the rest of your life. I'm only asking because forever is a very long time to go without another drink. I can help you quit if you want to, but if you don't, I don't want to waste my time.”
“Wow, thanks.”
“Oh c'mon now, you know I didn't mean any harm. I've tried before to help people who don't want to help themselves. It hurts too bad, and I have never been able to get one person sober who didn't want to.”
“You tried to stop your parents...”
“Yes, and husband number one ... and your mother. Oh man, I wanted her to quit drinking so bad! She was so much like you, defensive and locked in. It killed me. I know I talk about it a lot, but Haylee, I loved her.” She crawled onto the bed and wrapped me up in her arms, like she was a kid all over again. “She was my baby sister. I wanted so much for her to be OK. I tried to keep her from it when we were little, but then, when we were older, we turned into them. Your mother was the life of the party, so lively and full of energy. I drank to chase away the pain; your mom, though, she drank because she liked it. Liked it so much she never wanted to quit. It started to get in the way of everything, like it is for you. School, boys, life—nothing else mattered. Our whole world turned into getting drunk one night and regretting it the next day, only to drink again. I got sick of it and wanted to quit, but I didn't want to do it alone. I didn't think I could. I begged her to stop with me. She would for a little bit, but she couldn't stay sober long.”
“I can go weeks without drinking, Auntie.” I said.
“Uh huh, when was the last week?”
“A while ago.”
“I couldn't make her quit, Haylee. The only one I could make quit was me, and I did. We grew up. I moved on with my life and figured out how to keep sober.”
“How?”
“Well ... one way is to avoid it, which is harder than it seems. Another way is to get support, to be around other people trying to stay sober.”
“That's why you go to meetings?”
“Yes, exactly. AA and Celebrate Recovery. I used to go t
o meetings every day, sometimes two or three a day. It's still a struggle for me, and those people are my friends now. I don't want to go back to that life, and I want to encourage others who want to live sober. I'll go until I die. If you'd like to come to a meeting some day, I would be happy to bring you; I think it might help.”
“I don't think I'm ready for that.”
“Maybe not, but are you ready to tell Justin you've been drinking?”
“How do you know he doesn't know?”
“Have you told him?”
“No.”
“That's how. You're ashamed of it. It's a secret you're keeping, a sickness that's eating you from the inside out. Justin loves you, and you want him to see the good in you, not the thing you hate the most. Why don't you tell him next time he calls?”
“He'll be so mad; he'll hate me. I told him I was done drinking when I moved here and got busted the first time.”
“You really think this boy who has done everything he has done for you would hate you for telling the truth? I doubt that. He might be upset, but I think you're being a little melodramatic, dear. Try it, will you?”
“Maybe.”
“I guess I'll have to take it. And no more booze in my house. I can't be around it. My house is the one place I know I can go and not be tempted. I don't want it here; are we clear on that?”
“Yeah, OK.”
“Thank you. Oh, honey, I love you so much.” She hugged me hard and held me there for a long time before getting up. I knew then what a mother's love should be like.
She wanted me to move on, but I was afraid I'd disappoint her, too. Her question rang in my ear: was I really ready to be done drinking? Right then I felt like crap, so I was done drinking for that night for sure. But forever? It was such a long time.
I decided yes—yes, I wanted to be done—but not right away. Still, that was the night I started to hate drinking and finally admitted I had a problem. I only admitted it to myself, I was powerless over alcohol, it had made my life unmanageable, and I was hiding and lying to cover it up. I was ashamed.
I didn't magically get better in one night. It took a long time—years, actually—before I was finally ready to be done, and a whole lot of grief between admitting I had a problem and getting and staying sober.
I started, like Aunt Aerin suggested, to tell Justin the truth. I spilled the words out on paper because I couldn't do it when he called. In the letter I confessed everything: I told him I had never quit drinking, that I was stealing it and buying it from a bum. I told him Auntie's story about quitting and that I wanted to quit too, but that I was afraid. I finished the letter with apologies and wishes to see him. I put it in the envelope, addressed and stamped it, and almost put it in the mailbox—but I couldn't do it. I wasn't ready. I couldn't admit it to him or anyone else because I didn't want to quit yet.
Instead, I convinced myself Justin was doing the same thing. I told myself his letters were only half-truths and that he was omitting the bad stuff too. I liked that scenario better than the alternative, which was that he really was changing into a better person.
He wrote that he felt sorry for the breaking and entering and stealing we had done. And he wrote that he was sorry for the pain he had caused others, even though he didn't think fighting for what he believed in was wrong. He was growing stronger and achieving everything he had set his mind to, and I was rotting away.
I wanted him to be lying to me. I hoped he was as miserable as I was, but I didn't know for sure. All I knew after that talk with Aunt Aerin was that I was becoming everything Clayton and my mom said I would become: a lousy, good-for-nothing loser.
At least I wasn't as much of a loser as Justin: I didn't get kicked out of school my senior year; I stuck it out and I graduated. He was proud of me, Auntie was proud of me, and I was shocked myself.
I celebrated graduation the way I celebrated everything back then: with alcohol and pot. A bunch of us had a huge party at this kid named Danny's house. His parents knew what we were doing but allowed it because it was our senior party. I could tell Aunt Aerin was worried about me going, but she let me, probably because she felt bad that Justin couldn't make it for the ceremony.
He said he tried to get leave but it wasn't granted, so he couldn't go without being AWOL. Instead, as a graduation gift, he sent me a beautiful silver heart necklace with three diamonds on the side and matching earrings. I wore them to the ceremony and party and felt bad when I got a little puke on the pendant while I was heaving later that night.
I crashed at the party inside a tent full of my old sports friends and listened to them talk about their plans for the future. They all knew my life was wrapped up in Justin, and they thought it was so romantic. They talked about going away to college, getting married, living at home and going to the community college, or working in Wenatchee, a town about forty-five minutes from us. I dreamed of being with Justin, but I had no plans for myself. I talked about college to keep Aunt Aerin from worrying, but I didn't want to go, nor did I consider getting a job away from the shop. I was aimless. Listening to them, I realized how pointless my life was. Their giggles died off and I alone laid awake staring through the tent screen at the spinning stars and wondered how different my life would be if my mom or I would have—or could have—quit drinking.
Justin's letters never stopped coming, but I stopped reading them after that. I even got to the point where I stopped opening them. I got tired of reading how perfect his life was turning out. I was mad at him for it. He pretended to be there for me; he begged me to wait and said he couldn't wait to see me again, when the time was right. There was no way he could be that good, and if he was that good, there was no way he could still want me if he knew what I was becoming. It was easier to let him fade away than to keep lying to him and wonder if he was lying to me.
I stopped writing the same way I stopped reading: gradually. I didn't write back once, then twice; then eventually it was like I hadn't spent three years of my life writing to him at all.
“Haylee, honey, Justin's letter has been on the table at home for a couple days. Are you going to open it?”
“Yeah, I'll get it when I get home,” I told Aunt Aerin one day at the shop.
“I remember when you first moved here how you'd rip them open the second you saw you had one.”
“Yeah, I've grown up. He's moving on, and so am I.”
“Doesn't seem like he's moving on to me; he's still writing as much as he ever has. Are you still writing him?”
“Wow! When did you turn into the letter police? He's my boyfriend; I write him when I feel like it. Sorry if I don't check in when I send them off.”
I was angry at her for butting into my life and angry at Justin for leaving me, for forcing me to move in with her. I ran out of the shop again—only this time I didn't go back.
I took off. I left, just like Karina, just like my mother. No note, no good-bye, just gone.
CHAPTER 14
I DIDN'T LOOK BACK for a long time. I figured I was old enough to live my own life and make my own decisions. Maybe I wasn't old enough to meet Justin's expectations of what a woman was. Maybe I would never be old enough or good enough for him or Aunt Aerin. Maybe he told me to wait in hopes that I'd move on and he could always come out looking like the good guy.
I convinced myself that he was a jerk. I hated him that night. I hated him for leaving me, for doing the right thing, for moving on with his life while I suffered. I hated Aunt Aerin for taking me in and being the most boring and preachy person on the face of the planet. I hated my mom for being a bad mom when she was alive, and I hated her for dying and leaving me to face life alone. I hated Clayton for being himself. I hated everything and everyone. I wanted gone from them all.
I drove home and took Auntie's secret stash. (She actually hid her emergency cash in the cookie jar.) There was $1,500 in rolled hundred-dollar bills in there, and I took them all. I justified it because I knew the state had paid her way more than that for me, but i
t didn't help me feel any less guilty. I took my car—the one she got me for my sixteenth birthday—and drove away without a look back.
I wound up exactly where I started: at that nasty house at the end of the dead-end road. Clayton was home when I got there. I don't know why, but I went there to see him. He opened the door and extended his other hand to the top of the door frame and stood there looking at me for the longest time before saying anything.
“Yer aunt's been calling looking for you. Didn't figure I'd see you here.”
I didn't want him in my business, so I changed the topic to safe territory. “You talk to Justin still?”
“Naw. You?”
“He writes, always the same stuff: guns, planes ... you know,” I shrugged.
“Uh huh.”
We were standing outside; it was cold. He looked me up and down. It was not the look he should be giving a girl he practically raised as his daughter for so many years.
“You grew up. You look cold; wanna come in?”
“No, I'm good. I just wanted to come by.”
“Where you heading to?”
“I don't know.”
“Never figured you'd be the one to turn out this way; always figured Justin for the screw-up.”
“Wow, thanks for that.”
“Callin' it like I see it, doll, that's all.” He spit out the side of his mouth and wiped his lip with the side of his hand.
“You're such a jerk, you know that? You always have been. You ruined my life. I hate you so much.” I didn't yell; it would have taken away from the point I wanted to make.
“Get off my property.”
“Wouldn't want to stay here anyway.”
“I'm telling your aunt.”
“Good for you. You do that, why don't you?”
I left and drove all the way to L.A. It was a good place to get lost in the crowd, and that's exactly what I did: I got lost, at least for a day.
Without Justin, nothing made sense. Without Aunt Aerin, I had no one. But what I did have, for the first time in my life, was age on my side. I was finally old enough to take care of myself, to work, to drive, to do anything I wanted—except drink, but obviously that never stopped me from it before.
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