by Peter Murphy
Grainne wanted to stage an intervention for her father, something she announced after everyone had taken their turn giving thanks. In the silence that followed, Deirdre avoided looking at Martin but she could sense him. And she could sense Rachael watching him.
“Perhaps,” Deirdre had suggested after no one else spoke, “we should discuss it another time.”
“I would be more than happy to help, anyway I can,” Joel Brand offered obliviously, before Adina could nudge him.
“Well thank you, Mister Brand.” Grainne smiled at him before turning to her mother and brother. “It’s nice to see that not everyone has become cold and heartless.”
Joel seemed happy with that but everybody else kept their heads down, except for Doug who was gnawing on a drum stick.
“I don’t see why it has to be such a taboo,” Grainne complained as she supervised Deirdre and Rachael as they tidied away. “We all know it’s the right thing to do.”
“Not all of us,” Deirdre corrected as mildly as she could.
“Martin just needs to get over it. Don’t you agree, Rachael?”
Rachael looked to Deirdre before answering. “I agree, but now is not the time to try to force the issue. Things at work are very tense and . . .”
“Things are always tense where Martin is concerned.”
Deirdre thought about intervening. Martin had told her what was bothering him: Doug was struggling at work and there was talk of letting him go. But what was the point? Grainne would have her say regardless and Rachael was more than capable of fighting her own corner.
She had to when Martin drove them home. He was still simmering about it all. “It’s well meant, Martin. She’s just trying to do what she thinks is right.”
“Well it’s not. It would be different if he was trying to make things right.”
He checked his mother’s face in the rearview mirror but Deirdre didn’t look up. She was determined to keep her thoughts to herself. As they were leaving, Grainne had suggested that they should have Danny join them for Christmas and that she would be delighted to host it.
“Martin,” Rachael tried to reason with him, “that sounds so hard-hearted. Perhaps this could be the catalyst he needs.”
“Perhaps, but his drinking is as bad as ever. I just don’t want him showing up drunk and ruining another Christmas on us.”
“So what do you want us to do, stay home?”
It was the first time Deirdre had ever seen them disagree about something—Grainne always said that it was so unnatural but Deirdre understood. It was just a pity they should be arguing about Danny.
“No, I’m not saying that. I just don’t see why Grainne always has to indulge him.”
“What if we host it instead? You know he will be on his best behavior at our house.”
“Grainne will never go for that.”
“We could keep it to ourselves and present it as a fait accompli when the time is right.”
“And when will that be? You know what she’s going to be like.”
“Not if we involve Doug.”
Deirdre smiled as she reached toward her wine glass. She would have to help sell the idea, but Grainne was so busy with the kids she might appreciate the break. And if Danny did come to Martin’s house he’d be more likely to behave himself.
Though, if she were to be honest, it might be better if he just stayed away.
She felt bad thinking like that but she would make up for it by taking him for lunch one day. They usually met up in late November. She’d give him another piece of his shrinking share of the house to see him through the holidays. He’d always go through the pretense of insisting that she had already given him more than enough, but she knew; there was still about twenty-five thousand left.
After that, she’d figure something else out. She still kept a glimmer of hope that he could get his act together for the sake of his grandchildren. She knew he would want to and he deserved that chance—regardless.
Advent 2011
Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice!
Philippians 4:4
Chapter 16 – Advent 2011
At 3 a.m. Danny came to with a really bad case of the drys but he didn’t dare get up to do anything about it. Even rolling onto his back had caused a bout of retching and heaving. He hadn’t really slept; he’d just passed out in his underwear again. So he lay in a tangle of sweaty sheets and tried to keep his mind from wandering into darkness inside him. That was where his guilt and shame simmered and bubbled and everything stank like shite.
At meetings, the old-timers who’d gone all the way down used to talk about this stage. They made it sound like something out of Dante’s Inferno, but one of them described it as having a never-ending court case in his head. When it started happening to him, Danny tried arguing his case, but even his ghosts had stopped listening to him.
Denial, he reminded himself in total resignation, works both ways.
By 4 a.m. he was wandering through his resentments. The old-timers used to say that they polished theirs and kept them sharp for the day that they would get even—even though they kept stabbing themselves while they were waiting. He knew what they meant. He’d met with Deirdre a few days earlier. She’d given him some money and brought him up to speed about all that was going on with their family.
She also told him they were making plans for Christmas and Grainne was thinking of inviting him. She didn’t say it, but he knew what she was implying: if he wanted to be part of it, he’d better get his act together.
Later, after he’d stopped and spent some of the money on a fresh supply and a cab home, he’d sat up drinking and stewing about it. As the booze surged through him and rekindled his bravado, his outrage grew. She was always doing shit like that to him—like his own children were something she could dangle in front of him. She was always going on about not letting emotion get in the way when it came to dealing with the kids but he could tell; she loved seeing him grovel.
But now, in the cold pre-dawn, after a few days on the spree, and with his indignation spent and shriveled up, he was shivering and quaking. He knew what she was really trying to tell him. He was a mess and he couldn’t let his kids, or his grandkids, see him like that.
By 5 a.m., the sweats and the drys were really getting to him, and he still wasn’t able to move without almost passing out, lucidity began to dawn and everything that had been hidden in the dark began to look so shabby. He’d become one of the guys who was finally hitting the bottom. He’d had enough. He had to quit if he was going to be in any shape to spend Christmas with his family. He’d begin today. He’d get himself back to the meetings, right after he got himself settled.
At 6 a.m. he finally managed to sit up on the edge of his bed. He had to steady himself as the room began to spin. His stomach was churning and his head was burning and there was a very sharp pain between his eyes. He didn’t dare stand up. He leaned forward slowly and picked up the can from the side table.
He’d learned that, even if it was tepid, it was better than trying to get up to reach the fridge. He’d also opened it to avoid having to pick at the tab. His hands shook uncontrollably these mornings and he’d have to get a few drinks into him before he could use them again. The cider was flat but he preferred it that way. If it was still gassy it might cause all kinds of expulsions.
“The first today,” he announced aloud to reassure himself. “I’ll just get myself settled and then I’ll do it. I’ll get my arse back to meetings. I promise.”
He tried to steady his hands but spilled some of it. The can rattled against his teeth as he tried to swallow. The cider burned like acid as it went down, and when it reached his stomach the revolt began. Heaving and choking, he couldn’t contain it and spewed it back up and across the room. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and tried again. He had to get some inside him or his suf
fering would never end.
“Steady now,” he encouraged himself.
It still burned and churned until his stomach gave in. His body was finally crapping out on him—not that he could blame it. He hadn’t treated it very well. He sweated and shivered and waited for the cider to take effect.
When he was sure it wasn’t coming back up, he risked the next sip. It was a gradual process, not unlike spoon feeding. He’d done all of that, too, and he hadn’t done such a bad job, given that he’d no idea what he was doing. But Deirdre did.
From the beginning she’d always been such a natural. He’d done his best, playing in the park and going for McDonald’s afterwards. And then taking them home and tucking them into bed where he could fill their eyes with wondrous stories of Finn MacCool and the Fianna, or Oisin and his trip to Tir Na N’Og.
Then, when they started to grow up and he and Deirdre started having a few problems, it all got away from him. Part of it was he’d been so busy working and doing gigs; he wasn’t around as much as he should have been.
Part of it was his drinking, too. He couldn’t deny how much it had cost him. He’d left them all to end up sitting in a cruddy little bachelor flat. But he was going to change all that now. He was going to show them all that there was still something for them to believe in, especially Rachael and Martin.
He managed to raise the can again without spilling any and got another mouthful into him. It still burned on the way down but it was beginning to work. A few more and he’d be grand. He thought about reaching for his cigarettes but it was too soon. He couldn’t risk a coughing fit just yet. That could upset the delicate balance.
He was going to have to tough it out and cold turkey his way through—there was no other way. There was no point going to doctors. He’d seen enough of them to know—changing to a new one every time they threatened to withhold his prescriptions.
He’d been on Diazepam and stuff like that to lift the darkness, even if they just made everything gray. The doctors kept trying to get him back on anti-booze, too, but he couldn’t. It just made him sicker when he drank. He had to go back to meetings.
“I’m done with this fuckin’ merry-go-round,” he announced as his body slowly started to come back to life; and by the time he’d drained the last of the can he felt well enough to try to get up. He really needed to fart but couldn’t risk it, sitting on the bed. His stomach was unpredictable and he couldn’t risk shitting on his sheets; they were the only ones he had left.
He’d left the light on in the washroom. He couldn’t bear the total darkness anymore—too many faces in the shadows. Lately it was just Deirdre and the kids, but their faces were distorted as if the very thought of him filled them with revulsion. Other times it was his father and his mother. His father looked at him with resignation but his mother always cried and blamed herself.
He couldn’t stand the brightness either. He turned on the light in his bedroom as he left, turned off the light in the washroom and settled himself on the toilet. These days it took forever to piss so he lit up and coughed a few times, hacking up tacky blobs of yellowish-brown phlegm and bitter spittle. But he’d be all right in a little while. He’d left another can in the cool water of the cistern but he couldn’t reach around to fish it out just yet.
He had to admit it: the last few mornings were worse than usual. He was shivering and sweating more than normal, and even when he wrapped himself in his old robe he couldn’t get warm. His hands shook like crazy and his skin was the color of dead fish—only a bit more blue. It would be his luck, he tried to joke with himself, to die on his way back to meetings.
His heart was pounding, and even thinking about what might be wrong made his stomach clench with fear. He raised his cigarette but couldn’t take another pull—the smell was sickening and his lungs were aching.
Sacred Heart of Jesus, he prayed as he relaxed a bit and began to piss. He didn’t really believe in any of that but he’d take help from anywhere. I’m sorry. Get me through this one and I’ll never drink again. I mean it. I’ll really try this time, ya know? Just get me through this one and I’ll never touch another drop. So help me, Sweet Jesus. Hail Mary, full of grace . . .
There was no harm in appealing to maternal instincts too. He needed all the influence he could muster.
In time he felt a little better and rose and turned on the shower. Flushing his half-finished cigarette away in a dark swirl of piss, he lurched forward and fished out the cool can. He’d just have one more to settle himself and get him right to meet the day. Then he’d begin his reformation.
That was the danger in trying to go cold turkey—a fella could get brain damage that way. No, he’d have to ease his way off it. He’d have this last one and then get to a midday meeting. Moderation, he reminded himself, moderation in all things. It was how he was going to rebuild his life.
He clung to that hope in the shower. His legs were shaky so he leaned against the wall and let the hot water beat on his back like punishment. It almost felt like some of his sins were being leeched from his skin and were swirling away down the drainpipe.
He retched a few more times and coughed up more phlegm, and each time his head spun and he had to steady himself. Crouched over as he was, each cough forced an expulsion from his other end—a watery, yellowish brown that stank like death before it mixed with his sins and his snot and slithered away.
Jaysus. He tried to laugh. I don’t remember eating anything like that!
He took another swig, almost defiantly, and wiped his hand across his mouth. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten. That was probably why the last few mornings were so bad.
He had to eat something, but the very thought of food made him retch again and this time some of the bilious bile in his stomach bubbled up; acidic and greenish yellow, mingling with the watery yellowish brown that dripped from his ass, mingling with his sins and his withering resolve and slithering off down the drain.
He avoided looking at himself when he finally toweled off. His skin hurt; even the lightest touch felt like a rasp and the effort was proving too much. He had to sit on the side of the bathtub because the room was spinning again. He drank some more cider and started to breathe slowly and deliberately—the way he’d learned the few times he’d tried to get into yoga.
It was another one of Deirdre’s efforts to help him before she gave up on him. But yoga wasn’t for him. He couldn’t meditate to save his life. The breathing worked a little though. The room stopped spinning and his heart’s pounding began to ease, as if it had realized it couldn’t break out through his ribs and settled for grumbling protest against all that he’d done to it.
I’m the real victim here, he reassured himself like so many times before. If I had cancer, or even AIDS, then everyone would feel really sorry for me, but I’ve alcoholism and nobody gives a shit about that. But he shouldn’t have said that. Admitting you have a problem is the first step, a chorus of memories reminded him.
He had spent the previous evening prowling the pubs around Yonge and Eglinton; the Duke, Scruffy’s and McMurphy’s, anywhere where he might find someone who would still sit and have a drink with him. He just wanted one last fling before he quit.
He’d done all right, too. Everyone was getting into the Christmas spirit. He’d ended up with Ryan and McInerney, who always had time for him even as they teased him. “Oh Danny boy,” they’d sing when he approached, “your pipes are blocked and croaking!” He didn’t mind, as they always made sure he got home okay, calling him a cab when he began to dissolve into a slobbering mess, and making sure he had the fare.
He’d spent most of the money Deirdre had given him but he wasn’t destitute, not yet. He still had his disability pension. That wasn’t bad, but after he shelled out for rent and stocked up on essentials like wine and cider and cans of soup, there wasn’t much left. His check arrived at the end of the month and he’d be tight again
within a few weeks. But he couldn’t complain. He just needed to catch a break.
Maybe if he could get his hands to steady up he might start playing the bars again. His voice was shot but it was like riding a bike . . .
After all, he hadn’t come all the way to Canada to end up like this. Deirdre might be finished with him, and Martin was hesitant about having anything more to do with him—not that he could blame him—but he wouldn’t give up on himself. He’d show them he could beat this yet. Right after he finished this can he’d do the only thing left to him. He’d pick himself up, dust himself off, and start all over again!
He started to cough. He should have known better than trying to sing at this hour of the morning. “Today,” he announced when he’d calmed down, “is going to be the first day of the rest of my life.”
When he got to the kitchen he opened another can and sat down at his table. He pushed aside the bowl of congealed soup and began a mental list. He’d phone Grainne; she always made time for him. He’d tell her that he wanted to know if there was anything he could bring—like a pudding or something. He wouldn’t mention alcohol and maybe, if he played it right, Grainne would tell the others that he was really trying this time. But the bending over to reach into the fridge caused him to break out in a sweat and his heart was thumping again.
He’d be fine, he told himself, once he got a few more into him. “And I’m still going to the meeting,” he reminded himself. And afterwards, before he met up with Grainne, he’d go for a haircut, and maybe a shave. He wanted everyone to see that he was serious this time.
It was almost nine and it was starting to get bright—well, a brighter gray. It was going to snow; he could feel it in his bones. He didn’t have a good coat anymore. He’d lost the last one—left in a bar somewhere. Maybe when he met with Grainne, she’d help him pick out a new one.