Fall to Pieces: A story about addiction and love

by Shari J. Ryan

  I seal the flask and slip it into my clutch, leaving little room for my phone and keys.

  For a moment, my mind fixates on the whiskey and masks my thoughts of the funeral.

  I lock up the apartment and head down the back stairwell toward the residential parking spaces.

  “This is how you would have handled this situation, right, Keegan?”

  I press my thumb against the key-fob, unlocking Keegan’s black Dodge Ram. I don’t want these memories sitting in my beloved Jeep after today. Plus, I’m selling Keegan’s truck next week, so it’s only fair to give it one last ride.

  I slide onto the soft, worn upholstery, inhaling the remnants of his old sun-dulled air freshener that still mildly fills the interior with the smell of coconut. The dangling palm tree attached to the rear-view mirror catches my attention as I try to recall how long ago he bought it and why he chose that scent when he refused to eat anything that contained coconut.

  The rubber coating on the steering wheel burns my hand as I take grip before craning my neck to the side in search of the keyhole to the ignition. Keegan didn’t let me drive his truck. He often told me I was too cute and petite to be driving around in a “big honkin’ thing like this.” “Well, I can drive your truck now, Keegan. You can’t stop me, can you?”

  I turn the key in the ignition, pull the gear down into reverse, and feel the rumble beneath me as I back out of the spot the truck has been sitting in for over a week. The tires squeal from the short rainstorm we had followed by several hot, dry days.

  I wonder what people will think when I show up in Keegan’s truck. Will they feel sorry for me? Will they agree with my decision? Or will they think I’m disrespectful?

  It turns out the answer is: none of the above—because it looks like I might be the last one to pull onto the lot, covered by loose rocks, adjacent to the funeral home. The small parking area is full, which means there are many people inside who are wondering why Keegan’s life was so bad that he chose death.

  I adjust the mirror before stepping out of the truck, staring straight into the reflection of my eyes. “This is not your fault, August.” The lifeless look behind my pale half-lidded stare isn’t believable.

  With a long blink, I slip my sunglasses down from my forehead and cover my eyes. I close the mirror and slide out of the truck, pressing the key fob as I head to the front doors of the white cottage style house with black doors and glass-stained windows.

  I take a deep breath through my nose, and the door flies open in front of me, revealing a sobbing middle-aged woman dressed in black from head to toe, running from the funeral home as if it was on fire.

  I don’t recognize her.

  As I walk through the slowly closing door, I pull my sunglasses off and hang them off the side of my clutch. People chat softly throughout the lobby while a few walk in and out of the room to the left. The silence is deafening. Each guest hangs their head low, appearing forlorn while blotting tissues against their puffy eyes. They hold each other tightly in their moment of grief—grief for something they don’t understand. I follow the crowd walking through the doors on the left, spotting the open casket at the head of the room. I’ve only seen two dead bodies in my life, my grandmother and Keegan’s mom. They both died the same year, within two months of each other. It was only about ten years ago. My grandmother was ninety-four—she lived a good, long life. Keegan’s mom, though, she was fifty-three, drunk, and had it out with an old oak tree. The trunk of that sturdy tree won the fight.

  Chairs are set in rows of four, perfectly placed as if measured for accuracy. I’m not sure who wants to stare at a dead body, but I assume the chairs are for those who want to say a word or offer a prayer. Childhood pictures line the table beside the casket, but there aren’t current photos because I did not contribute or provide assistance in planning for this occasion.

  Not that one of them thought to reach out to me.

  A guest book with a pen, a basket for cards, and several arrangements of yellow and white flowers bleed to the edge of the table.

  My steps fall short and shallow as I make my way toward Keegan for the last time. I considered our moments in the bathroom before the paramedics arrived to be the last time I would encounter him, but I hadn’t thought about the funeral at that moment.

  The mortician covered his face with makeup, something he would find humorous. It looks natural enough that no one would comment on seeing such a sight on a corpse, but I spent years studying his face, and this immortal body looks nothing like the man I once loved.

  His family has him wearing a shirt he loved years ago and a pair of slacks I don’t recognize. Keegan once told me he’d like to be buried in a fleece onesie so he could forever, “Rest comfortably in peace.” It was a joke, especially since I wasn’t thinking about his decision impacting the near future.

  I remove the necklace I clasped around my neck this morning, intending to leave it with him—this will be my closure. I hope that’s what I find here.

  “I found the ring you had been hiding. You didn’t hide it well, seeing as I had to go into your top drawer to retrieve your life insurance information. Just a side note: life insurance doesn’t work if you kill yourself. Anyway, I think you wanted me to find it. I don’t know when you were planning to ask me to marry you with this pretty ring, but the answer is no, Keegan. The answer is no because you cheated on me with death, and vows include a commitment stating, ‘till death do us part.’ We parted before death, so you should hold onto this piece of me that you could have had if you hadn’t been so selfish.”

  I place the necklace with the looped ring down beside his arm, where no one will see it. I kiss my fingertips and touch his lifeless forehead. “I loved you. Goodbye, Keegan.”

  My throat tightens, and my chest aches beneath my pounding heart.

  I will not cry.

  He chose this instead of me.

  While walking out of the visiting room, I decide to leave the funeral home. I can’t sit through the procession.

  I consider myself lucky, as it is, to have gotten this visit over with before being seen by anyone who might recognize me.

  I should have held onto that thought until I made it outside.

  “August,” I hear from behind me. I’m only a half dozen steps away from the exit. I can pretend I didn’t hear the person, but now there’s a hand on my shoulder.

  With a slow movement, I turn around. A strand of hair catches on my lip gloss, and at the same time, I lose my train of thought as my focus falls on the man I keep seeing at the bar every night. Chance, I think his name is.

  “Are you—sorry, are you related to Keegan?” The question shouldn’t surprise me. I’m at his funeral, but would a relative be leaving so soon? I suppose I could ask the woman who already ran out, but I’m sure she’s long gone by now.

  “Are you?” I retort.

  Chance reaches over and pulls the strand of hair from my lips that I forgot was stuck there. His knuckles sweep against my cheek, and warmth fills my face.

  “An acquaintance,” Chance says.

  “I was his girlfriend,” I respond just as quickly.

  Chance’s eyes grow wide, his brows arch with confusion, or maybe it’s stress. It’s hard to tell. “I’m so s—”

  “Don’t be. Keegan cheated on me with death.” I pivot on my heels and, again, head for the door.

  “Is death better or worse than whiskey?”

  Chance’s words feel like a serrated knife plunging into the depths of my stomach.

  Is death better or worse than whiskey?

  I turn around again, taking in a deep breath before speaking. “I’m not sure. I guess only Keegan would have the answer to that.”

  I take a step backward, trying to force some type of unamused expression onto my face, but I feel frozen and locked out of all ability to show emotion. “Hey, wait for a second,” Chance says.

  “I have to—”

  He follows me and steps to the side when opening the do
or. He’s inviting me to do as I wish, which is to walk away from the last remnants of betrayal.

  Chapter Eleven

  Chance

  In high school, I had all the right moves, all the right pick-up lines, and the confidence of a bull. I’m not sure what happened between then and now, but this is the second time I have approached this woman in twenty-four hours without knowing what to say. I could have watched her walk out of the building, wondering how she knew Keegan, but curiosity will likely be the death of me someday, so I might as well live it up now.

  I could have gone without knowing she was Keegan’s girl since I didn’t realize Keegan was in a relationship. We sat together at the bar many times, talking about sports, work, and whiskey, but never anything too personal. Luke is the one who told me what happened with Keegan, and I thought it would be the respectful thing to do, coming here today. Through my experience, I don’t assume someone will have a crowd mourning them at their funeral. Instead, I consider the sadness of no one showing up at a funeral since I fear that might be the case with me when it’s my time.

  “You don’t have to do this,” August tells me, carefully balancing in her heels as she walks down the cement steps.

  “Do what?” I question.

  “Follow me like I’m a lost puppy dog.”

  “I would have checked your tags by now if I thought you were a lost dog,” I tell her. Maybe I should have kept that joke to myself, but sometimes saying something stupid is better than saying nothing.

  She stops walking down the cement path and glances at me from over her shoulder. “Do you always make jokes at funerals? Is that why you’re here?”

  “Do you always walk out of funerals before they’ve begun?” I retort, with haste.

  This time, August spins around, pointing her finger at my chest. “Look, I get the sense you think you know me because we’ve sat at the same bar a few times, but you don’t know anything about me, and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t pretend like you do.”

  I inhale and hold it for a moment, then cup my hands around her pointed finger. “I know you’re hurting. I know Keegan did this to himself. I know you’re probably angry and trying to feed that anger so you don’t feel the pain buried beneath. I know you’re probably feeling pretty dang lonely right now too.”

  I’m not trying to insult her. I’m trying to understand.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she tells me.

  “You’re right,” I agree.

  “That’s the first nice thing you’ve said to me,” she says, turning back toward the parking lot. I debate whether I should follow her or let her be. Everyone grieves differently, but her eyes have been screaming for help since the first day we unofficially met. “Don’t follow me.”

  I stop walking, stop following. Instead, I watch August walk away. I watch as she trembles across the loose rocks in the lot, trying not to fall over in her heels. She unlocks Keegan’s truck and slips inside. Something shiny or metal reflects against the windows and mirrors. Then I see her take a swig from a flask.

  And another.

  The next swig turns into gulps as the flask remains upside down, the contents pouring down her throat.

  The engine rumbles, and I move without thinking.

  I’m across the lot, standing next to the driver’s side door in a matter of seconds. I rap my knuckles on the window even though I know she sees me.

  Her cheekbones are rigid, her eyes wide but narrow in the corners. A cluster of sweat covers her forehead and collarbone. I try opening the door, relieved it complies. I gently wrap my hand around her arm and tug, willing her out of the truck. “I’ll drive you where you need to go.”

  “I told you to leave me alone,” she says, trying to hide a slight slur in her speech. “You told me not to follow you,” I remind her.

  “I’m fine,” she argues.

  I release her arm and lean against the open door. “See that over there,” I point toward the entrance of the lot.

  August twists in her seat and looks over to where I’m pointing. “The sheriff escort?”

  “What if he just saw you drinking out of that flask?”

  “I’m guessing he’d be over here by now if he cared.” She seems to have an answer for everything, but I doubt she’s made it this far in life, acting the way she is now.

  “Let me drive you to wherever you’re going.” I try to add the sense of plea into my words, hoping to coax her out of the driver’s seat.

  “What if you’re a murderer?”

  “What if you end up being a murderer today … taking the life of an innocent pedestrian walking on the street?” As sincere as I’m trying to be, I can’t control the arch of my eyebrow. She’s more likely to kill someone than I am today.

  “How will you get your vehicle later?”

  “I’ll call an Uber,” I tell her.

  “You have an answer and a solution for everything, don’t you?” She’s one to talk.

  “If you want to give me that much credit, I’ll take it.”

  I’m shocked when August reaches the toe of her shoe toward the rocks. She’s actually getting out of the driver’s seat, so I take a step back to give her space to move. I shouldn’t have done so because her heel catches on the tread-lining of the door, and a shriek squeals through the air as August takes a nosedive. With a quick lunge forward, I catch her arm before she crashes into the rocks.

  “If you had just let me stay in the truck, you wouldn’t have had to catch me,” is the first thing she thinks to say.

  “You’re welcome,” I offer in return.

  “August?” A woman calls out, followed by the sound of gravel and rocks crunching beneath shoes. “Is that you?”

  I can already tell this isn’t going to end well.

  August presses her hands into my chest and pushes off of me, trying her best to regain her balance. “Diane, hi,” she says, sweeping her hair behind her ear, making a small effort to make herself look like less of a disaster than she did fifteen seconds ago.

  Diane is a middle-aged woman with a lean figure, artificially tanned skin, and long blonde curls. Her dress isn’t quite funeral attire, possibly appropriate for an evening out to a jazz club, but the short laced black veil she has covering her eyes says it all. She must be family to Keegan.

  “I didn’t know you were going to be here today,” she says, sounding troubled by August’s appearance. “After all, we hadn’t heard from you.”

  “I came to pay my respects,” August replies, slurring subtly, but enough that this woman might not notice.

  “Out here, in the arms of another man?” she questions. “Doesn’t that just figure?”

  “Ma’am, I think you have the wrong idea,” I interrupt. “August nearly fell out of the truck. Her shoe got caught, and I helped her.”

  “Mmhm,” Diane hums through an accusatory mutter.

  “No, Diane, I know this man. He’s a friend. He’s also the first one to hug me since Keegan passed away, so please, excuse me.”

  My head is spinning with confusion. I somehow went from August’s worst enemy to a friend in a matter of seconds, and she’s calling my good-catch before she face-planted into the rocks, a hug.

  “Oh, you must be going through so much turmoil,” Diane says, accentuating the pout of her bottom lip. “Please, if there is anything we can do to lessen your pain after losing our poor son, let me know, dear, won’t you?”

  “Our son?” August questions.

  “You just met Keegan what, four years ago? I didn’t realize that would grant you the entitlement of being his mother, of whom I knew long before you came into the picture.”

  “It all makes sense now,” Diane mutters, scanning August from top to bottom as if she is a piece of trash on the side of the street. “I’m not sure I’d have much reason to live if I were with you either.”

  “Whoa, whoa, with all due respect, ma’am, this is not the time or place for angry words,” I tell Diane, stepping between
her and August. “Come on. I’m sure you have somewhere better to be right now.” Better might not be the right word in this situation, but this won’t get any prettier if she sticks around.

  Diane rolls her dark beetle-like eyes and walks away toward a shiny white Mercedes, dripping with upgraded exterior accessories.

  I’m not sure what to expect from August after listening to an accusation like that, but I know well enough about family drama, and it’s far too easy to make assumptions based on exchanged words.

  While turning back to evaluate the damage to August, I’m not surprised to see an unblinking stare at the lone cloud in the sky. Words like she just heard would cause anyone a lot of pain, but turmoil doesn’t seem evident.

  “Take me to Kenny’s,” August says, speaking clearly, her words crisp and stern.

  I don’t want to take her to the damn bar, but I’m starting to piece this puzzle together, and if the bar is where I knew Keegan from and that’s where she keeps going, there’s a reason. “We can leave his truck here for now.”

  August takes a few steps forward, and I gently place my hand on her back, guiding her to my truck a few spots down.

  The minutes feel more prolonged than usual as I cruise along the back roads, peering over at August every minute or so, wondering what thoughts are going through her head—wondering what the whole story is.

  We pull into the back-alley parking lot of Kenny’s, and August slips out of the truck before the key is out of the ignition. She’s walking along the brick edifice, sweeping her palm along the ridged texture. I assume she’s looking for balance, walking through the dirt in heels.

  I follow but keep my distance, knowing she’d be loud if I get too close. We’re moving into an alleyway filled with dumpsters and side-exit doors. Trash litters the pavement between the blue bins, and the smell is similar to the bar’s bathroom after midnight.