“You know I have to,” I remind her. In our positions with the state, our mental health must be up to a certain standard too, and I’m required to see someone so they can determine I’m well enough to do my job.
“I was just making sure,” Leena says. Her hair looks dull this morning, more so than usual, though. She has curly hair but typically uses a product to tame the frizz. Today, she looks like she’s been mopping floors for hours, disheveled. She also looks tired, appearing the way I feel. I doubt she has a hangover headache, though.
“Are you okay? You look a little tired today,” I ask.
“Oh, I’m fine. I was at a four-hour training session last night, and then I got stuck behind an accident on the freeway. I didn’t get home until after midnight.”
“Sorry,” I offer, scrunching my nose.
Leena tugs her curls behind her ears. “It’s fine. But, um, if there’s anything I can do to make things easier for you today, let me know, okay? You have a meeting with Joan at nine to discuss a possible placement for Dylan, and a parental visitation for William at noon.”
“William’s dad has been released?”
“Yes, on bail, but his court date isn’t until next week. He’ll be going back in. There’ll be a police escort with him, so precautions are in place.”
“Got it,” I tell her.
“You sure you’re good?”
My fatigue appearance can’t be unnoticed as I offer an agreeable nod, but my headache is ringing loudly.
“I’m good. Thank you.”
Once I’m alone in the office, I take a seat at my desk and grab the three picture frames containing a false sense of happiness between Keegan and me. I thought if I put up photos of happy moments, the positive vibes would eventually catch up, but that never came to be. I debate whether I should toss the photos away or bury them in a drawer.
The frames are too lovely to throw away.
I rip the photos out of the three frames, tear them up and toss them in the trash.
The frames can stay. I’ll just keep those until I have something else to place inside.
“How do you like that, Keegan? I’m already removing you from my life,” I mutter.
Chapter Seven
Chance
Working beneath the unrelenting sun after a night of poor sleep is not an ideal way to finish work for the week. I thought I was good last night after Didi’s sudden drop-in. Sometimes I feel remorseful for never showing her an inch more of courtesy or an invitation to come inside, but she’s not for me, and I’m sure not for her. Though I do wonder why she is so persistent in forming a friendship or whatever it is she’s after with me.
Sometimes my guilt keeps me awake as I often think too profoundly about situations I could have handled differently, but last night’s remorse was different.
The woman in the bar. I had visions of her jumping off the bridge with no one around to stop her. I know I can’t save everyone, but I feel like I end up in certain situations for reasons I may never understand. I could have been the one to prevent her from going off the deep end. Plus, I don’t know a thing about her. I just can’t forget about the look I saw in her eyes. If something happened, Luke would have heard something. I’ll send him a quick text before heading back to Mrs. Dunn’s house.
* * *
Me: Did you hear anything about that crazy chick from last night?
* * *
Luke isn’t quick at responding to messages, so I toss my phone into the cup holder and pull onto the street. As expected, I’m about halfway to Mrs. Dunn’s house when I hear the phone vibrate.
I pull over to the side of the road and grab my phone to read his response.
* * *
Luke: Nah. Should I have heard something? Did something happen after you followed her out?
* * *
I pull back onto the road, not sure how much I want to tell him. I need a few minutes to think. My truck bounces around as I roll onto Mrs. Dunn’s torn up driveway. She told me her driveway is the next repair she will invest in, which is the right decision since her tires will end up on that list of hers too.
With the truck in park, I grab my phone again and tap out a reply to Luke.
* * *
Me: I followed her for a few to make sure she wasn’t getting into a car, but she spotted me down by the lake and scared me off with less than a full breath.
* * *
Luke’s response is almost immediate this time.
* * *
Luke: Dude, why would you follow any woman to the lake? You were asking for trouble.
* * *
He’s right. But in my defense, I was acting as a concerned citizen.
The second I spot Mrs. Dunn’s figure in the window of her front door, I regret not stopping for a large coffee this morning. I’m not the type who needs caffeine to get a kick start, but I swear I see a glare glimmering in her eyes from here.
The woman is knocking on my window before I step out of the truck.
“Mr. Miller,” she scolds.
I reach for the door handle, and she taps her fist against the glass again.
“Yes, Mrs. Dunn,” I respond while stepping out of my truck. I wonder if there is a Mr. Dunn, and if so, what he thinks of Mrs. Dunn’s demands.
“The packages arrived—the shingles,” she says, pointing toward her garage door where there is a pile of boxes stacked.
“Oh, good. I’m glad the materials are here.”
“Well, I’m not happy they’re here,” she retorts, huffing as she sweeps her white feathery bangs away from her forehead.
“Why is that, Mrs. Dunn?” I ask, trying to sound caring and concerned. I even give her a little space as I make my way back to the truck's tailgate for my toolbox.
“They labeled those packages with the name: Adobe Sunset. The shingles should be Cedar Falls.” Her hands fall heavily against her sides, a clear sign of frustration.
“No, you have that mixed up. You were worried yesterday that the shingles were Cedar Falls rather than Adobe Sunset, remember?” By the scowl on Mrs. Dunn’s finely lined face, I regret my response.
“Are you calling me senile, Mr. Miller?”
I walk around Mrs. Dunn and reach through the open driver-side door and retrieve the clipboard with her order form affixed to the top. I examine the paper, filled out with her handwriting, and point to where she wrote the words: Adobe Sunset. “See here; these are the shingles you requested,” I explain, trying to soften the tone of my voice. I’m not in this to prove an elderly woman wrong. I just want to get this job done.
“Goodness. I guess I am going senile,” she says defensively, but with an air of embarrassment.
“We all have our moments, Mrs. Dunn. Trust me.”
“Well, thank you for being understanding of an old woman. I apologize. You’re doing a wonderful job. Can I make you a cup of coffee?”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you, Mrs. Dunn.”
As Mrs. Dunn ambles toward her front door, Davey pulls up alongside the curb in his cherry-red pickup. The brakes squeal as he comes to a stop. I’ve been advising him to pick up new brake pads for months now, but the guy doesn’t listen to his wife or me, so I foresee him grinding metal before he gets anything fixed on that heap of junk.
“Sorry I’m late, boss,” Davey says, lumbering around the front of his truck. He kicks the scratched-up metal bumper and mutters something under his breath.
“Everything okay?”
“My battery died in this damn thing, and Carol-Anne had to give me a ride to the auto store so I could buy a new one. She missed her hair appointment or something, and now she’s pissed at me. It’s too dang much for this early in the morning.”
You’re telling me, I want to say.
“Well, you’re here now. I’m sure Carol-Anne will get a new appointment, and all will be well in the world again, right?”
“Sure,” Davey says, inspecting the work I finished yesterday. “Man, you hauled ass already, huh
?”
I would like to tell him if he doesn’t start lifting more of his weight, I won’t need him much longer. He took a personal day yesterday. Reason: still unknown.
“Yeah, I want to get this job done.”
He resets his focus on the front door where Mrs. Dunn has reappeared with a mug of coffee in hand.
“You must be Mr. Davey,” she calls out. “Mr. Davey, are you insured?”
Davey glances over at me with a dubious look, wondering why she would ask him this question rather than me when I’m standing right here. “Yes, ma’am, and I work under Chance’s LLC. Is this going to be a problem?”
“No, of course not. I was just asking,” Mrs. Dunn says. “Would you like a cup of coffee, as well?”
“Oh, I’m all set, but thank you, ma’am.”
“Well, you two should get moving. We have a roof to finish today,” she says, handing me the mug.
Without another word, she spins in her pink slippers and claps her hands together twice on her way back to the front door of her house.
“I see why you want to get this job done quickly,” Davey mutters.
“She’s a real peach.”
It takes the better half of the day to get most of the roof situated. All we have left now is the ridge capping and clean-up, which will take us right up to about five o’clock.
“Are you heading over to Kenny’s for dinner after we wrap up?” Davey asks.
“You know it.” He knows that’s where I go every night.
“Mind if I join? I ain’t in a rush to get home to Carol-Anne after her crap this morning.”
“Sure. I don’t care, man. You’re welcome to tag along.” His marriage is not a concern of mine. We leave personal problems where they belong, and I told him this the same day he started.
I work. I get the job done. I move on and repeat.
“I’m just going to ring her real quick and make sure she doesn’t mind,” Davey says. With his fire-engine red hair and purple coloring on his face from overexertion, he paces back and forth, waiting for his wife to pick up the call.
Lord, help me if I’m ever afraid of a woman like Davey is of his wife.
“Sure, babe. I’ll pick that up on the way home. No problem. Okay, I love you too.” He grins and turns around, scratching behind his ear like a puppy.
Women.
“I can go,” Davey says, sounding relieved as he drops his phone into his back pocket.
“I’m glad mommy agreed,” I tease.
“Screw you.” He flips me off and grabs one of the toolboxes from the bed of my truck.
“Please don’t. Instead, why don’t you finish capping off the ridge while I continue cleaning this mess up.”
Five o’clock on the dot, a check in hand, and Mrs. Dunn is giving me a tight hug as if I just called her Mom. “Thank you for putting up with me,” she says. “It’s been years since my Roger died, and I haven’t had to do a lot to the house since then. He’s the one who would have taken care of all this nonsense, but now it’s just me.”
Mrs. Dunn forces a smile through her evident pain, and a bite of guilt zings through me like ice. “I’m sorry to hear about your husband,” I say. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s life,” she replies, her face stone-cold and emotionless.
Chapter Eight
August
It doesn’t matter how hard I try to put on a brave face when a convicted man walks through my door, looking to see their displaced child. Why do they care so much now but didn’t think twice about committing a crime that would break up their family?
There is no way to make this kind of wrong right, and no matter how many tears these adults shed, I have no compassion for them. But my heart breaks for the children.
A sheriff escorted William’s dad out of the building, and now I have two little chestnut brown eyes staring at me with a look of utter sadness. “He’s not coming back like he said, is he?” William asks.
I place my hands down slowly, resting them on top of the manilla folder containing his case file. “I don’t know the answer to that question, William. Anything can happen. We just need to wait and see. That’s what we say, right?”
“Yes, Miss Taylor.”
William drops his head, and his folded hands squeeze together, forcing his blood to run thin through his knuckles. He nods his head, his hair gently swaying back and forth along his forehead. A sniffle works through his nose, and he lifts his head back up to face me. “Thank you for letting him visit me.”
William is seven, speaking like an eleven-year-old who has been through more than most adults. “Of course,” I respond. “William, I know this may not mean much, but keep your head up. Life has a way of working itself out, and sometimes in unexpected ways.” It’s my standard statement, which feels like it has gotten old now. I should take my advice.
William shakes his head, appearing to understand what I’ve said. He stands from his seat, clenching his fists by his side, and holds his head up straight before walking out of my office.
It’s not fair. I also say that at least twenty times a day.
I glance down at my watch, realizing William’s dad was here for an hour, which is an extended visit. I missed lunch, and the older kids will be back from school in an hour.
I have to file more paperwork and pick up some reports at the courthouse. This activity’s repetition offers too much time to think about what led Keegan and me to this moment of never-ending solitude. Ironically, last year around this time, I was sure we were reaching the first stage of failure. I just didn’t realize how final it would be.
It was one of my few days off. I was determined to keep working, but Leena subtly advised that I take a personal day. The bags under my eyes were becoming more noticeable, and I could afford a ten-hour nap, but it wasn’t because of all the hours I had been working.
It was due to sheer exhaustion from being unable to sleep at night.
To outsiders, I must have appeared hormonal or staying out too late at night because that would be a typical visible effect on a twenty-something-year-old. Except that couldn’t have been further from the truth.
I had my bare feet up on the oatmeal-colored ottoman. The four monochrome but complementary sunflower-yellow throw pillows were supporting my back, and I had a copy of US Weekly flipped open to an article about Prince Harry and Meghan Markle’s royal faux pas while listening to the hum of The Bachelor recap. It was as relaxed as I would be that day, aside from my scheduled pedicure.
The sound of a key scratching against the door’s lock pulled my attention away from a clip of Chris Harrison elegantly trying to calm a drunk woman down amidst her tears and profound knowledge of love’s deep meaning.
I lifted the remote and clicked mute, returning my attention to the door. The scratching sound continued, and I lowered my feet from the ottoman, hoisting myself from the plush containment of the sofa. “Hello?” I called out, staring at the door as if an inanimate object would respond.
My nerves were on edge while wondering who would be trying to get into the apartment at that hour.
With my clammy palms pressed up against the wooden door and rose to my toes and squinted my left eye to peek out the fishbowl hole. I shouldn’t have been surprised to find Keegan fumbling with his keys.
I swat at the lock and yank the door open. “You scared me half to death. What in the world are you doin’?”
Keegan stumbled back a step or two, clutching his chest as if he was having a heart attack. His mouth was jagged, wrenched with a look of pain. “You scared me,” he said breathlessly. “I didn’t—you—why aren’t you at work?”
At that moment, I wished there was a woman behind him, there to follow Keegan inside for a scandalous affair, but the only thing behind his back was a bottle of Jim Beam.
I lunged at him, grabbing the bottle. “Were you just driving?” I seethed.
“It—babe, babe ...” he steps in toward me, forcing me back into the apartment. The scent of whi
skey burned my nose, and the sight of the sweat beading on his forehead, and the grease coating every strand of his hair forced my stomach into snarling pain.
“Don’t,” I tell him.
“You don’t—Auggie, you don’t get it.”
“You’re not at work, you’re drunk, you just drove from wherever you got drunk, and you’re standing here sweating like a pig. I don’t think you should be telling me what I do or don’t get, Keegan.”
I thought things were better, but I realized we were just going through the motions of denying reality. Keegan thought if I didn’t know what he was doing, it wasn’t an issue.
“How long have you been doing this again?”
“What are you talking about?” he asked, shuffling over to the sofa.
“We were celebrating Phil’s birthday.” From what I knew, Phil was a guy he got friendly with at the bar he frequented.
“In the middle of the afternoon?” By the look on his face, I could see he didn’t know what time of day it was. “Sit down, Keegan. We’re going to talk.” I tell him, grabbing the material of his flannel shirt and pulling him over to the couch.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he replied, playfully like the situation was funny.
“I’m not your momma, Keegan, and I’m not going to beat around the bush. I will not go through this with you a seventh time. I’m going to ask you again. How long have you been drinking?”
In a childlike manner, Keegan held up his fingers, bending each one down in an appearance of counting. “Just a week.”
A week of drinking meant he was already neck-deep in trouble. I was surprised he managed to keep it from me for so long.
“You’re going to AA in the morning,” I told him.
Fall to Pieces: A story about addiction and love Page 4