As I sat on the edge of the bed staring at the bottle, I wondered if it would help? Unscrewing the lid, I lifted the clear liquor to my mouth, took a deep breath, and swallowed. Fire burned my throat as the liquid slid down, and my eyes watered.
I coughed and slapped my hand over my mouth. Had I woken Peter? I held my breath and listened, but no sound came back. I swallowed the fire completely and then tilted the bottle up and downed another large gulp. When the bottle was half gone, the glorious numbness set in. I screwed the lid back on and placed the bottle in my nightstand drawer, covering it up with pajama shirts. I crawled back in the bed, closed my eyes, and let the spinning room rock me to sleep.
It was late when I woke up the next day. The apartment was quiet, and though I wasn’t really hungry, the alcohol mixed with the lack of food created an unpleasant sensation in my stomach. I pushed myself up, grimacing at the amount of pain still coursing through my body, and repeated the previous night’s limping expedition to the kitchen.
Nothing appealed to me, so I settled on a bowl of cereal. It was easy, and hopefully it would soothe the swirling sensation in my stomach. The walk to the living room was even slower, as the hand holding my abdomen now had to hold the bowl of cereal, but finally I made it.
I sank onto the brown leather couch and clicked on the television. Pictures flashed, but I saw none of them. The sound, however, was better than the silence. The silence scared me as the cries of a baby seemed to come in the silence. As today was Saturday, there was no need to go to work. Peter must have gone in, though, which was fine by me; I still didn’t want to see him.
When the cereal was gone, the sensation in my stomach waned, but as it did, the pain in my heart returned along with the need for a drink. I limped the bowl to the sink and then back to the bedroom where I rescued the bottle and downed another fourth. It was nearly empty. I had no idea how often Peter checked the stash or if he’d even know if a bottle was missing, but I decided I better replace it and get some more. I shrugged on a cardigan, not bothering to brush my teeth or my hair. I didn’t care what anyone thought about me, as long as they didn’t know my secret. Clutching the cardigan high around my neck, I grabbed my wallet and limped out of the apartment.
A liquor store sat a few blocks up, and I thought I could make it, but about halfway there, the pain blossomed in my stomach. The sun beat down causing beads of sweat to pop out on my forehead. If anyone peered out their window, they would probably wonder why I was wearing a cardigan in the summer heat, but I didn’t care; the layers helped me hide.
By the time I reached the store, sweat was pouring down my face, and I couldn’t stand up straight. A small bell announced my entrance, and the clerk, an older man in a short sleeved t-shirt, raised his eyebrows as I entered. Avoiding his gaze, I dropped my head and pulled the sweater closer. Because I had no idea what I was looking for, I just grabbed the first few clear liquors I saw and carried them to the front.
“Are you having a party?” the man asked kindly, scanning the bottles.
I chanced a quick glance at him and then returned my attention to my wallet. “Something like that,” I said as I fumbled with the zipper. Forking over the money, I picked up the brown paper bag and tucked it under my arm. The bell jingled again as I exited, and taking a deep breath, I began the trek back toward the apartment.
By now, my stomach was screaming at me, but I kept pressing on until the cry of a baby stopped me short. I closed my eyes briefly before looking around, expecting to see nothing like the last few times the phantom cry had come, but this time there was a young mother playing with a small child in her front yard. Somehow that hurt even worse as the reminder of what I had done to my own child seared my heart again. Gritting my teeth against the pain raging in my abdomen and now my heart, I quickened my pace to escape the “accusing” cry. My vision blurred as tears built up behind my eyes, but I blinked them away until I reached my front door. Then they came back with a vengeance causing me to fumble with my keys at the front door.
“Are you okay? Do you need some help?”
A glance to my right revealed a man with dark tan skin watching me. I sniffed, “No, I’m fine. It’s just allergies,” and jammed the key in the lock again. This time it clicked into place and opened the lock. “See? But thank you.” I shuffled inside as quickly as I could and closed the door, leaning against it as the tears overwhelmed me. I let them come, pouring down one after the other. I couldn’t have stopped them anyway; I was like a leaky faucet.
When they finally tapered, I dropped my keys on the entry table and wiped my eyes with the free hand. The aching pain was so bad that all I wanted was a drink and to curl up in bed, but I had to make it there first. I tucked the bag close to my stomach so I could hold the contents and my abdomen, and I limped to the bedroom.
Pushing the door open, my eyes tore around in search of a hiding place. Peter was such a minimalist that the bed, dresser, and nightstands were the only furniture in the room. I could hide one bottle in the nightstand as the one residing there currently was nearly empty, but where to place the others? I quietly cursed my neatness as there were no piles to hide them under or behind and shuffled to my side of the bed. As I pulled open the nightstand drawer, I realized I could probably fit two bottles there, so I plucked one from the bag and placed it next to its friend. Then I sank to the floor and peered under the bed. Only our slippers were there, but maybe if I put the other two close to the wall and my slippers in front, they wouldn’t be easily seen. I pulled them out of the paper sack and situated them against the wall.
A key in the front door grabbed my attention, and I shoved the bag next to the bottles. I’d have to retrieve it later. Stripping off my cardigan, I tossed it under as well, and then I crawled into bed, pulling the covers up over my ears. Peter’s steps came down the hallway, and I wished I’d had time to sneak another drink. I couldn’t talk to him right now. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping he’d either think I was asleep or I needed more space.
“Sandra?” Hesitation colored his voice, but it didn’t ease my hatred of him. “Sandra, I’m really sorry you aren’t feeling well. Liam and I went and got your car, so it’s back in the parking lot for when you have to go to work on Monday.”
I held my breath, surely if I was quiet he would go away.
He sighed, “Okay, I’ll leave, but I’m going to make lunch, and I hope you’ll join me.” His footsteps receded, and I sighed. Would I ever be able to forgive him? More importantly, would I ever be able to forgive myself?
Saturday turned to Sunday, and I stayed holed up in the bedroom as much as possible. When I heard the front door close and knew Peter was gone, I would venture out to get a small bite of food. It still held no taste, but the sensation of being hungry was slowly creeping back in, and my stomach would grumble in complaint.
To Peter’s credit, he hadn’t bothered me again and was either sleeping on the couch or somewhere else. I didn’t care as long as it wasn’t with me in the bed. The first bottle of liquor was gone, and only half of the second one remained. I hoped I wouldn’t have to make another trip to the corner store, but the liquor seemed to be the only thing getting me out of bed in the morning and asleep at night.
The Slippery Downward Slope
When the alarm went off Monday morning, I glared at it. Could I make it through work today? Did I even want to? If I didn’t go, what would I do for money? The questions continued to parade in my mind while I forced my legs out of bed. Without even thinking, my hand opened the nightstand drawer for another drink. The quenching fire burned down my throat, giving me the courage to get up. I pushed myself off the bed and shuffled to the closet. The pain was less today, almost manageable.
I perused the closet and reached way back on the shelf for a pair of sweats and an oversized shirt. Nothing skin tight, I wanted to hide in the layers and bagginess. Thankfully, I was still in the training program, and we were allowed to dress more casual. I wasn’t looking forward to the day I had to wear
the rather tight-fitting scrubs. The blue button-down shirt hung from my body, but that was okay, I didn’t want anything touching me tightly. I still felt naked and exposed as loose as my clothes were. A glance in the mirror shocked me. My skin was splotchy and pale, and my hair was oily, but I had no time for a shower today; it would wait. After splashing a little water on my face, I patted it with a towel, and decided I didn’t care. I hastily pulled my hair up, securing it with a clip, and then I turned out the light and left.
Peter was gone. I had no idea when he had left, and I didn’t care. The less I saw him, the better. Grabbing a banana from the bar, I picked up my keys from the table and locked the door behind me.
My car was sitting right where Peter had said it would be, but my feet didn’t want to move to it. Images of where I had gone the last time I sat in it flooded my mind, stirring a feeling of nausea. I closed my eyes and began to count. The sound of my heart pounding in my ears almost drowned out the numbers, but as I neared fifty, it began to lessen. My hands stopped shaking, and my feet finally stumbled to the car.
I had loved this car. All through college, I had begged my father for a dark blue mustang, but he had always said no – they were too frivolous – but on my graduation day, it had been waiting for me outside.
My fingers touched the door handle, remembering the first day when I had driven it until it completely ran out of gas. My father had had to come and bring me gas, but he had been smiling when he showed up. Images of Raquel and I with the windows down and the music blaring replaced that one, and then images of Peter and I scrunched in the back seat beneath foggy windows. But the image of the clinic lasted longer. The cold sterility of the place invaded my mind, and my hand flew back as if burnt as the memory invaded. I knew I would have to get rid of this car as soon as I could. I’d have to tell my father I needed something more reliable. He would understand; I hoped.
After several more minutes and a few deep breaths, I was able to open the door and climb inside. As soon as the door shut, the car began to squeeze in on me, and black spots impeded my vision. I dropped my head in my hands and tried to slow my breathing. Just get me to work. That’s all I ask. Just get me to work. I can take care of the car after work. The dots faded, my breath slowed, and I put the car in drive and headed to the hospital.
As I pulled into the parking lot, the panic hit again. Surely everyone would be able to see what I’d done just by looking at me. Why hadn’t I called in sick?
My pager buzzed and Raquel’s number popped up. I had to make it inside before she sent a search party looking for me. Taking a deep breath and swallowing the large lump of fear, I exited the car and forced my feet toward the entrance.
Each crack in the sidewalk I passed increased the pounding of my heart in my chest as I crept closer to the door. Beads of sweat broke out on my forehead and tumbled into my eyes, burning. I wiped the sweat away and pulled the door open.
The cool rush of air conditioning engulfed me, causing a shiver, but it didn’t cool the fever burning inside of me. No one yelled accusations at me though, and the pounding softened. I kept my head down, weaving my way through the halls to the training room. Sweat had broken out on my palms even in the cool hospital, and I ran them down my pants before opening the door.
Closing my eyes against the onslaught of judgement I knew was coming, I stepped inside. No conversation stopped. No one screamed in horror. Slowly I opened my eyes. No eyes even looked my direction. Relief flooded my body, and I slunk to an open table at the back of the room. Though no one was staring at me, I still felt exposed, and I shrunk down in my chair as much as possible.
Raquel entered the room a few minutes later, and her eyes scanned the tables, widening as we locked glances. She crossed the room quickly, “What happened?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, pulling the collar of the shirt even tighter around my neck.
Raquel raised an eyebrow. “I mean you look like crap. There are dark circles under your eyes, your hair barely looks combed, did you even shower? And you’re wearing clothes two sizes too big for you. What’s going on?”
My eyes dropped to the table as my finger scratched something on the surface; I wished she’d stop asking. Though I knew it was only because she cared about me, I had no desire to talk about the dirty deed I had done, at least not yet. “Nothing.” A glance out of the corner of my eye indicated she wasn’t buying it. “I just didn’t sleep well.”
Raquel pursed her lips and shook her head but said nothing. I swallowed a tiny sigh of relief.
“Look, I know you don’t want to talk right now,” Raquel said that afternoon when class had ended, “but I’m here if you ever need me.” Worry surfaced in her bright green eyes, and tears filled my own in response. The pain, still raw, flared anew.
“I’ll tell you soon,” I said, hugging her and then hurrying out of the hospital and to my car before the floodgates opened. As I closed the door, the tears won and spilled down my cheeks. Would this ever end?
As soon as the tears ebbed enough for me to see, I backed the car out, heading to the nearest used car dealership. I parked by the front door, and a man with a pot belly and a mustache came out to greet me. The last button on his Hawaiian shirt didn’t cover his enormous belly and dark hair poked through. The small name badge on his shirt read Jerry. Swallowing my disgust, I wiped my eyes and exited the car.
“How can I help you?” he asked, scratching his belly and causing his shirt to rise, exposing even more flesh and hair. I forced my eyes to his face.
“I need to trade this car in for something else,” I said.
He drew his eyes together, tugging on his mustache with thick fingers, “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing, I just want something different.” I crossed my arms and rubbed my palms up and down my biceps.
“Well, what do you have in mind?”
Turning, I scanned the rows of cars. I didn’t honestly care, but a small, silver, four-door caught my attention. “How about that one?”
He followed my finger, and his eyebrows arched up. “You want to trade a Mustang for a Ford Taurus?”
“I just want something reliable that won’t cost me more than the trade-in. I don’t want monthly payments.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong with your car?” He scratched the rotund belly again.
“Just memories I no longer want.”
“Oh I hear that little lady.” He winked at me. “Okay, follow me, and we’ll get you set up.”
I cringed at his word choice and familiar gesture, but followed him inside. The dealership was small and dark, even with rows of windows as the outer wall. A few other smarmy salesmen glanced up as we entered, but no one bothered us.
Jerry sat down at a cluttered desk, shoving the papers spread out on his desk onto the floor. A fake potted plant sat behind him, and a picture of what I assumed was his family rounded off the rather impersonal area. I stared at the two vinyl chairs across from the desk, afraid of what might be growing on them, but I took a breath and sat down on the very edge, careful to touch as little as possible.
Thirty minutes and a stack of signed papers later, he handed me the keys to the Ford Taurus, and I exited the stifling building. Opening the car door, I slid inside. The grey interior matched the exterior, giving it a bland monochromatic look, but it was comfortable, and it looked and smelled clean enough, so as long as it drove fine, I’d consider it a good trade.
By the time I got back to the apartment, Peter’s car was parked outside. After putting the car in park, I turned off the engine. Do I go in or wait for him to leave? I chewed on my right thumbnail and tapped the steering wheel with my left. Who knows how long he’ll stay; I might as well go inside. Sighing, I grabbed my purse, locked the car, and entered the apartment.
The smells of dinner accosted me as I stepped inside, and I paused. My stomach rumbled, but was I hungry enough to see Peter? He stepped out of the kitchen just then and stopped short at the sight of me.
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“I made dinner.” A feeling of sadness threaded his voice. “I hope you’ll join me.” His eyes darted back and forth across my face, and his normally strong shoulders seemed slumped in defeat.
A spark of sympathy flickered in my heart, and I nodded.
“Yeah?” A flicker of hope danced in his eyes. I could only nod again; I didn’t trust myself to speak.
I followed him into the kitchen and sat down at the table. Peter placed a plate of grilled chicken and vegetables in front of me, and while my fork mechanically brought the food to my mouth, my mind wasn’t focused on it. Instead, it was whirring a million miles a minute through future possibilities. Can we get over this? Will the guilt go away if I just give it enough time? I could hear the sound of Peter’s voice discussing his day, but I couldn’t muster much more than a nod or “hmm” in response.
After dinner, I helped with the dishes, but the proximity to Peter began to churn the nausea that had developed in my stomach over dinner, and I quickly retired to the bedroom for the evening. A small drink was enough tonight to quiet the pain, and after returning the bottle to its hiding place, I closed my eyes, letting the darkness overtake me.
The sound of crying snapped my eyes open. I slapped the empty bed beside me and shot up. A tiny baby, wrapped in a blue blanket, lay at the foot of my bed. The little hands waved, and the tiny mouth wailed. I reached for the baby, but again my arms could do nothing but brush the blanket. The baby stopped crying and turned sad brown eyes on me. The grief in the tiny orbs seared my heart, and tears rolled down my cheek. It must have been a boy then. I’d now had two dreams of the baby wearing blue. The baby faded away, but the echo of his cries remained. I pulled the sheet over my head. “Go away. It was my choice; I don’t need the guilt.” The echo slowly tapered off, but sleep was slow in returning.
I slapped the alarm the next morning, eyes still closed. When the incessant beeping stopped, I rubbed my eyes. My eyelids felt like stone slabs glued to my face. After getting them open a tiny crack, I pulled the nightstand drawer open and felt around for the bottle. Clasping the neck, I unscrewed the lid and brought the bottle to my lips for my morning ritual. When the fire had burned down my throat and created a nice buzzing in my head, I managed to fully open my eyes and roll out of bed. I shuffled to the closet, but everything still looked too form fitting, so I threw on another pair of sweats. I cringed at the puffy eyes and the splotchy face staring back at me from the mirror. It was no wonder Raquel had caught on that something was wrong, I wasn’t even sure I recognized myself.
Where It All Began Page 3