Chapter 3
Six numb, thoughtless hours after leaving Dwayne’s house, Andrew was parked in front of a bar and preparing to step into it for just one drink. He visited the men’s room first, to pee and then stood at the mirror and stared at his reflection.
I don’t care, he thought, numbly. What they think doesn’t matter.
Except it did matter. It mattered a lot. They were his friends; all of them. Dwayne, Sandra, Kev…but sometimes it hurt to even look at them. To remember that they had been Audrey’s friends too. When he looked at them, all he saw was his grief, even though they were just trying to help.
It had been ten years!
Surely at some point this grief had to end?
Not if you keep running away from it. A voice that sounded a lot like Audrey said in his head.
He flinched, and started shaking, fighting back tears. I am not going to cry, I’m better than this, I have to be…
He blinked, and an hour had passed. He had a drink in front of him and he was sitting at the bar. There was an empty shot glass or three next to his full one. He sat there, legs dangling off the bar stool, watching his reflection some more in the barroom mirror. It had been…how long? He never kept mirrors around, even before he’d lost everything again.
When the bartender came to ask if he wanted a refill, he realized he’d lost track of time again. He couldn’t feel anything but pins and needles below his knees. His reflection was barely visible, blurry and dark, and his head was spinning.
He squinted around him, the bar was empty. He’d been sure it had been full when he walked in. It was probably really late and he should be getting home.
His shoulders started shaking again. This time, he didn’t bother holding it back. Why should he? No one was here to see.
I have nothing.
I am nothing.
Everything I touch dies.
I can’t do this anymore.
He stood abruptly, staggering out of the bar and out to his car. Nobody tried to stop him; this wasn’t the type of joint where they cared about you driving drunk. He slumped in his seat, staring straight ahead. Suddenly his knife was in his hand–and how did that happen, he couldn’t remember–staring up at him, the inscription – for a great husband; don’t cut yourself– a mute reproach. Audrey had gifted it to him because he loved to barbecue.
“This is different,” he told it, not as firmly as he would’ve hoped. “I have fought. And I lost. And I keep losing. This isn’t giving up, it’s accepting the inevitable.” The inscription had no answers, clearly not believing him. He turned the knife around.
If he did it here, nobody would care; they’d probably steal his car and leave him to rot on the sidewalk. Two billion dollars in various bank accounts and he couldn’t find someone to fix him. He could just bleed out in his Fiat. A footnote in history, one failure and defeat after another, until he finally, finally took things into his own hands, and faded away, his death as worthless as his life.
He knew how to do it, of course. Though he’d never considered it before. Had never even thought about it. But now it felt right, necessary. Shaking hands opened his shirt, and he rested the knife against his abdomen. He took a deep breath, and started to press.
Then the ground started shaking. Paranoid, he dropped flat onto the ground, trusting in the tall grass and his nondescript clothing to hide him from view.
When the train rolled by, his eyes narrowed. He cursed himself, silently, for being so stupid. waited for the train to pass, counted to two hundred, then silently started the car.
One more chance. He’d get it right this time, die trying, or finish what he started.
Either way, it was almost over.
*****
Eight days sober, and Andrew already knew this was a bad idea. Why did he think he could give up the alcohol? Even heading out the door this morning without liquid courage was nearly impossible. He had called his secretary at Stanfield Drilling and Mechanics to let her know he wouldn’t be coming in for a few days. He was maybe halfway to the Better Tomorrow Recovery Center and he could feel the anxiety building like a vice grip around his lungs and squeezing.
The waiting room was close to empty, thankfully. The fewer people commenting on his shaking hands and pallor the better. Andrew debated giving up, going home, and drinking himself to sleep. It’d be the first rest in a long time if he did. The only reason he was here was the fact that he’d seen rock bottom and he didn’t like it.
Trying to breathe deeply, with hitching lungs, Andrew dug his fingers into the backs of his thighs where he sat on his hands to keep from biting his nails to the quick or shaking with reaction. He glanced at the other patient across from him in the too small waiting room. The other man was glancing as well, and they momentarily locked gazes. Andrew went back to staring at his knees.
“Um. Hello.”
“Hi,” he mumbled back, biting the inside of his lip so hard he nearly broke the skin. He should just go. He didn’t want to be here, even if he needed to be.
“Your first time here?”
“Yes.”
“Who are you seeing?”
“Alexander.”
“Oh! I hear he’s good. I’m with Arnold instead, though.”
“Great.”
“Are you nervous?”
“Fucking grade-a observation,” Andrew bit out with a hard stare.
“Sorry.”
They sat in silence until Andrew’s phone chimed, the alarm he set for ten minutes before his appointment, to give himself enough time to cancel and escape if he so chose. He was close to just leaving without any indication at all, but it seemed unnecessarily rude. It wasn’t Alexander’s fault he was too fucked up to fix.
“Planning your exit route?”
“What?”
“I think everyone does it their first time. I know I did. This is my third therapist and the first I didn’t run out on.”
“Good for you.”
“I’m saying, I get it. You think you can handle it on your own, right? That you should be able to cope without help, but you’re here, whether on your own or because you were made to be here. You’re here. No one’s going to judge you, but you. If you don’t take the help, you’ll regret it and you know it.”
“I thought I was supposed to be lying on a couch for this bit.”
“Alexander doesn’t have couches, I hear. Just mats of the floor to help the zen flow through you.”