Loving Liam

by Loretta Lost

  “No, not really.”

  “Come on! I'm your big sister. You gotta share.”

  “It's just... Liam is having these nightmares and he isn't sleeping much. Something about his mother, and a baby. We've been trying and failing to conceive for three months, and I think it's getting to him, and he's getting very irritable at even the slightest mention of babies. I don't know what's going on with him, but it might just be a lot of pressure at work, causing him to crack.”

  “That's interesting,” Carmen says gently. “Can I suggest something totally weird and way out there? Liam would probably never go for it, but it's worth a shot.”

  “Sure,” I say with a shrug.

  “Since the whole situation with Brad, I've having trouble sleeping and a lot of nightmares too. I started seeing a therapist—but not just any therapist—a hypnotherapist. Yes, I know it sounds crazy, but it's incredibly calming, and it's helped me to make peace with what happened. I would highly recommend my guy to help your guy.”

  “I'll let him know about it,” I say, feeling curious about the hypnotherapy. Carmen never mentioned it to me before. Then I remember that this is Liam we’re talking about, and I sigh. “I highly doubt he'll be interested. I mentioned a shrink yesterday and he got upset and stormed out. I also wanted him to do genetic counseling with me, but he refused to give a sample of his DNA. He's really not being cooperative lately.”

  “Sounds like he’s being a stubborn manly man who wants to suffer in silence,” Carmen says. “Seriously, I know the hypnotherapy sounds bogus, but it's really been helping me. I swear by it.”

  “Okay,” I tell her with a smile. “Give me the info and I'll look into it.”

  “Awesome!” she says, reaching for her phone. She looks up at me after a second. “Hellie? I’m sorry I sound like such a bitch, asking all these mean questions. I know that you and Liam love each other, and I really like him and support you two as a couple. I just…”

  When she trails off and stares into space, I wait for a while before prodding her. “What is it, Carm?”

  “I got married to the wrong man, and it didn’t work out for me,” she says quietly, with a self-deprecating smile and shrug. “You tried to warn me and I should have listened. And just look at all the crap I’ve been through because of that bad decision. I just wish I could do the same for you, and be wise and helpful and somehow contribute to your choices, but you’ve always been so sure of your direction, Helen. You don’t really need me.”

  “Of course, I do,” I tell her.

  “I wanted to discuss every possible thing that could go wrong before you make this commitment. I don’t want you to get blindsided. I want you to be absolutely, one hundred percent sure.”

  “It would be silly to say I’m one hundred percent sure,” I tell her. “There is no guarantee when it comes to love. People are fickle and weak; they get tempted, they get scared, they get desperate, they get lazy. People change. People fail.”

  “So why bother getting married at all?” she asks me. “If you don’t try, you can’t fail.”

  “Because I love him. And I don’t want to live any more of my life without being able to call him my husband.”

  Carmen smiles. “That’s a good reason.”

  Chapter Eight

  Dr. Liam Larson

  I honestly did not expect Owen’s surprise to be so thoughtful. After we arrived in Atlantic City, he did not drive me to a strip club like I expected. Nor did we check into a fancy hotel room to invite strippers for a private stag party, the way many of our college friends did.

  No, my best buddy had booked us a manly spa date, complete with deep tissue massages, and relaxing in the sauna while being served all the booze we wanted by attractive female attendants. It was luxurious pampering without the skeezy feeling of most American entertainment. Instead, it felt more the way I would imagine that a Japanese hostess bar would feel.

  Frankly, I’m just amazed that Owen is being the responsible one for a change. He has declared himself the designated driver and limited his consumption, while allowing me total freedom to let go. As the alpha male, I am usually the one in charge of taking care of everyone, and I never really get a chance to cut loose. But Owen is quickly coaxing me into relaxing a little, and I am beginning to trust him.

  After all, if I can’t trust my best friend, who can I trust?

  Five drinks later, and I am feeling reeeeaaal good. Owen is really winning me over with this therapeutic, and unexpectedly mature bachelor party. I was really afraid I would have to pretend to be amused by strippers with bare breasts flapping in my face. Now, we are sitting at an elegant restaurant in a hotel resort, having a drink and staring out at the boardwalk.

  “Are you sure you can get me back home in time for work tomorrow?” I ask him, and I notice that I am slurring over my words.

  “Of course! Don’t worry, man. I’m all over it.”

  “Good,” I tell him, lifting my drink and taking a swig. “You’re the best.”

  “Do you think you're drunk enough for blackjack?” Owen asks me with a nudge as he gestures to the casino floor.

  Inhaling deeply, I stare in the direction of the tables. I don’t know if it’s the fact that I have a lot of history in all of these casinos that is making me emotional, or that I am more buzzed than I’ve been in a long while, but the whole room spins slightly in my vision. “Man, I think I might be too drunk for blackjack.”

  “No way. Liam Larson, the Lion of the Tables is never too drunk for blackjack!” Owen says, with unwavering faith in my skill.

  The magnetic pull of the game is strong, and I almost feel like my entire body is swaying toward the casino floor. “I don't think it's a good idea,” I tell him slowly, as I glance warily at the tables. Memories of all the various victories and defeats that I suffered while in college come rushing back to me. I promised myself that once I was an adult with a real job, I would never go back to being the crazy gambling kid that I used to be.

  “Why not?” Owen asks in disappointment.

  “Because I'm going to have a wife in a few days, man. The only reason I used to take such big risks was because I had nothing to lose. But now I do. I can't gamble away every cent I own anymore. It's not acceptable. I actually have some savings—and more responsibilities. Car payments, mortgage, credit cards, student loan payments—all the payments. So many payments. I don't want to be the gambling addict who throws everything away over a game.”

  “Good,” Owen says with a nod. “You passed the test. But I figure we can still grab a drink and walk around to reminisce about the good old days. Maybe you could say a proper goodbye to the tables.”

  I smile at the concept. “It doesn't hurt to look, I suppose.”

  “I'll go order our drinks and pay our tab,” Owen says, standing up to head over to the bar.

  While he does that, I also get up and slowly stroll in the direction of the tables. I stand at a safe distance, just outside the thick atmosphere of despair. Dozens of men are hunched over their chips and betting mechanically, hoping they can get out of here alive.

  I remember it all so well: the euphoric feeling of being up and unsure of whether to leave, or to try and win a little more—the sinking feeling as the luck drastically changes, and the winnings all disappear, plus the buy-in. Refusing to take a loss, and buying in for even more—and if my bank account was empty, using credit—having that foolish determination to make back losses and leave with anything above even. I remember my heart beating right out of my chest, the emotions running high, the double downs on big bets, and the splits that seemed to go on forever. I remember pulling piles of chips over to my side of the table, and the dealer making 21 and quickly stealing back all the money on the table, and dashing all our hopes.

  I remember staying up for days and days, staring down at the green felt of these tabletops and expecting them to decide my destiny for me. I remember the exhaustion and the misery when nothing would go right, and heading to the cashiers fo
r yet another cash advance off a credit card. I remember the rare occasions when I had a lot of winnings to cash out, and there was a charming gentleman from the IRS waiting to take a chunk away for Uncle Sam.

  I remember how I could never really celebrate a win, because the money would go so fast, and it wouldn't be nearly enough to compensate for the previous losses. I remember being so poor that I would have done nearly anything for a few thousand dollars, and putting myself through insane amounts of unnecessary stress. The only reason they called me the Table Lion was because I played with the determination of a man who needed to gamble to make enough money to eat. None of my peers could understand the gravity of my situation.

  None of them had a father like mine.

  Being around the tables takes me back to a dark place in my life, when I didn't know if I'd be able to finish med school. When I didn't know if I'd be able to pay my rent. When I felt like an outcast among a mostly privileged generation, who barely studied or cared about their school, and just played video games all day.

  Even in school, Owen was my only real friend. I remember the days when we'd have to split a bagel between us for lunch, because we couldn't find enough change in the sofa for anything more.

  Smiling, I look to the bar where Owen is waiting on our drinks. We have come so far.

  The casino was both a blessing and a curse back then, sometimes making things magically better for a short period of time, and sometimes making things impossibly worse. I remember the days when we had to sleep in the car because we had lost all our money and couldn't afford gas to drive back home, and it was unthinkable for us to afford a cheap motel to crash at. Those days seem so long ago, and it was really thoughtful of Owen to bring me here, so that I could feel deepened gratitude for my new station in life.

  There were times when the progress was so slow that it barely seemed like I was moving forward at all. There were times when I had to take such large steps backward that I never thought it was really possible to get past all the boundaries that stood in my way. But being here, and looking at this place, really makes me realize that things have gotten better.

  This casino floor is a time portal; it's like gazing at a snapshot of who I used to be. Where I used to be.

  But I don't belong here anymore. I have moved past needing this.

  Even though I seemed “good” at gambling to most, and I did make some money now and then, I really was just an addict. I was gambling with the thought in my mind that if I had a really great day, I could win a huge chunk of money that could massively change my life, and alleviate all my stress. I thought I could speed things up, and get where I was going faster. If I could turn a hundred bucks, four measly green chips, into a thousand bucks, and turn those ten black chips into ten thousand dollars, then why couldn't I ever turn those ten orange chips into a few hundred thousand dollars and complete financial freedom? I kept thinking that I somehow deserved such a stroke of good fortune. I was somehow better than everyone else, and I deserved having destiny throw me a life preserver when the chips were down.

  But if I learned anything from the casino, it's that destiny doesn't owe me jack squat. If I want to create a future, I need to build it with my own two hands. Money earned through ill means doesn't last—it is only the money earned from good, honest work that stays with you in the long run. There are no shortcuts in life, and anything worth having isn't easily or quickly obtained. It takes hard labor; blood, sweat, and tears.

  Maybe it's the alcohol, or the massage, but I'm already feeling really uplifted.

  Owen has somehow managed to steal away all my pain and fear, and make me realize that I am ready to get married. I'm not the same little boy that my father used to stomp all over, all those years ago. I'm not the same depressed adolescent who didn't know how he was going to make it through the day. I'm not alone anymore. I'm past all of that.

  Moving toward the bar where my best friend is ordering our drinks, I feel my spirits soaring. When I clap Owen on the back, he seems startled and he spills one of the drinks slightly, but I am too tipsy to care and I just chuckle.

  “Liam!” he says anxiously. “I didn't see you there behind me. Up for a drink?”

  “Sure, buddy. But I don’t think I want to gamble tonight.”

  “That’s fine,” Owen says, brushing some of the spilled drink off his pants hastily, before handing me the glass. “I don’t have the stomach for gambling these days. Watching the way you used to play would damn near give me a heart attack, Table Lion.”

  “There were some good moments, weren’t there? I was pretty wild.” A grin settles on my face and I take a large gulp of the drink Owen got for me. There is bit of a funny aftertaste that hits the back of my tongue, but I dismiss it. Owen has been known to order odd drinks, and I might be too drunk to taste things properly.

  Owen watches me carefully as I drink, and smiles at me. “You were the champ, Liam. You always were.”

  “And you were my sssidekick,” I say, slurring my words a great deal more than I expected. Clearing my throat, I laugh a little at my own drunkenness and the lack of control I have over my tongue.

  “Say, Liam? Can I ask you something?” Owen says quietly.

  “Anything, buddy,” I say, clapping him on the back affectionately. “You know that we have no sssecrets between us.”

  “What’s going on with you lately? With this bad dream you’re having, and telling Helen you’re not sure about kids? You really don’t seem like yourself lately. What happens in the dream?”

  I nod slowly. It takes me a moment to focus on the dream, but once I do, it becomes as clear as day. I begin to feel cold. I begin to feel like I am right there on the road, and I am shivering violently. I am holding the tiny, bloody baby in my arms, and I am afraid. My body physically shakes with the emotions, and I feel myself growing close to tears.

  “My… my muddther,” I say, and I am vaguely aware that the words are not coming out as I intend them to. I clear my throat and try again. “My modther had a baby in the car. A little girl. My sssister. And it was ssso cold, and there was ssn—snow on the ground.”

  Owen frowns suddenly, as if in recognition. “I remember you telling me something like this before. You had this dream when we were in college, and you woke up screaming one night.”

  “Did I? Yesss. It’s the worsst nightmare. Because my modther gave me the baby. She wouldn’t look at it, or touch it. Thisss tiny infant, covered in blood and plasss—placenta.” My tongue feels like it is made of lead as I try to speak, but I don’t care as I begin to remember the details of the dream. As the images become clearer, my heart starts to race. Coupled with the amount of alcohol I have had, I start to feel a sense of panic. I place a hand on my chest and take several deep breaths.

  “Hey! Liam? You okay, buddy?” Owen asks me with concern, putting an arm around my shoulders.

  “N-no. My chest. It hurts.”

  “Do you want to get out of here, and maybe go sit in the car?”

  I am having trouble speaking or breathing, and I can only nod. I allow Owen to guide me out of the bar, and I try my best to remain standing. I don’t understand why my limbs feel like jelly and it is so hard to move my body.

  Once Owen helps me into the vehicle, I allow my body to sag against the passenger seat. The passenger seat. Just like in my dream. My breathing comes in short, rapid bursts, and I feel like I am having a mild panic attack. If Owen weren’t here beside me, I would worry that I was about to die. But I know that he wouldn’t let that happen.

  “Just calm down, Liam. You’re going to be okay,” he says, grasping my shoulder tightly. “Can you tell me what happened? In the dream?”

  “What if it wasn’t a dream.”

  “What?”

  I blink slowly as I try to make eye contact with Owen and communicate my deepest fear. Something about the alcohol is opening the door to the very back of my mind, where the root of the issue has been lingering all this time. “What if I really did that? What if I
really killed that baby?”

  “Killed?” Owen says in shock, and I can see that his eyes have gone wide. “Liam, what are you talking about? You never told me that the baby was killed.”

  “I left her there. I just left her there to die. Mama said—Mama said we’d go back for her, but we never did. She said the baby never existed, that it wasss a dream. But what if she did exist? Am I crazy? Am I crazy, Owen?”

  My friend just stares at me blankly, and I find myself seized by a sudden anger. I reach out and grab him around the neck, dragging him closer so that I can look into his eyes. “Am I crazy?! Tell me! Did I kill the baby? Was there ever a baby! Fucking tell me!”

  “Liam,” he chokes out, “stop!”

  “I can’t have a baby. I killed the baby. I’m a murderer. Helen would hate me forever. How can I tell her? That little girl was so tiny. She was like a little kitten. Did she get crushed under the tires of a truck? Did she freeze to death?” I squeeze Owen like a tube of toothpaste to try and get the answers out of him.

  He claws at my hands to try to break free. “Hey!” he says hoarsely. “Liam, stop it!”

  “Why was I so stupid? I killed her, Owen. I know that I killed her. I’m a monster.” My hands grow limp, and they fall to my sides. “I’m a murderer! I’m a fucking murderer! I knew all along. I was never punished. Not enough. He knows. I know that he knows. He’s going to come for me.”

  My eyelids grow very heavy and it becomes difficult to hold them open. The world is growing dark, and I am beginning to feel like I am underwater. I try to move my arms, but they are flaccid. My whole body begins to feel like it’s disconnected from my brain.

  I think I hear Owen’s voice speaking to me, but it is so far away. I can’t make out the words before the world becomes completely quiet and empty.

  Chapter Nine

  Helen Winters