Make sure you read Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3 before digging into the conclusion. Thank you.

 

The first four years that I used heroin was all about feeling good, getting that high. The last three years were spent just trying to keep myself from coming down. It wasn’t a cheap habit. I still have no idea how much money I shot into my arm.

 

One morning I woke up. My bed felt like it was sideways, as if it was on the wall. As I became more and more aware I realized that I was sitting on the floor, my back against the wall. On the other side of the room from my bed. I must have passed out there. Why hadn’t anyone moved me back to my bed, I wondered.

 

“Hey!” I yelled. My memory was failing me. I couldn’t think of my assistant’s name. It must of been the drugs. I’d had the same assistant for years. “Hey! I need some help in here.”

 

She came in. There was no worry in her eyes, no alarm. She must have been used to me calling out to her. “Do you need something?”

 

“Yeah. Could you help me get to my bed? And get me my medicine?”

 

I’d called it that for the last few years. Medicine. I guess I was trying to fool her. Thought she didn’t really know what was in that syringe. She reached into the bedside table. Watching her hold the lighter under the bowl of the spoon, turning a solid into a liquid made my heart quicken. My body couldn’t wait to feel it go into my blood stream. She couldn’t have gotten it to me any faster.

 

“Where do you want it?” she asked, drawing the liquid into the syringe.

 

“My arm.” I slapped the skin on my forearm. “Get the band. I’m going to need some help with the veins.”

 

“Do you want to shoot it?”

 

“No. You can.”

 

She wrapped a leather belt around my bicep. No veins popped up.

 

“Try the other arm.” I held out my right hand. “You ever try a little of this?”

 

“No. This stuff’ll kill ya.” She looked up, shocked, realizing what she’d said.

 

“Don’t worry. I know it will. It’s okay.”

 

She tried different spots in my arms and legs. The veins were hard. They wouldn’t let the needle break through.

 

“Where else should I try?”

 

“Go for the vein in my neck. We haven’t done that one in awhile.”

 

We tried for hours. Nothing worked. I started getting sick. Sweat beaded on my skin. I felt like a crazy person. But, then again, that’s exactly what drugs will do. They turn a completely normal person insane.

 

“Can you drink it or something? Inject it under your tongue?”

 

“No. I don’t know. Just give me one of the rocks.”

 

I ate one. Anything to keep the edge off. It took almost an hour for it to do anything. And then it was just a buzz.

 

“Give me some more. I need something else.”

 

“Sorry. That was the last of it. I can go find some more.”

 

“No.” I stood up. My head felt empty and yet somehow heavy. I tripped and stumbled my way to the door. “I’ve got to get some air.”

 

Outside it was so cold. And bright. The sun beamed into my eyes. It felt like a nail being pounded into my brain.

 

“Birdie! Birdie Leigh!” The paparazzi were waiting for me. I should have known. “Birdie! Where’ve you been? You’ve been in there for a month.”

 

“Don’t take my picture!” I screamed. “No!”

 

The shutters of their cameras kept opening and closing. I could hear nothing but clicks and my fake name yelled over and over.

 

“I said no!” I pushed one of them down. “Don’t you dare!”

 

They kept taking pictures. Raping me with their intrusion into my life. I’d said ‘no’.

 

I fell. The concrete jarred my body. There was no more cushion on me. I was just lanky bones and flappy skin.

 

The photographers stood around me, capturing my bloody knees and my anguished face. Not one of them tried to help me. Not one asked if I was okay.

 

“She’s so high, she don’t know what’s goin’ on,” one of them said.

 

The others laughed. Mocked me. I felt like I was spinning. So fast. I barfed. They took more pictures.

 

“Hey, all you boys,” a voice called. “You stop. Leave that girl alone.”

 

A woman’s voice. Southern accent. Warm like fresh baked muffins.

 

“Now, just git away from her, hear? Let her be.”

 

“We’re just doing our job, ma’am,” one of the paparazzi said.

 

“No, you just tryin’ to make a couple thousand off a girl’s hardship. Not git. Or I’ll call the police.”

 

They walked away. Their cameras held plenty of marketable pictures. They’d done a good day’s worth of work. and all it cost was my dignity.

 

“Now, honey,” the woman said, kneeling down next to me. “Let’s go get us a cup of coffee, huh?”

 

How could I have refused? She lifted me to my feet. Wrapped her jacket around my waist. Apparently, I’d forgotten to dress before leaving the apartment. Fortunately my assistant always put me in a tank top.

 

“What’s your name, sugar?”

 

“Fiona.” I gulped. It felt like a lie. “What’s your name?”

 

“Miss Baker. Now, how about we have that cuppa in my apartment. Might be more comfortable. I promise, they are no cameras where I live.”

 

Her space was fresh. Like the country was brought right into the city. Yellows and creams and small touches of bright color comforted the eye.

 

“I love your apartment,” I said. “Who’s your designer?”

 

“Little old me. I can’t hardly abide the thought of hiring that out.” She poured me a cup of black coffee. “You coming down off’n something?”

 

She was direct. It made me respect her.

 

“Yeah. I ran out of my medicine.”

 

“Heroin?”

 

I nodded, sipping my coffee.

 

“What been so bad in your life that you aim to kill yourself?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

My father killed himself when I was 3. My mom used me and threw me out. No one cared who I was. I hated myself. What else? Maybe that I ruined my life with one night of partying.

 

“How we gonna get you off that junk?”

 

“We? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

 

“Listen, sugar, you ain’t bad. You’re beautiful. And you’re talented. Don’t think I didn’t recognize you. But I knew that you weren’t no Birdie Leigh. You’re something far better than that.”

 

“I just don’t feel like I’m worth anything.” I started to cry. “All I’m good for is a morality lesson for kids. ‘Now, children, don’t do drugs or you’ll end up like that Birdie’.”

 

“Well, we can’t let you feel like that.”

 

She sat next to me on the couch. “You should have seen me 20 years ago.”

 

I turned toward her, folded my leg up under me.

 

“I went for crack back in those days.”

 

Could this sweet little lady have been telling me that she did cocaine? I couldn’t believe it.

 

“You’re surprise, I see you. I didn’t have no sense in those days. Just snorting and smoking and shooting up. It seemed like all there was in the whole world.”

 

“I feel that way,” I whispered. “All the time.”

 

“I know you do. But you can quit it. If you don’t you won’t live another year.”

 

“How? I don’t know what to do. I just love it too much.”

 

“I did, too. But I knew it had to be over. So, I quit.”

 

“How did you do it?”

 

“Jesus.”

 

At first I thought she was cussing. The only time I’d heard that name in my adult life was in a string of curse words. But she smiled. So warm, so gentle. I knew she was talking about the guy. That Jesus that I didn’t even know.

 

“I don’t know him.” It was embarrassing. A 27 year old not knowing who Jesus was. “I mean, I know he’s what they talk about at church.”

 

“Oh, sugar! It’s time to listen. First, I gotta pray that you can stay healthy enough to hear the Word.”

 

She told me all about Jesus. What He did for me. What He could do. She prayed over me, sang a song. Her voice was shaky, thick. But beautiful.

 

I still felt sick. My body ached and tugged  and screamed at me to get something to shoot into my blood. I shook, felt cold then hot then cold again. Mrs. Baker took me to the hospital. Then to a detox center. She stayed with me through it all.

 

It’s a year later. I’ve put on weight. Had to buy all new clothes. The paparazzi doesn’t care about me anymore. Now that I’m clean, I’m boring. I’ve been in the “worst body” section of the tabloids. It made me pretty proud.

 

A year of sobriety. A year of asking forgiveness. A year of mending bridges. Of changing my outlook. A whole year of Sundays and Wednesdays in church. Say what you will about Christians. They may have made some mistakes. But knowing about those errors made it a whole lot easier for me to know they’d accept me. But, careful, when you tear apart the Christians, you’re talking about me now.

 

That’s right. Born again Jesus Freak. It’s the only way I’ve made it this year. He’s the only way I’ll make it next year and the years after that.

 

There’s nothing like being on stage. My voice raising the praise for the mercy I found in Him.

First check out Part 1 here and Part 2 here

My mom and I rode in the car that the producer sent. She was quiet. I was hung over. The driver had to pull over twice so I could barf on the pavement.

“You just had to go and be stupid, didn’t you, Birdie?” my mom asked.

“My name’s Fiona.” I believe I followed that up with some unkind, out of contract words. It no longer mattered.

The producer sat behind a huge desk. It felt like I was walking into the principal’s office at school. He was full of disappointing glares and shaking of head.

“You’re finished,” he said. No flash of white teeth. His lips were drawn tight across them. “We won’t be airing the last season. Security will escort you out.”

They nearly had to carry my mom out. She kicked, screamed, spat. It was humiliating. And, of course, the cameras caught the whole thing.

“You’ve ruined everything!” she screamed at me. “You have destroyed my life. I’m done with you. Don’t come back to the condo.”

“Right. Fine with me,” I said. She didn’t realize that the condo still belonged to the network. They’d be kicking her out within hours.

She’d be fine, though. She had all my money. Every single penny. I had to get some work.

My mom went one way down the sidewalk and I the opposite direction.

My cell phone rang.  I didn’t know if I should answer it. But I was 18. I always had to answer the phone.

“Hey, Fiona. It’s Ramona.”

“What’s going on?”

“Oh, man. I am so sorry. Somebody stole my camera and put those pictures up.”

“Whatever.” I tried to act relaxed. “Listen, my show just got dropped and I’m kicked out of my house. You know of a place I can hang out for awhile?”

“Sure. Come over here. I’ve got lots of room.”

Ramona had her own loft. My mom had my things delivered there and agreed to pay my part of the rent.

I found an agent. She got me a few parts in movies and connected me with a recording studio. I made a few albums, but it still wasn’t my kind of music. Those songs required a lot of grinding in the videos, if you know what I mean. All day I’d work, building up my career again.

And all night I’d party. At first it was just alcohol and pot. Nothing serious. There were a few mornings when I wasn’t sure what happened the night before. It was okay. Ramona and I were watching out for each other.

As for being under-aged – well, that word doesn’t exist for young stars like myself. The velvet ropes opened to me wherever I went. But the paparazzi followed closely. My agent said it would be good exposure.

“Any press is good press, Birdie,” she’d said.  Yup. Still Birdie Leigh. Nobody would have hired me under a different name. They wouldn’t have known who I was. I hated it when my mom was right.

One night Ramona and I decided to have a quiet party. Just a few friends getting smashed at our house. There was a new guy there. One I’d never met before. He wouldn’t leave me alone. I kind of liked the attention. Late in the evening he pulled a kit out of his pocket.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“You never seen this?” He laughed. “Guess Birdie Leigh’s a little sheltered, huh?”

“Seriously. What is that?”

“Aw, baby. It’s liquid gold. Can’t go a day without it.”

“What’s it like.” I was curious, but also scared. But I didn’t know how to use my brain yet. The smart girl would have run out right then. I, however, was very, very stupid.

“Hey, try this,” he said, offering me a needle. “You’ll never be the same.”

“I’m not sure. It’s not a good idea.”

“I swear, the needle’s clean.” He came closer. “Just try a little. I promise you’ll like it.”

Ramona called over from the other side of the room, “Fee, you should do it. It’ll be a good time.”

He put a rubber band around my arm, made my veins pop out. It wasn’t hard on my too-skinny arm. He drew out a little blood then pushed the liquid into me.

It felt like spinning, but dull, too. Then the world looked different. Everything seemed okay. And so very beautiful. It was as if I’d become part of the music. That I tripped along the notes. I sang. Who knows what I sang. But it felt good. Like honey from my lips.

I spent the next four years trying to get that high again. What you don’t know when you first shoot up is that that is the best high you’ll ever get. It won’t get better. But you still try and try and try to feel just like that. It keeps you up at night, makes you feel crazy. And then, after awhile, if you don’t use something, anything, you get horribly sick. I mean, frothing at the mouth, puke your guts out sick.

But when you’re young and you’ve got a couple platinum albums and a tour bus with your name on it, well, let’s just say certain things aren’t so hard to get. Most junkies have to scour the streets for money and to find their dealers. All I had to do was tell my assistant. She’d get it for me. How majorly messed up is that?

Rumors spread throughout the media pretty quickly that I was an addict. Not out of concern. Oh, no. The magazines only published the articles to make money. They got the worst pictures possible of me. And America just ate it up. They mocked me, condemned me, turned the eyes of their children away from the television when I was on the screen.

“She’s gonna die a early death,” my mom said in an interview, faking the tears. “All’s I gotta say is that it’s what’s comin’ to her.”

That was my mother. Keeping it classy.

I became the stumbling, tortured artist. The one who had incredible talent but pissed it away on drugs. Birdie Leigh couldn’t perform like the old days. But it sure was entertaining.  Although I hated to admit it, I knew that they were right. It occurred to me that I was far gone when I looked in the mirror.

Red, puffy track marks down my forearms. I didn’t even try to hide them anymore. Vacant look in my eyes. Skeleton for a body.

And yet I still sang to sold out crowds. My albums kept selling. But what they didn’t know was that I didn’t give two farts about the fame or the success. All I cared about was getting enough money to get my next fix.

But here’s the thing, I wasn’t a bad person. And even through the drugs I could feel heartache. Every time a tabloid slandered me, it was a cut. And I felt it.

The little secret that nobody wants to admit is this; addicts are people. Addicts struggle and fight their drugs. They despair because sometimes there is no family to help them. Some addicts don’t get an intervention. Because nobody cares enough about them to lend a hand.

It’s just easier to gossip about them. And so I kept using. Because nobody really had a vested interest in me living. The record company would make double album sales if I kicked off. My mother would get a book deal or even an after school special. Not to mention the talk show circuit. And the media wanted just one more fatality to prove their point. That drug abusers deserve death.

It just seemed easier to put more poison into my veins.

(to be continued)

Make sure to catch Star Shine: Part 1 https://susiefinkbeiner.wordpress.com/2011/07/25/star-shine-short-story-part-1/ 

 

The first thing they did was to dye my hair. I went from chestnut brown to golden, caramel blonde.

 

“The kids love a blonde,” my mom said, schmoozing the producer.

 

Next, was my name.

 

“There’s already a singer named Fiona,” the producer told us. “And she doesn’t have the clean reputation that we need for our network.”

 

“I’m not changing my name,” I said. “Screw that.”

 

“Well. That’s some pretty adult language for a 12 year old, isn’t it?” The producer laughed nervously. “That’s not something that you’re going to say out in public. It’s in your contract to keep up a good image in your personal life.”

 

“Trust me, I’ll make sure she’s squeaky clean. You don’t need to worry about that. ” my mom said. “What should we change her name to?”

 

My professional name was changed to Birdie Leigh.

 

“Get it? Like a Song Bird.” The producer smiled. I could tell he had those teeth whitened. So white they were almost blue. “It’ll be great. The kids will love it.”

 

And so, I changed from Fiona Bern to Birdie Leigh. I went from sweatshirts and jeans to all pink, all the time. They even went so far as to get blue contacts to cover the green of my irises.

 

The show was an instant success. Think Saturday Night Live for the preteen crowd. Sketch comedy, guest performances, me singing and dancing and charming the socks off America. They loved me. And I, in turn, began hating them. It was for them, the fans, that I had to live this life. I couldn’t go anywhere without being mobbed by screaming kids or flashing cameras.

 

But my mom couldn’t get enough of the money. So I kept playing the blonde haired, blue eyed circus monkey.

 

It was too fast a life. Photo shoots, promotional engagements, filming of episodes, recording songs, mall appearances. Sleep in the hair and make-up chair. Sleep in the dressing room. Catch a nap on the bus or the plane. And there were no summers off. Summer was when movies were made. Birdie Leigh did a movie a year. Sometimes two.

 

Live performances, awards shows, talk shows.

 

“Flirt it up with them hosts on the late shows,” my mom said. “But not so much they think you’re loose. Naw. Just enough to flatter them. Make they think you got a school-girl crush on them. At least pretend to be innocent.”

 

I made it six years on “The Birdie Leigh Show”. Only 10 shows to film. Then I’d be free. The ad spots for the finale were ridiculous. “We watched her grow up. Now we have to let her fly into adulthood.”

 

I’m not kidding you. That was the producer’s idea. You should have seen the tears in his eyes when he told us about it. It made me want to kick him in the face.

 

“Isn’t that beautiful?” he asked.

 

“I can’t wait for this show to die,” I said. “Then I can just go on with my life. I want to be Fiona again.”

 

“But, Birdie,” my mom said. Even she couldn’t remember who I was before. “America don’t know you as Fiona. We gotta keep up this image or else you ain’t gonna get work around here.”

 

All I could think of was how to dye my hair back to dark brown, throw out the stupid contacts and return to being Fiona. Oh. And sleep. The thought of sleep depressed me. How long since I’d slept in my bed? I couldn’t remember.

 

We finished filming the show. The finale was huge. An hour of me pretending that I was heartbroken. They showed clips from the 6 years. I was supposed to tear up. It was actually written into the script. I seriously considered vomiting when the rest of the cast saying “Wind Beneath My Wings” to me.

 

“Fly, fly, fly, Birdie! We’ll watch you fly so high!” they sang. Awful.

 

The after party was packed with celebrities. And, of course, everything was pink. No alcohol, but there sure was a lot of pink lemonade. The CD I released a month before blasted through the sound system. It was one of the worst collections of music ever made. A mish mash of styles, none of which I liked to sing. Music mass produced just to sell, sell, sell. And it did.

 

Everyone at the party was falling over themselves to talk to me. Tell me how great I was. How much they’d miss my show.

 

A man approached me. He had a suit even nicer than the producer’s. His teeth, somehow whiter.

 

“We’d like to make you an offer,” he said into my ear, pushing his card into my hand. “We can take Birdie Leigh to new heights. Call me.”

 

Then a woman came to me. “You’re going to need some serious representation,” she said. “I’ll fight for more money, more fame for Birdie Leigh.”

 

The room got really hot, started spinning a little. Agents and producers and directors came to me, one by one. But, no, not to me. To Birdie Leigh. Nobody wanted Fiona Bern, that brooding girl with the pretty voice. They only wanted Birdie Leigh, that bubbly girl with the winning smile.

 

I realized talent had nothing to do with it. How did it take that long for me to realize it?

 

The last person to approach me was a girl, about a year or two older than me. I recognized her from somewhere. But couldn’t put my finger on it.

 

“Hey,” she said. “I know what you’re going through. Seriously.”

 

“Yeah?” I said. “What would you know about it?”

 

“Remember Ramona Rae?”

 

“Oh, yeah. Sure I do. The tap dancing show, right?”

 

“Yup. That was me.”

 

“Hey, nice to meet you, Ramona. I miss watching your show.”

 

She smiled. But it wasn’t a happy or kind smile. More of a sneering smile. “Yeah. It got cancelled. Something about my public image being ruined when I got a tattoo.”

 

“That’s too bad.” But was it bad? She was still around, going to parties.

 

“Listen, I know it’s hard to live out here. Why don’t you come with me and my friends after this party cools off. We’ll have some real fun.”

 

“I’ll have to ask…”

 

“You don’t have to ask anybody, Fiona.”

 

She used my real name. I would have followed her anywhere.

 

“Just meet us outside in half an hour. We’ve got a party bus.” She slipped a small bag into my hand. “Until then, this’ll help you get through the rest of this.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“Just a little hyper pill. Don’t worry, it’s totally safe. Take it with a little lemonade. It’ll make the rest of this party go faster.”

 

She was right. I giggled and tripped my way through the rest of the party. Half an hour later I walked out and into a bus full of people. All around my age. They passed around drinks. They passed around a joint. I didn’t refuse.

 

And someone flashed pictures all evening long.

 

I didn’t know what I was doing. Still couldn’t tell you what happened that night. There are fuzzy bits of memory.

 

But I woke up at home the next morning, still in my clothes, with a bloody knee and throbbing head.

 

The phone rang. It was the producer.

 

“Birdie, what did you do?” he asked. No, yelled.

 

“Chill out. Seriously.”

 

“All that we worked for, Birdie. It’s all gone.”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“Get to my office. I’ll send a car.”

 

“I just woke up.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure. You didn’t happen to check Facebook yet, did you?”

 

“No. Why?”

 

“We have a problem.”

 

(to be continued)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There’s nothing like being on stage. Bright lights. Loud music. Cheering fans. All eyes on me. And they love me. They really do. No matter what I do or say, they can’t get enough of me.

I started singing when I was about 10 years old. Just little church plays and school talent shows. You know the kind. Where all the kids sing off tune or dance like a decapitated chicken or do a magic trick that totally fails. And even then the parents fall all over themselves to get the moment of video. They all think their little darling is the best.

“I’ve gotta get her in singing lessons,” they tell the person next to them. “She’s a star in the making.”

But they’re always wrong. Their kid ends up thinking they’re great, a huge talent. Then the first person who tells them the truth, that they suck, well, that breaks their little tone deaf, two left-footed hearts.

I had real talent, though. When I’d sing the room had a hush about it. Not just because they were listening. No. It was because they were holding their breath. My voice was smooth, clear, ethereal. Even then I knew I was a phenomenon. Nobody had to tell me that. They did anyway.

“Oh, Fiona,” they’d say. “You just have the most natural talent. You’re gonna be a star.”

“I know that,” I’d say. I was a cheeky little brat. It didn’t matter. They still wanted to hear me sing.

My mom entered me into a bunch of talent contests. I only lost once. The winner had a blazing baton. There’s no competing with that. But my mom fought to have the rules changed. No more fire. I didn’t lose again.

 

My voice started bringing in some big prizes. Well, first, all I’d win were watermelons and year-long memberships to the YMCA. But after a little bit there were cash awards for the top three finishers.

When my mom started cashing those checks she really started to believe in me.

Talent scouts would show up to the contests. They offered me representation. Promised gigs. Swore they’d make me famous.

“You ain’t nothin’ but small time,” my mom said, cigarette hanging from her lips. “We’re holdin’ out for the big time. And you ain’t got it.”

She’d look at me. Right in front of them, she’d rip them apart.

“You see, Fiona, them ain’t gonna get nobody no where. Wanna know how I can tell?”

I’d smirk at them. “Yup. I want to know.”

“That jacket he got on. It don’t match the pants. Man that can’t buy a whole suit ain’t gonna get anybody anywhere. See that weddin’ ring? He ain’t got time for what you need to get big. And that wad of chewing tobacco in his lip. Well, that ain’t nothin’ but a dirty habit. Ain’t no production company gonna talk to a man spittin’ in a beer bottle during castings.”

We’d walk away. It was always important that we left them standing, feeling like fools.

“Honey, we’ll do better if we just stick with each other for now. Can’t never trust no man neither. That’s somethin’ you gotta remember every day of your life.”

 

We waited. Got a couple gigs singing at county fairs. She even arranged for me to sing the National Anthem before  minor league baseball games.

 

“Just keep plucking along, Fiona. It’s gonna happen one of these days.” My mom would make sure of that.

 

And one day we were approached. Not by some no count talent scout with a toupee and a polyester suit. This time it was a producer in a three piece suit and shiny shoes. He wanted me to audition for a show. On television. There would be a preteen audience, plenty of chances to sing and a few skits here and there. And, by the way, could I manage to act? Of course. I was never truly me. It was all an act.

 

My mom got me a new dress, painted my nails, curled my hair.

 

“The trick is to look like the part they have in mind. That way they’ll see you as the character before any words come out of your mouth.” She handed me a bubble gum pink dress. “Now, act perky.”

 

“I don’t know how to do that,” I said. My attitude was always a little sullen.

 

“Just act like you had too much sugar or soda or something. Pretend you’re a cheerleader.”

 

I did what she told me. The pink dress, bobbing curly hair and spunky behavior won me the role. We packed up everything we had, which wasn’t much. Just a double-wide full of clothes and shoes. The network paid for our flight to California. When we got there they’d bought a condo for us.

 

“Nothing but the best for our new little star,” the producer said, pinching my cheek.

 

I knew, right then, that this wasn’t going to be as much fun as I’d hoped.

 

But my mom cashed the checks and started spending the money. She wasn’t about to let me quit.

 

(to be continued)

I don’t know if you realize how much I appreciate you. Thank you all for supporting my writing. It means so much to me. There have been moments where I feel so vulnerable sharing these stories. Even though they are fiction, the reveal much about me.

 

As a writer, there is nothing like having others read my work. Thank you and please, as always, feel free to share my stories with your friends.

 

Today I have a story published in Catapult Magazine. Please check it out and leave a comment!

 

You can find it here: http://www.catapultmagazine.com/come-out-and-play/article/the-royal-treatment

 

Have the happiest of Fridays!

 

~Susie

 

 

 

 

If you’re just joining, please check out https://susiefinkbeiner.wordpress.com/2011/07/18/single-part-1-short-story/ and https://susiefinkbeiner.wordpress.com/2011/07/19/single-part-2/

“There is no us, Anthony,” I say. Something inside makes me want to play games. Manipulate him. It would feel good to make him cry. Would that mean that he still loves us? “Hasn’t been for years.”

He sighs. “Marley, I wasn’t a good husband to you. Wasn’t even a good dad.”

That’s true. But could he have changed enough for a second chance? Or am I just lonely, groping for whatever I can reach?

“But you were never the best wife to me,” he says. “You never knew how to talk to me.”

“Did you ever learn to listen?”

“Listen, we had some real rough times. But there were some good things, right?”

“I don’t remember any good times with you.” That’s a lie. There were great times. Beautiful times. But I need him to tell me. I want him to remind me. I want him to tell me what he missed about me.

“Not even one? I wasn’t a monster.”

No, not a monster. More like a disengaged sloth.

“Why are you here, Anthony?”

Standing up, putting his hands in his pockets, pacing the room. “I always thought marriage was supposed to be easy. But it wasn’t. Nobody told me it would be so much work.”

“Who told you it would be easy?”

“My parents made it seem effortless. They just did their thing and raised us kids.” He stops and looks out the window. “They never screamed at each other.”

“I didn’t scream.”

He’s looking for something. “Well, close enough.”

“Hey, what are you looking for?”

“Nothing.” He turns around. “Anyway. I thought I’d give up on marriage after you kicked me out.”

“I didn’t kick you out. You left.”

“That’s not how I remember it. You told me to leave.”

“No. I said that you might as well. You were never really attentive to us. There was no difference with you gone. Not a single difference.”

That’s a lie. The difference was in the kids. They folded in on themselves. Didn’t trust, didn’t smile as much. They needed him. Was it really my fault? Did I really send him away from them?

“That’s why I’m here. I want to give marriage another try.”

“I’m confused.” Something isn’t right. “What are you talking about?”

I’m too exposed. But all my defenses are down. Sarcasm, bitterness, snark, biting insults, bluffs. All far too overwhelmed to snap to action. I’ve worked so hard since he left to hide myself, who I really am. I became mean and nasty. A hard worker. Now all that is failing me.

“I don’t want to give up on marriage. You know, I miss being in a loving relationship.”

“Did we have a loving relationship?”

“Once. Yeah, I think we did. At the beginning.”

I don’t want to go back there with him. Or do I? Everything is so confusing.

“So, you’re looking for a relationship?”

“I’ve found one.” He looks outside again.

“I swear, if you look out that window one more time, I’m going to bash you in the head.” Oh. There’s the mean and nasty. “Will you please just tell me what you’re talking about?”

“I got married.”

“You did what?” I try to suck in air without him noticing.

“I met her…it doesn’t matter where I met her. But we got married. I thought you should know.”

I don’t love this man. Can’t even stand him. But somehow there’s pain in my soul. Just knowing that there is a replacement is awful.

“That’s not all. There’s more, isn’t there?” I know this man’s holding back. “Just tell me. I know you didn’t come here just to tell me that you got married.”

“Right.” He clears his throat. “We’re moving to Hong Kong. That’s where she’s from.”

“When are you leaving?”

“As soon as she gets here. She’s going to pick me up and we’ll be on our way to the airport.”

So the ring, the shifty behavior, the constant peeks out the window. Now I understand.

“You didn’t say ‘good-bye’ to the kids.”

“Can you do that? Let them know that I love them?”

“Yeah. But they won’t believe it.”

“What? Right. I wouldn’t either.”

“You’re leaving them again. And without even really talking to them. They’re going to hate you no matter what I tell them.”

“Well, I can’t really do anything about that.”

Headlights flash in the window. She’s here to get him.

“That’s her, huh?” I ask. “What’s her name?”

“Cindi. She’s real nice.” He looks at me. “You want to meet her or something?”

“No. That’s stupid.”

“True.” He’s thinking about something. “Should I hug you or something?”

“Just go, Anthony. We’ll be fine without you.”

And this time it’s not a bluff.

If you missed Part 1, check it out https://susiefinkbeiner.wordpress.com/2011/07/18/single-part-1-short-story/

 

 

I step outside the front door, closing it behind me. The kids don’t need to see him. Not now.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. I feel how pinched up my face is. That’s always what happens when I’m angry. It’s an ugly look for me, but I can’t help it. “What on earth makes you think this is okay?”

“What? I can’t come visit my kids?” Anthony’s voice is slimy as ever.

“No. You can’t.” I look at him. He’s exactly the same. Even wearing the same leather coat. “How’d you know we’d be home today?”

“Didn’t. Thought I’d sit on the porch ’till you got here.”

He combs back the gray hair from his forehead with his left hand. He still wears the gold band on his finger.

“Why are you here, Anthony? Just tell me.” My voice softens. My heart beats a little faster. He’s back for us.

“Okay. Fine. I need to talk to you. And the kids. It’s kind of important.”

He’s acting goofy. A little like a school boy. The way he was when we first became an item.

“Sounds good.” I let myself smile at him. I play up the eyes. “Maybe we could order in. The kids are a little sick today. They should be better tomorrow.”

“Maybe I’ll  just come back later?”

“You can if you want.” I didn’t want him to leave. “But we’d like to spend a little time with you. You could keep them busy while I order something. What are you hungry for?”

“I don’t know. Whatever you want is fine.”

We go inside. The kids are so excited to see their daddy. I’d forgotten how much they loved him. He sits between them on the couch and let’s them snuggle up to him. Even though they’re sick, he lets them kiss him. Maybe I’ve been wrong. He might just be good when they’re sick. He would probably do well at the kids’ events and games.

It might just be good that he’s home with us. Would we need a ceremony for our remarriage? I’m sure it wouldn’t be a good idea to live together until we have it all in paper again. I certainly couldn’t fit into my wedding dress from before.

“Marley,” Anthony calls from the living room. “Hey, Marley.”

Just hearing my name from his voice. I’ve missed that.

“Marley, please come here,” he says.

I walk out and see that the kids have both barfed on the floor. Totally missed the buckets.

Anthony is standing across the room with arms crossed over his chest.

“You want to clean that up?” he asks.

—

I get the kids into a bath and clean pajamas then off to bed. Looks like the broth and crackers for lunch were too much. Or it could have been the excitement of seeing their dad. Whatever. I know it’s going to be a sleepless night again for me.

Would it be wrong to ask Anthony to spend the night?

Not for that. You know. That didn’t happen after our 6 year old was born. Not even once.

But would he help? Or would he just watch me take care of everything?

He’s in the living room, sitting on the couch, watching TV.

“You got rid of all the channels,” he says, flipping through the stations. “How am I supposed to find the sports station?”

“I had to cut back on the cable. To save money.”

“How’s that take out coming? Did you order it yet?”

Unbelievable. Did he not notice me cleaning up barf? I want so badly for him to be home, but I don’t want all this junk again. I throw the phone book toward him.

“Find something and order for yourself.” I look at his face. Nothing. No expression. Just like before. “Why are you here, Anthony?”

Something inside wishes that he’s here for me. There must be something to that “one flesh” thing. Because when he left I felt the tearing. I thought I was over that. But now he’s back – maybe for today, maybe forever – and the pain has returned with him.

“Okay, Marley. I’ll tell you.” He looks into my eyes. I can’t read him right now. “It’s about us.”

(to be continued)

I’m just now realizing what happened. That’s the problem with being drunk most of the time. Lapses of thought and memory that come back to sucker punch you when the alcohol finally wears off.

There was a party, a wedding reception. My cousin’s wedding, I think. Lots of drinking. Dad telling me I had too much. Put the kids in the car. Did I even fasten their car seats? Driving away. Crash.

Then the most awful silence. And I couldn’t get myself out of the car. But they were so quiet.

A small voice, “Mama?”

“It’s going to be okay, baby,” I lied.

Whimpers, sobs, screams. Sirens.

Ambulances take them away. The kids who I should have protected. Who I didn’t, in fact, buckle in. Broken bones in their arms and legs. Scrapes on their faces. Smashed nose, knocked out tooth.

I should never have become a mother.

The seat belt I managed to strap around me, the airbag that went off in my face kept me from injury. The Police officer tugged me out of the car, smelled my breath and slapped handcuffs on me. She gave me a good lecture all the way to the station.

“You know you could have killed your kids,” she said.

“I know. I’m sorry,” I said.

“What were you thinking? Getting drunk like that and driving with them. Do you even know that it was wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

“Your children will be taken away. They will be put in foster homes. You’re going to have to go to court. And I’ll be there, too.” She made eye contact with me through the rear view mirror. “I will personally make sure that they don’t get to go home with you.”

“It’s better that way.”

I was fingerprinted, photographed, processed. Questions to answer and forms to sign. Escorted to a cage.

Sobering up in a jail cell was a surprisingly dull feeling. Maybe it’s the neon lights or the drone of voices bouncing off the concrete walls. Or it’s that the soul gave up.

“I need to make a phone call,” I said to the guard who walked past the door.

“You’ll have to wait,” she said.

“But don’t I get a call?”

“It ain’t like that. You gotta wait.”

“Isn’t it my right?”

She laughed as she moved on.

And so, I sat there. Trying to figure out how I let myself become such a drunk. Why couldn’t I stop?

How did having one on the weekends turn into this? Vodka in my coffee cup, little sips here and there, then big gulps several times an hour, hiding the empty whiskey bottles in my cupboards.

And there, on that thin mattress and in the  stark cell, I tried to figure out how I’d get out to get a beer. I knew it was about to get real ugly, real fast if I didn’t have something. It felt like I was dying, the fuel that kept my body going, the booze, gone.

I never understood drinking mouthwash before. Or vanilla extract. Or rubbing alcohol. But I did in that moment. There’s no way they just hand that stuff out at the front desk of central booking. That much I understood.

“Get up,” the guard said.

“What?”

“Somebody bailed you.”

My mom stood in the lobby. She had a jacket for me.

“It’s gotten pretty cold outside,” she said.

She was still wearing the dress she bought for my cousin’s wedding. Lavender with little pink flowers all over. She had her hair done special, got a manicure. She was really excited  for that wedding. And I messed it up.

She drove me to her apartment, the one she moved into after she left my dad. He left because of me. Because my mom would keep giving me money and a place to crash. Yet another thing that I destroyed.

We walked in the door.

My whole family was there. Sitting in a circle. Looking at me.

“We’re worried about you.”

“You need help.”

“It’s the booze or us.”

Their words swirled and mixed and clinked in my brain. And all I could think of was how I could get to the kitchen for a drink.

“You almost killed  your kids tonight,” my sister said.

“What was that?” I asked. The cold air of her words startled me. “What did you just say?”

“You almost killed your kids.”

“But they’re okay.”

“They’re in the hospital. Lydia has a broken leg and collar bone. Brody’s going to have to have surgery on his arm.”

“Are they going to take them away from me?”

“Yes.” My sister’s sadness was thick. “They’re coming to live with me.”

“Then I’ll still get to see them.”

“No. You won’t.” She locked eyes with me. “Unless you get help.”

“What do you mean by help?”

“Rehab. There’s a program…”

“But I’m going to jail. Right?”

“Yes. But you need help before that.”

“It’s not like I can get any beer in jail.”

The room was quiet. My dad’s head down. He looked at a piece of paper.

“Listen,” I said. “I’m sorry that I’ve done everything wrong. Sorry that I’ve ruined all your lives. But I can’t go to rehab.”

“You will never see your kids again,” my dad said, not looking at me. “And you’ll never see us again.”

“Well, I guess that’s life.” I was trying to make an excuse to rush out of the room and chug down something. “You know, if you can all just write me out of your lives that easily.”

I stood up.

“Sit down.” My mom’s voice was hard. Like nothing I’d ever heard from her before.  ”You sit in that chair and listen to what we have to say.”

The seat felt hard. I knew that something was about to happen. I mourned the changes that I was going to be forced to make.

“This is it,” my mom said. “Either you go to treatment or we’re done.”

“Done how?” I asked. My hands shook. I had to drink something. Anything.

“We will no longer do the following things,” my dad said, raising the piece of paper closer to his face. “Number 1…”

“I want mom to read it,” I interrupted. “I don’t want to hear your voice right now, dad.”

“Listen, young lady,” my dad’s face turned red.

There was a strange satisfaction in getting him angry. For as long as I remembered his rage at me felt comfortable.

“Give me the paper.” My mom grabbed it from him. “We will no longer give you money, house you, feed you, drive you anywhere. We won’t let you into our homes. We will not take phone calls from you. I won’t pay your bills anymore. I will report the times you stole my credit card to buy beer. You will have no rights whatsoever to your children.”

“Where is all this coming from?” I dug my nails into the flesh of my thigh. “Who put you all up to this?”

“I won’t bail you out or visit you in jail.” Her face was soaked. She was crying. I’d made her cry. “You will no longer be my daughter.”

I just looked at her, stood up and walked out.

—

I plead “no contest” to the charges against me. Drunk driving, child endangerment, the theft of my mother’s credit card. They took me immediately to prison.

It didn’t take long for me to learn how to get things that I needed. Do a favor here or there and earn a bottle of mouthwash. It was never enough. And it burned all the way down to my feet. But I had to have it.

After a month, I sat on the floor of my cell, sipping on a bottle. Even after that amount of time I’d still gag on the stuff.

“What are you doing?” my cell mate asked. “It smells like mint.”

“None of your business.” I swigged down some more.

“Why you tryin’ to kill yourself?”

“I’m not. Just trying to get a little buzz.” I held it up to her. “You want some?”

“You know, I been watching you. You really hate yourself.”

“Sure do.”

“Why?”

I looked at the stack of envelopes under my pillow. All addressed to my kids. All marked “Return to Sender” in my mom’s handwriting.

“What are you in here for?”

“Murder.”

A chill traveled up the back of my neck. “Who?”

She laughed, slapped her leg. “You’re killin’ me. No pun intended. Oh, girl I ain’t murdered no one.”

“Then what did you do?”

“Oh, just held up a gas station. Don’t sound so bad now, do it?” She sat next to me. “Let me guess. Drunk driving.”

“That and a few other things.”

“You know, you’re never gonna get better if you keep drinkin’ that stuff.”

“What do I need to get better for?”

“You’re just gonna leave here and turn around and get yourself in trouble again. You’ll be back in no time.”

Cold cement floor. Hard, creaky bed. Ugly orange jumpsuit. No freewill. No rights. Just the same thing over and over. Everyday. I had ten years on my time here. Unless, of course, I behaved myself.

I didn’t want to jump out of this cycle only to hop back in.

“How long have you been drinkin’?” she asked.

“For as long as I remember.” I put the top on the bottle. “So long I don’t know how to stop.”

“It ain’t easy. But you not alone in it.”

“What. You’re an alcoholic?”

“Nope. Never could stand the taste. But you gotta stop fightin’ this all by yourself. And that booze ain’t helpin’ you none.”

“It’s only ever gotten me in trouble.” I tilted my head back. “I need help.”

“That’s good. You’re about to get on your way. Let’s go talk to the chaplain.”

Counseling, AA meetings, accountability. Sobriety.

And then all the memories started hitting me. Partying in high school with my friends. Waking up next to strangers the next day. Sneaking drinks during pregnancy. Leaving my kids in the car while I drank in the bar. Hitting my son across the face for spilling my beer.

With every new memory I felt more and more worthless. I wanted to die. Shame, self-hate, disgust.

I screamed prayers for forgiveness. Wrote letters to everyone I could remember hurting. Tried to make phone calls.

The only response I got were returned envelopes and the click of a phone being hung up.

The chapel wasn’t what I’d expected it to be. No stained glass. No wooden pews. No candles or communion trays.

It was cold, hard, bright. Just like every other room in the prison.

The chairs were full of prisoners. Drug dealers, prostitutes, abusers, murderers, thieves. A grungy group of no-good-criminals. All drunk on the hope of another chance after this life was over.

I only showed because my cellmate was preaching. Sat in the back. Crossed my arms on my chest.

Loud singing. Arms waving in the air. Swaying hips and stomping feet.

I don’t remember what the sermon was about. All I heard from her were words that soaked right up into my soul.

“Do you think you’re so bad God can’t forgive you?” she yelled. “You think He don’t want to hear from you? Who do you think you are?”

“Amen, sister,” voices from the seats called out.

“No matter what you done, you come to God. Do you think He gonna say, ‘Uh, I don’t think so’? No, sisters. He gonna say, ‘Get yourself over here, daughter of mine. I want to show you the good way to live’.”

“That’s right!”

“Come near to God and He will come near to you!”

Come near to God. The words made me tremble with fear. And He will come near to you. It was too much.

Why would He come near to a piece of scum like me? I was nothing but filth and stink and dark.

I wanted Him. But I was nothing for Him to see. I didn’t want Him to know what I was.

There aren’t many places to be alone in prison. It felt like everywhere I turned people were watching me. Surveillance cameras, guards, other inmates. Yet, even with all those people looking after me, I still felt isolated.

“Come near to God.”

How could I come near to God? Could He even want me? How could I move toward Him with so many aches and pains for a sip of booze? It seemed impossible to want Him and alcohol at the same time.

“He will come near to you.”

What would He want with me? Nobody wanted anything to do with me.

I managed to get myself from the chapel to my cell. My cot smelled. Every night I’d sweat through my clothes and sheets. My body was sending away the remainders of  years worth of drinking.

“God.” It was the first time since I was 12 that I used His name for something other than cussing. “God, help.”

I didn’t know what else to say. I just repeated it over and over. Eventually, I fell asleep.

Dreams filled my mind. Bright colored, loud dreams.

Dreams of what was. What I left behind for the bottle.

Baking cookies with my grandma. Rolling down a hill with my sister. My mom singing lullabies as I drifted off.

Dreams of what never should have been.

My children, afraid of me. Their father walking out.

At some point in the dream I found a door. It led to a field. Jesus sat on a stump, children all around Him.

“Come near to God.”

I walked toward Him. Somehow I wasn’t afraid.

“He will draw near to you.”

Jesus smiled at me and called me over. By name. As I approached Him, He got up and embraced me.

—

I spent 10 years in prison. Good behavior got me out a year early. No one waited for me outside.  It was something I knew I’d have to do alone.

All I had were some clothes that the State gave me; jeans, a t-shirt and shoes. They gave me a little money for the bus. I had the number for a half-way house in my pocket.

That number was just my back up plan. I was going home.

So, here I sit, drinking up the $10 bucks I have left after the bus. Coffee never tasted so good.

I’m free. I’m sober. I’m one mile from my mom’s apartment.

And now, everything’s coming to me about that night. The night of the wedding and the crash.

I just know that my family hasn’t forgiven me. Brody and Lydia were so little. They won’t remember me. And if they do, it won’t be a good thing. What am I thinking? I shouldn’t do this.

But I have to. At least to beg forgiveness.

I wrote a letter to read to them. “I know you don’t have to take me back into the family. I just want to let you know that I’m sorry. I’ve changed. But you don’t have to believe me. It’s enough that I could tell you.”

I get up, toss out my empty coffee cup, walk outside.

The mile long walk to the apartment feels so far. But every step gets me closer to whatever it is that God is calling me to.

As I get closer, the thought occurs to me that she might not live there anymore. I panic.

But I see her. She’s carrying a paper bag to the door. A man is with her. Who is that?

I’ve never wanted to run so badly in my whole life. I just can’t decide if I should run to her or away.

“Jesus,” I pray. “I need strength.”

She turns around and I know she sees me because she stops and her face changes. She drops the bag. The man stoops to pick everything up. My mom is already on her way to me. Before I know it, she’s got me. She’s holding me.

“Mom,” I say.

“You’re home,” she cries.

“Is everything okay?” the man says, coming close to us.

“Yes, everything’s great.” My mom pulls his arm. “Brody, your mom’s home.”

I feel so small, so weak. My little boy stands in front of me, taller than me. With the most beautiful smile on his face.

“I know that I hurt you,” I begin my apology. ” And you don’t have to forgive me.”

My son puts his arm around my shoulders.

“But I’ve changed. I haven’t had a drink in 10 years. You don’t have to take me back into the family. I just needed you to know that I am sorry.”

“Can you come in?” My mom holds my hand. “Have a cup of coffee?”

“Sure. I’d like that.”

“Brody, let’s get everybody over. We’ll get pizzas and just celebrate.” She smiles at me. “My family is back together.”

All I can feel is the love that God has given to me. Love from Him. Love that He gave my family.

Come near to God and He will come near to you.

Make sure to read parts 1 & 2!

 

There aren’t many places to be alone in prison. It felt like everywhere I turned people were watching me. Surveillance cameras, guards, other inmates. Yet, even with all those people looking after me, I still felt isolated.

 

“Come near to God.”

 

How could I come near to God? Could He even want me? How could I move toward Him with so many aches and pains for a sip of booze? It seemed impossible to want Him and alcohol at the same time.

 

“He will come near to you.”

 

What would He want with me? Nobody wanted anything to do with me.

 

I managed to get myself from the chapel to my cell. My cot smelled. Every night I’d sweat through my clothes and sheets. My body was sending away the remainders of  years worth of drinking.

 

“God.” It was the first time since I was 12 that I used His name for something other than cussing. “God, help.”

 

I didn’t know what else to say. I just repeated it over and over. Eventually, I fell asleep.

 

Dreams filled my mind. Bright colored, loud dreams.

 

Dreams of what was. What I left behind for the bottle.

 

Baking cookies with my grandma. Rolling down a hill with my sister. My mom singing lullabies as I drifted off.

 

Dreams of what never should have been.

 

My children, afraid of me. Their father walking out.

 

At some point in the dream I found a door. It led to a field. Jesus sat on a stump, children all around Him.

 

“Come near to God.”

 

I walked toward Him. Somehow I wasn’t afraid.

 

“He will draw near to you.”

 

Jesus smiled at me and called me over. By name. As I approached Him, He got up and embraced me.

 

—

 

I spent 10 years in prison. Good behavior got me out a year early. No one waited for me outside.  It was something I knew I’d have to do alone.

 

All I had were some clothes that the State gave me; jeans, a t-shirt and shoes. They gave me a little money for the bus. I had the number for a half-way house in my pocket.

 

That number was just my back up plan. I was going home.

 

So, here I sit, drinking up the $10 bucks I have left after the bus. Coffee never tasted so good.

 

I’m free. I’m sober. I’m one mile from my mom’s apartment.

 

And now, everything’s coming to me about that night. The night of the wedding and the crash.

 

I just know that my family hasn’t forgiven me. Brody and Lydia were so little. They won’t remember me. And if they do, it won’t be a good thing. What am I thinking? I shouldn’t do this.

 

But I have to. At least to beg forgiveness.

 

I wrote a letter to read to them. “I know you don’t have to take me back into the family. I just want to let you know that I’m sorry. I’ve changed. But you don’t have to believe me. It’s enough that I could tell you.”

 

I get up, toss out my empty coffee cup, walk outside.

 

The mile long walk to the apartment feels so far. But every step gets me closer to whatever it is that God is calling me to.

 

As I get closer, the thought occurs to me that she might not live there anymore. I panic.

 

But I see her. She’s carrying a paper bag to the door. A man is with her. Who is that?

 

I’ve never wanted to run so badly in my whole life. I just can’t decide if I should run to her or away.

 

“Jesus,” I pray. “I need strength.”

 

She turns around and I know she sees me because she stops and her face changes. She drops the bag. The man stoops to pick everything up. My mom is already on her way to me. Before I know it, she’s got me. She’s holding me.

 

“Mom,” I say.

 

“You’re home,” she cries.

 

“Is everything okay?” the man says, coming close to us.

 

“Yes, everything’s great.” My mom pulls his arm. “Brody, your mom’s home.”

 

I feel so small, so weak. My little boy stands in front of me, taller than me. With the most beautiful smile on his face.

 

“I know that I hurt you,” I begin my apology. ” And you don’t have to forgive me.”

 

My son puts his arm around my shoulders.

 

“But I’ve changed. I haven’t had a drink in 10 years. You don’t have to take me back into the family. I just needed you to know that I am sorry.”

 

“Can you come in?” My mom holds my hand. “Have a cup of coffee?”

 

“Sure. I’d like that.”

 

“Brody, let’s get everybody over. We’ll get pizzas and just celebrate.” She smiles at me. “My family is back together.”

 

All I can feel is the love that God has given to me. Love from Him. Love that He gave my family.

 

Come near to God and He will come near to you.