Drink: Part 2
(If you missed Part 1https://susiefinkbeiner.wordpress.com/2011/06/21/drink-part-1/ , make sure you read it before this one. Thank you!)
“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 our 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.
(to be continued)
Drink: Part 1
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.
(to be continued)
Blocked (short story based on the life of a writer)
Up before my 5:30 am alarm. It’s a dull, achy feeling of almost awake. I’ve got to get up or I’ll never get to writing today.
The first five stumbling steps send me crashing into the door jam. I cuss quietly under my breath. Then apologize to the Lord for the “s-word” being my first real thought of the day. It should be Him.
Open up the laptop. It glows in a freaky kind of way-too-early-in-the-morning way. In the kitchen, the coffee has just finished its brew. Oh, Father, thank You for programmable coffee makers. And I’m not just saying that because I feel guilty about the cuss.
Fresh, creamy coffee. Computer up and running. I need to write 1,000 words before the kids get up.
Cracking knuckles. Stretching arms. Empty mug. More coffee.
50 words on the page now. On a roll.
Delete them all. I hate writing. Nothing’s right this morning.
Checking Facebook. Twitter. Email. Blog stats. Only 25 page views yesterday? I don’t get it. That was a good post.
Facebook again. Way too many passive aggressive status updates from certain people. Man. This isn’t the way to deal with personal issues, people.
I’m hungry. Peanut butter on a spoon. Nothing better.
The cursor is blinking at me. Blink. Blink. Blink. Stupid jerk cursor. Who decided that it had to blink all the time? Exactly what purpose does the blinking serve? Huh? To make writers crazy? Isn’t that already a problem for us creatives?
Empty mug. Again. No wonder I’m so on edge.
That’s it. I’m blocked. Empty. Mentally constipated. Whatever you call it. I have nothing to say. Or too much to say. I want to scream. But, instead, I cuss again.
Maybe I just haven’t gotten enough sleep. That might help. Or it’s this writing space. Too boring. Maybe too much color. Too dark? Too bright?
I need to get dressed before I come out here to write. Put on a power suit. Red. Red’s the color that gets things done. No more wearing my husband’s flannel pants and an old striped shirt. No more mismatched socks. Power suit is the way to go.
Power suit? That’s stupid. I don’t have that kind of thing. What? Am I supposed to do my hair and make-up, too?
Maybe I’m going crazy. What could it be? Boarder line personality? I’d better take one of those tests. Google is the most efficient diagnostic website.
Great. I’m a narcissistic. It makes sense. I think about myself all the time. All. The. Time.
It’s a good thing I have low self esteem. Otherwise that over-active self focus thing would get kind of annoying.
I need more coffee.
What the hee haw? I’m out of creamer? How does that happen?
Okay. 30 minutes before the kids usually get up. I’ve got nothing.
I need to got to Wal-Mart today. Get some more creamer.
I wonder what would happen if somebody got locked in Wal-Mart after hours. And they lived there, eating the food and sleeping on the display couches. And, let’s say she’s a pregnant teen. Yeah. And then she gives birth, right there on the floor.
Wait. Is that the movie I watched last night on TNT while I was supposed to be writing? Shoot.
“Mommy?”
Great. They’re getting up.
“I peed the bed!”
Fantastic.
—
The kids are all up, sitting at the table, nibbling on cinnamon bread that is still just a tiny bit frozen. How do I always forget to pull bread out of the freezer?
Thank goodness for PBS. Keeps their little minds distracted. I just need another 20 minutes.
Crash. Spill. Scream.
There’s grape juice everywhere. Even on the dog.
Wonderful.
—
It’s now 8:30 pm. The kids are sleeping after a day at the beach. They needed that time.
I needed that time.
The words flow from my brain to my fingers and onto the white computer screen. The cursor doesn’t have the chance to blink.
Life trumps art. Art is born from the living of that life. I just had to get out of my seat and experience a little.
And tomorrow I’ll start all over again.
Summertime (short story)
It was summer in Michigan. Which meant my hair was massive with frizz. It was the 1980’s. Which meant that the frizz could work to my advantage.
The problem was that I was the only girl in a neighborhood of boys. And I was starting to develop.
If you know what I mean.
Just about the only thing to do in our neighborhood was hang out and play catch. We’d toss the baseball from mitt to mitt for hours everyday.
“20 Questions,” Mark said one day. “Who’s first?”
“Benji,” I said.
“Aw, come on. I’m always first,” Benji said.
“Just answer the questions, butt breath,” Alex said. “Question 1. Have you ever broken the law?”
“No.” Benji. “You know that! Ask questions you don’t know already.”
“Question 2,” I said. “Who do you want to marry.”
“Nobody.”
We barraged him with question after question until he got sick of answering questions about poop and girls. It was a most remarkably mature group.
“That’s it. I’m going home.” He dropped his mitt on the ground and kicked it in front of himself all the way out of the back yard.
“Oh, come on, Benji!” Alex. “Don’t be such a sissy!”
We followed him around Mark’s big, two story house. He picked up his mitt and ran across the street to his house.
“You’re being a girl,” I yelled.
We walked slowly toward Benji’s front porch. This was our daily routine. He’d eventually bring out popsicles and everything would be all better.
“Hey, you hear that?” Alex.
The splashing of water sounded from the house right next to Benji’s.
“They’re in the pool,” Mark said. “It’s so hot. I wish they’d let us swim.”
The Dingbats (or at least that’s what we called them) installed a pool four summers before. It was enormous. From end to end, side to side it filled the entire backyard. And it was “in ground”. We’d been sweating to get in that chlorine treated water for all those hot days. But every time we asked for a dip in the pool they’d reject us.
“Can’t let you kids in there. Chemicals are too strong today.” Or, “I just cleaned it. You’d get it dirty.” Or, “Stop coming over here!”
“Let’s go in the tree house,” Mark said.
Benji’s big brothers built that tree house years and years ago. It looked directly over the Dingbat’s pool.
We climbed up the flimsy wooden ladder and peaked out the space in the slats of wood.
“He’s just skimming the leaves out,” I said, watching Mr. Dingbat.
“There aren’t any leaves in there,” Alex.
Benji climbed into the tree, a bag of chips and four cans of cola. “What you guys doing?”
“Thanks for the snacks,” I said.
“Man, sometimes when I watch that jerk cleaning that pool, it makes me so mad. I just want to blow it up.” Mark couldn’t take his eyes off the sparkling water.
“Let’s do it.” Benji shoved a handful of chips into his mouth. “Let’s blow it up. My brother left some old fireworks in his room.”
“Yeah.” Mark. “Let’s do it.”
We concocted an elaborate plan. We’d all wear black, even painting our faces. Our parents wouldn’t even know we were gone after we snuck out our bedroom windows. We’d be back home in our beds before the explosion even happened. We hadn’t considered how to deal with the black make-up we would be wearing.
Not all plans made by 15 year olds are that well thought out.
Benji’s knowledge of explosives startled me. He knew the amount we would need and where they would best be placed. He even had plans for an ignition switch placed in the field behind the Dingbat’s fence. He swore that nothing would be linked to us.
Alex walked me home. He lived a few houses down from me.
“Benji’s not really doing this, is he?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I think he’s just goofing.” Alex.
“But what if he isn’t?”
“Then I guess the Dingbats are going to get it.”
“Are you really showing up there tonight?”
“Yeah. I just wanna see what happens.”
“Me, too.” I smiled. “But I’m not wearing black paint on my face.”
“Me either.”
—
At 1:38 am I climbed out my window, wearing all black.
Alex met me on the sidewalk and we scampered to Benji’s backyard. Mark was there, spreading charcoal on his face.
“Where’s Benji?” I whispered.
“I don’t know. Hasn’t come out yet,” Mark said. “Want some war paint?”
“I’ll pass.”
“We aren’t really doing this, are we?” Alex asked.
“Of course we are,” Mark.
“This is so stupid. Somebody’s gonna find out.” I pulled up the hood of my jacket. “We’re gonna go to juvey.”
“Nah,” Mark said. “Benji has all that covered.
“Since when do we trust Benji?” Alex asked.
We heard a window slide up from the house. Then a thud and a crash. Then curse words. Lights turned on.
“Boy, what the hell’re you doin’?” It was Benji’s father.
“Nothing, dad,” Benji said. His voice was high pitched. “Just opening a window.”
“Don’t you lie to me, boy. What you doin’ with them fire crackers?”
“I don’t know.”
We heard the hand smack Benji’s face.
“Wanna change your answer?”
“No, sir.”
There was another hit.
“What should we do?” I asked.
“Hide. Get in the tree house,” Alex said.
We climbed quietly. All the while we could hear our friend being beaten and yelled at. And the noise of it kept getting louder and louder. So did Benji’s cries for help.
A light flipped on next door. Mr. Dingbat walked out his back door. He looked over the fence, trying to see what the commotion was.
“Hey, psst!” I called to him.
He looked up.
“Up here. You gotta call the cops.”
He nodded his head and went back inside.
—
When the police arrived and carted Benji’s dad away, we climbed out of the tree. We were questioned. What did we see? Hear? Why were we there?
We were each escorted home by a police officer. My parents were livid. I was grounded for two weeks.
The next week Benji was gone. Like so many people from my childhood, he just went away. There were no cell phones or social networks. There wasn’t even email. We made up our own assumptions. Mark thought he’d moved in with one of his TNT loving big brothers. Alex was convinced that Benji was institutionalized. I just thought his mom needed a new place, to start over.
Mr. Dingbat drained the pool, had it filled in with cement. We never knew why. I think that somehow we realized that we had no right to know.
Empty Life (inspired by Relevant Magazine’s article “The Other Victims of Prostitution”)
Man, it’s so dark out here. Driving up and down the track looking for some sweet little thing to pick up, take some place even darker for a fast fling.
It don’t hurt anybody. I wear protection, she gets some spending money. Win, win.
But then I go home feeling even more empty than I did fifteen minutes before. And then I thought I was all dried up. Didn’t think there was a way to feel worse. But there is. There always is.
First time was a year ago. I was out with my buddies, having a good time. We were drunk, I can’t lie about that. My friend was driving and we went past this group of girls. We picked them all up and took them to party in a pay-by-the-hour motel.
Afterward I was so sick. I wanted to die. How could I have done that? But I did. I swore to myself I’d never do that again. But I did do it again. Once a week turned into twice a week. That turned into every other night. Then every night.
I stopped being with my wife. You know what I mean? I couldn’t look at her face knowing what I was doing. Knowing that I was looking for a supplement for her. I just kept telling her I was too tired. That I was working late.
She knew something was up. She kicked me out. Won’t let me see the kids either.
I picked up a girl tonight. She was standing on the corner looking for a “date”. She was cute. I knew she was pretty young, but I can never tell how old. These girls are always trying look older or younger…or whatever. I think they just don’t want to look like themselves.
After we did our thing, she sat on the edge of the bed and put her clothes on. She started crying. I didn’t want to be nice to her. If I’d been kind then I’d have to realize that’s she’s real. She’s a person. I couldn’t live with myself if I thought about that.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Yup,” I said.
I threw the money next to her.
“This was my first.”
“Okay.”
She put the money into the pocket of way too short shorts.
“I’m fifteen.”
“Well, you need a ride back to your corner? Or can you walk?”
“I don’t want to do this.”
“But you do.” I pulled on my boxers and jeans. “If you want a ride, you better just shut up about it.”
I drove her back. She sat in the back seat and kept crying. It was a deep, from the gut cry. I made me angry and shamed and nauseous all at the same time. Her pain reached into whatever was left of my soul and squeezed it, wringing it of any drop of emotion that remained.
“I’m sorry,” I said, stopping the car. “I didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know what?”
I couldn’t think of an answer. I didn’t know she was just a little girl in big girl make-up and clothes? That she’d cry because I’d just paid her for a couple minutes of pleasure? That she’d suffer for the rest of her life for what I’d just done to her? That I was so lonely and empty that all I wanted was to make someone else lonely and empty too?
“I didn’t know it was the first time for you.” It was all I could say.
“Now you know.” She stepped out of the car.
The police station was well-lit. Too bright for my eyes. I felt hung over, but I hadn’t been drinking. The man at the counter looked up at me. I expected a tall desk, like in the movies. This guy was more like a receptionist.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“I want to turn myself in.”
“For what?”
“Man, I don’t know what it’s called. Hiring a prostitute. Many times. Statutory rape. Being a selfish idiot. Whatever. Just arrest me, okay?”
“Son, I think you got something wrong with your head.”
“You’ve gotta put me in jail. If you don’t I’ll do it again. I can’t stop.”
“Alright. I’ll go get the detective.”
I was ushered into an interview room. It was small and damp and smelled like urine. The chair I sat in was stained. I didn’t want to think with what.
A woman walked into the room. She had the fiercest eyes I’d ever seen. This was no cop. No, this was a different thing altogether.
“What your problem, boy?” she said. “You think you come in here and play a joke?”
“No, I…”
“I, I, I. I nothing. You gonna sit there and listen to me a minute. You understand that?”
“Yes.”
“You been picking up girls? Giving them a few bucks so you can rape them?”
“It’s not rape, really.”
“Oh, you think they like what they do? You think they ain’t controlled by no one? No, sir. They got themselves pimps who take every penny they get. And if they don’t make enough that pimp gonna beat them half to death.”
“Well…”
“Shut up.” She moved around the room like a tiger. “You think them girls is safe out there? They are fourteen, fifteen years old. That ain’t a joke. How old are you?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Right.” She shook her head. “And no sense.”
“I can’t stop.”
“You can’t stop? I promise you you can.”
“How can you promise that?”
She stopped pacing, stood with her hands on the table and put her face right in mine. “You ain’t a bad person.”
“I am.”
“No, you ain’t. I got a sixth sense about this stuff. Life on the streets turns a girl, makes her sense things like an animal. And I can tell you ain’t a bad person. There’s still good in you.”
“How do you know?”
“Boy, didn’t I just tell you about that sixth sense? I tell you, you got no idea what this all about.”
“What’s this all about?”
“Life. Death. Misery. Or joy. You got to choose, my friend. You got to pick life or death. Misery or joy.”
“It’s too late.”
“It ain’t never too late. I don’t care if you eighty-something years old, sucking in your last breath. It ain’t never too late.” She stood up straight, pulled the other chair out and plopped on it. “What your name?”
“Jared.”
“Jared, I gotta tell you something. You been hurting those girls. It ain’t no game out there. They ain’t grateful to you for picking them up. You ain’t rocking their world. You’re taking something from them they can’t never get back.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I am, too.” Her eyes were softer now. “I was that girl on the street. Ten years ago. You know how many times I got raped and beat and stabbed? Cause I don’t know. I lost count. And every time I turned a trick, part of me died.”
“I feel like that, too.”
“I know you do. Don’t you want that to stop?”
“Yes.”
“I ain’t supposed to say stuff like this, but you gotta hear it, Jared.” She came closer. “God’s got a plan for your life. He’s had it since the day you were born. And you ain’t fulfilling it picking up little girls for a fifteen minute roll in the hay. You know that.”
I couldn’t answer her.
She wrote on a piece of paper. “Now, this the number of a friend of mine. He’s gonna help you. You better go see him or I’ll be checking in on you till you do.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Jared, we gotta get your soul filled back up. You been dumping it out. Can’t keep living like that, son.”
“I know.”
“You gonna spend the night in the hold. Then tomorrow you call my friend.”
“I will.”
I felt my soul burn within me. I wanted to believe I was choosing life and joy.
I called her friend the next day.
Pawn Shop
I already drove around this block about 10 times. Past the abandoned gas station, the grungy park, the weeping willow. I know what that old tree feels, hanging low like that and looking just sad. Sucking up all the water it can, storing it up for the dry times.
I wish I’d been so wise. Cause I’m stuck in the middle of nothing and it sure is a dry season for me. And I don’t have no clue how to fix it at all.
I got my resolve. Somehow on this tenth lap around the block I knew I need to do it. Just park the car, get out and do what I have to. The velvety box makes a huge lump in my jeans pocket.
The heavy door makes a creaking sound as I swing it open. My feet cause the floor to creak a little. It’s dusty in here. Always been that way. Probably always will. People’s junk line the walls. I know who must this stuff goes with. The box of records is Stubby John’s. The old rocking chair with no seat is from the old Kagger house. That set of aluminum pots belong to my gramma.
All this jumble is only here on account of everything shutting down; the mill, the factory, the old family stores. Ain’t a soul here getting a paycheck. Most too proud to get help from Uncle Sam. So they sell what they got. They can’t do nothing else. So they bring it here. And they get cash to pay for their pills or buy a bag of groceries. Maybe they gotta pay a bill or two. But in two weeks they have to come right on back and sell something else.
“Hey there, Libby Lou!” hollers Jack. He sits watching Mrs. Baxter’s old T.V. behind the cash register. “You come to buy something?”
“Naw,” I answer. “I gotta sell something.”
“Oh. You need some money for that big wedding of yours?”
“Not really.”
I go over and touch the leather saddle resting on a sawhorse. It’s filthy, never got cleaned since Jack get it. But some rich guy’ll come and think it’s a deal. He’ll jew it down to a better price on account of it being so dirty. And Jack’ll be glad to make a few bucks off it.
“What you come here for?” Jack turns the volume down. “What you got for me to buy?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Come on, Libby. You can trust old Jack.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out the box. It thuds on the counter after I toss it over to him.
“I gotta sell that.”
“Naw, Libby.” He reaches over and turns off the T.V. “You gonna need this for the wedding. Ain’t no bride get married without a ring. It ain’t right.”
“Well, who says I’m getting married?”
“What in heaven’s name is going on?” Jack puts his hand on the box. “Ain’t Greg treating you right?”
“He’s gone.”
“Gone? What you mean, girl?”
“Gone. He ain’t here no more. What else could I mean by that.”
Jack is quiet. I can tell he wants to look at that ring, see how big the diamond is. He wants to inspect the gold.
“I don’t want to talk about it. Just tell me how much you’ll give me for that.”
“Alright.”
Jack opens the box and has to squint to see anything. It’s just a cheap piece of junk from the super market. But it’s real gold. And that chip of white is a real diamond. He moves it around, seeing how it shines in the light.
“How much you think you can give me?”
“Why you need to sell this? Don’t you wanna keep it around just in case?”
“In case what?”
“He comes back?”
“He ain’t coming back.” I’m getting mad. I just want to know how much cash I can get. “How much, Jack?”
“I hate to tell you, but it ain’t worth much. What you need money for, Libby? You got troubles?”
“Don’t everybody? Now, how much you gonna give me?”
“Gawl, Libby. You know, it ain’t that much. Probably 30, 40 bucks.”
“What?” I feel my heart go quicker. “That’s bull and you know it.”
“Come on. You know I can’t get much for it. I can’t even be sure I’ll sell it. I’m doing you a favor.”
“But I paid $150 for it.”
“You got ripped off.”
“Bull…”
“Listen, honey.” Jack interrupts.
“Don’t you dare call me ‘honey’.”
We stare each other down. I feel something like daggers coming outta my eyes. He looks like he’s gonna back down. But I can’t be sure. He looks back at the ring.
“Okay.” His voice is gentle. Almost like what a daddy should sound like. I wish I had my daddy back.
“Okay what?”
“Listen. I know you got your heart broke.”
“You don’t know nothing of the kind.”
“Right. I don’t. But I can guess you did. I never seen a girl come in to sell a ring unless she got her heart broke. And every one of ‘em is as mean as you.”
He puts the ring on the counter. It’s not pretty. It’s not the ring I wanted. But it’s the ring Greg gave me. The ring I had to give him the money to buy.
“Here,” Greg had said. “You win. I’ll marry you.”
Almighty. How’d I fall for that stupid man? Why’d I think he’d be a good man for me? I must be the dumbest creature on this earth.
“Fine,” I say to Jack. “I’ll let you have it for $60.”
“I can’t do that much.”
“50?”
“Nope. Not a penny over $44.”
“You rat fink.” I feel a fever in my cheeks. “You think you can buy my life for 44 bucks? You can’t! You can’t have it!”
“Now, calm down, dear.”
“Shut up. You just shut up right now.” I slam my hands on the counter. “You give me that ring back right now.”
“Lib…”
“And I want the box, too.”
He gently puts the ring in the box. “Listen, I didn’t mean nothing by it. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
“That’s fine, Jack. But you ain’t gonna make a fool outta me.” I take the box and shove it back into my pocket. “I ain’t mad at you. I’m just having myself a bad time right now.”
“I can see.”
“I hope you and the family have a nice evening.”
Passing the trash I leave Jack’s pawn shop. I get back into my car and kick up dust driving away. I go as fast as I can. Away from the town, the people, my family. I get away from the house I shared with Greg. I can’t look at none of them again. Not one face or building or street sign.
I gotta start over. Gotta straighten up my back, keep from drooping low. Find a place where I can suck up something from this life. I ain’t got a clue where, I ain’t know how. But I need to start brand new.
Letting Go
It’s this time of year I’m always surprised by the bundles of lilacs that seem to have bloomed overnight. The lavender aroma shocks me with beauty.
They were my sister’s favorite flower.
“This is what heaven will smell like,” she would say, sitting on the porch of our childhood home. “Close your eyes, Ginny. Just smell the air.”
“How do you know?” I’d ask. “You been to heaven?”
“Oh, shut up, you sassafrassy.”
“They are pretty, though, Betty. Let’s cut some for mama.”
We would fill old jelly jars with water and snip lilacs, setting them on the window panes all around the farmhouse. We knew that the bushes would only hold the blooms for a few weeks before they would wilt. Betty couldn’t stand to see them wasted.
Years later, after marriages and kids and divorces, Betty moved into the old house with me. Mama and daddy were gone for a long time by then. My kids were all making families of their own. I was glad to have my sister with me.
“Ginny, I’m sick,” she told me. “I can’t live alone anymore. I need help.”
I set up a room just for her, on the main floor and with plenty of sunlight through the windows. I papered the walls with a lilac print, had lavender carpeting put in. It looked just the way I thought she’d like it. I even transplanted a lilac bush right outside so she could look out at it whenever she desired.
She only lived in that room for three months. After she died I kept the room exactly as she’d left it. I didn’t even have the heart to move her slippers from the foot of the bed.
Every once in awhile I still go and sit in her room. The bed remains unmade from when the mortician came for her body. I try to pull the sheets off the mattress, so I can wash them. But something prevents me. That rumbled bedding and crushed pillow are all I have left of her.
It’s all I have of anyone.
In-home nurses lived with us, around the clock, for the last two months that Betty was here. They fed her, bathed her, looked after her. All I could do was stand and watch. And that last day, it took so long for her to pass.
“It would help her if you told her it was okay,” the nurse told me in the kitchen. “I think she’s holding on for you.”
“Oh, she wouldn’t do that,” I answered. “She isn’t even sure of what’s happening.”
“Well, I don’t know about that. They say that the hearing’s the last thing to go.”
“What do I say, then? Go on and die?” The force in my voice startled me. “I can’t do that. No. I won’t.”
And I didn’t. I just sat and watched her dying. It took hours, longer than I ever imagined. Then finally, it was over. My body was paralyzed in the chair by the window in her room.
Now I sit in the chair again. Sometimes I’ll talk to her. I don’t know if she can hear me. I really wish she could.
“Betty, I’m sorry. I should have let you go,” I say it out loud. “It was selfish of me. I was just scared.”
I look out the window. The lilacs have just started to bloom. I saw the buds a few days ago. The aroma, rich and familiar, follows me through the yard.
“Is it true, Betty?” I ask the empty room. “Does it really smell like that? Because if it does, then you’re in a good place. And if that’s the smell then I can only imagine how great everything else is.”
I stand up, walk across the soft floor. Without meaning to, I kick a slipper with my foot. Something inside me tells me that it’s okay.
“When you came here, I thought we’d have more time. I guess I just wasn’t ready to be alone again. It wasn’t right for me to lose you so early.”
Bending over, I pick up both slippers. A stabbing feeling moves through my stomach. It passes and I’ve survived it.
“But if you’re okay, then I need to be happy for you. And I believe that you’re better now.”
The wind is tossing the lilac blooms ever so slightly on the other side of the window pane. The window moves stubbornly as I push it up and open. I breathe in the fresh air.
“Good-bye, Betty. I’ll always miss you. But I’ll see you again real soon.”
The case slips off the pillow with a smooth movement. It falls in a heap on the floor.
>After the Break (short story)
>We sat in his junky red car drinking slushies. It was still so hot outside even though it had turned to fall and all the leaves were blazing orange. We were parked outside my apartment, the apartment that would be ours after our wedding in four months and six days. He flipped off the radio and turned his body toward me.
“I think we should see other people,” he said. “It’s over.”
I blinked. A couple times. My body went numb.
“You had to have known this was coming,” he said. “I don’t love you.”
“But, we have a date. A church. My dress,” I said. “I’m not letting you go.”
“There’s someone else. You can keep the ring. I don’t care. Sell it or throw it away. Just don’t wear it anymore.”
I spilled the slushie on my leg. Melty purple syrup and water flowed on my jeans. He reached over to catch the cup or brush off the mess.
“Don’t touch me!” I screamed. “Just don’t ever touch me again!”
I swatted at him, smacking sounds from my hands on his face and arms.
“I gave you everything! And now…now you can just push me away?” My voice was low and quavering.
“Just get out of the car,” he said. Cold, hard, iron. “Get out.”
—
“Samantha, you have to get out of bed,” my mom said over the phone. “Life goes on, honey.”
“But I don’t want it to.”
“You have to let it.” Her sigh was loud enough to hear through the receiver. “It’s been two weeks. It’s time to start over.”
“That’s it, huh? Just start over?”
“Yup. That’s life, Sam.”
—
Tearing up his pictures gave me a strange feeling of victory. Burning them was even better.
—
I wept like crazy. Regret set in over destroying the pictures. So much of my life reduced to a cup full of ashes in my grill.
—
He called me. Asked me if I could get lunch with him.
“To talk.”
“No,” I said.
“What? You hate me now?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t your remember anything good from us? We had some good days.”
“I can’t think of a single thing that was good.”
“Not even one?”
“No.”
I hung up. That felt good.
—
He always hated tattoos. Said they looked “trashy”.
I went with a few friends and got a strawberry on my ankle. It was the only one I could afford.
It was the stupidest thing ever. But it was a mark of my freedom.
—
Danced at my friend’s wedding. He was there with a pretty girl on his arm.
I hid in the bathroom for the rest of the reception.
—
“Hey, Sam,” him on my voice mail. “I’m sorry I was such a jerk to you. I kind of miss you. Man, we had some great times. Call me.”
My heart ached in different ways. I never thought that could happen. I still loved him. I was starting to hate him.
—
“Do you love her?” I asked. He slumped in the booth across from me. I finally agreed to meet him.
“I don’t know.” He wore a hat. He never wore those when we were together. He was also wearing cologne. Another new thing for him. “Maybe I do.”
“I can’t believe you.”
“What?”
“One minute you miss me, the next you love her. Make up your mind.”
“I don’t miss you.”
“But on the phone…”
“Don’t go making little accusations.”
“I’m not.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“You’re right.”
We sat. It was so quiet. Our untouched meals went cold we sat there so long.
“I got a tattoo,” I said.
“That’s so stupid. You know how I feel about those.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter anymore does it?”
Walking out of that restaurant, I felt strong. I walked away from what weighed me down.
I no longer needed him. I no longer cared what he said or how he looked at me or who he was with.
I was free.
>Not the end (short story)
>Misty walked among the shelves of books. She was overwhelmed. So many different books. The store was huge.
“Can I help you?” asked the cute, skinny girl behind the customer service counter. Her lips smiled, but not her eyes.
“Um. Yes. I’m looking for a book,” Misty said.
“Right.”
“Well, I guess I don’t know which one, exactly.”
“Okay. Are you looking for fiction or non-fiction?”
“I guess non-fiction. Something about…well…weight loss.”
“Sure.” The girl typed something into a computer. “This way.”
She led her through the rows, more quickly than Misty could move. She eventually caught up, trying to catch her breath without gasping.
“Here’s the weight management books,” the girl said. “Do you need anything else?”
“Yeah. A cookie.”
The girl laughed, put her hand gently on Misty’s shoulder. “You’re too funny. Have a nice day.”
Misty was alone, trying to figure out which celebrity had the best diet plan. No flour. No sugar. No carbs. No meat. No coffee.
Maybe I’ll just have to stop eating all together, she thought.
Her cell phone rang.
“Hello, Heather.”
“Hey, Mom. What are you doing?”
“Oh, nothing.” She took a book off the shelf. On the cover were the bronzed abs of a young woman. “Hey, what do you think of joining a gym with me?”
“I don’t know. It’s kind of expensive.”
“You’re right.”
“So, did you and Dad get things figured out?”
“What do you mean?” The book was full of pictures. Women laying on their backs, elbows pointing at knees in a crunch, faces radiant with smiles.
“You guys were fighting all night.”
“Oh, honey, it was nothing. You know.”
Heather was so quiet on the phone that Misty thought it cut out. “Heather? You still there?”
“Yes.” She sniffled. “I’m here.”
“Are you crying?”
“Maybe.”
“Hon, we’ll get it all worked out. I promise.”
“I heard him talking about that woman.”
“Oh.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know.”
The women in the book were perfect. Perfect legs, abs, boobs, smiles. Misty was not. Legs striped by purple veins. Stomach slack and full from three pregnancies and years of secret eating. Boobs…well…they needed a whole lot more support than they used to. Her smile. What smile?
“Is he going to lose his job?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“Good. I hope he does.”
“Heather.”
“What?”
“This is going to be harder on him than on me.”
“Whatever, Mom.”
“Listen, I have to go. I’ll bring home some burgers and we’ll talk some more.”
“Okay.”
“I love you, Heather.”
“I know.”
Misty hung up the phone.
She realized that she’d lost her husband. To another woman. A woman who was 20 years younger. Who was thinner and prettier and sweeter. That woman dressed and put on make up and did her hair so much better than Misty.
“You’ve really let yourself go,” he’d said the night before. “I just can’t be attracted to you anymore. Lord knows I’ve tried, Misty.”
“Just tell me what I have to do,” she said to him. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Become just like her.”
The memory of his words stabbed her heart all over again.
“You know you can’t be a pastor anymore if you leave me.”
“Don’t threaten me. You’re always doing that.”
“No, I’m not.”
He raged at her. Screamed about her flaws, her mistakes in life, her occasional selfish moments. She hadn’t cried. She just sat there, in shock.
Then he left.
“Have you found what you needed?” the customer service girl asked. “I could recommend one if you’d like.”
“No. But thanks. I think I’m okay.”
“Okay.” The girl lingered. “Hey, I hope this isn’t weird or anything. But, you have the prettiest eyes.”
“Oh, thank you.” Misty lowered her glance.
“I’m serious. You really do. They’re kind eyes.”
Misty smiled. Her heart warmed a small bit.
“You have no idea how I needed to hear that.”
“Well, I hope you have a nice day.”
I won’t, Misty thought. But it’s not the end of the world.
>Oh how I love chocolate!
>(This is a contribution to The Diaper Diaries for her “Things I Love Thursdays”)
Friends, I have an addiction. There are days when it’s all I can think about. My skin crawls without it. I start drooling all over my very unfashionable clothes at the mere mention of it. I love…
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