Fall to Pieces: A story about addiction and love Page 7

  August doesn’t seem aware of her surroundings as she continues at a steady pace toward the corner where Kenny’s is situated.

  The wind of the wooden door blows into my face, closing before I’m near enough to catch the backward swing. The hollow crash echoes as I grab the bronze door handle, pulling the weight against the passing breeze.

  August is getting comfortable at her, now, regular seat, ready to do more damage—or so, I assume.

  It’s early in the day. Kenny’s opened less than an hour ago, and we’re the only two people in here, which leaves me the decision of whether to be pushy and sit down next to her or give her the space she will likely want.

  To be safe, I leave a few seats between us.

  The back bar door that leads into the kitchen swings open, and Annabelle, Bobby’s wife, spins out with a rack of glasses. In her typical bar attire, a black tee, a pink and black plaid shirt tied at the waist, and her dingy blue jeans, she drops the crate down onto the counter and releases a heavy sigh. “Hey, Chancy, what are you doing here so early in the day? It ain’t even lunchtime.” Annabelle sweeps her shoulder-length sun-streaked blonde hair off her shoulders and combs it into a ponytail, wrapping it with a rubber band she pulled from her wrist.

  Annabelle fills in for Bobby sometimes during the afternoon shift, but that’s usually just when he’s sick or has an appointment somewhere. “It’s a long story,” I tell her, making an inconspicuous swift nod toward August, along with a look that can explain just enough for her to get the hint that she’s the reason I’m here. “You know what? I want some lunch. I’ll have the corned beef on rye and a Coke.”

  “You got it, sugar.”

  “Where’s Bobby at?” I ask her.

  “Oh, he wanted to pay his respects to that guy ... what’s his name, Keegan, was it?”

  “Ah, I must have just missed him. That’s where I’m coming from too.”

  “It’s just so sad,” Annabelle continues. I want to make another gesture for her to stop talking about Keegan, but it’ll only make things worse. I shake my head and glance down at the dirt caked under one of my fingernails, but I can still see Annabelle’s stare out of the corner of my eye.

  Chapter Twelve

  August

  Why is it I can’t sulk in private? I didn’t ask for any of this to happen.

  “What can I get you, honey?” The woman behind the bar seems kind enough but busy cleaning the place up, so I have a little hope she won’t give me the third degree like the guy who works here at night. Of course, I still have Mr. Nosey here, watching every move I make. How can he not have anything better to do with his day than follow me around? He should know it’s a waste of his time, not mine.

  “I’ll have a glass of Old Crow, on the rocks,” I tell the bartender.

  “One of those kinds of days, huh?” she asks, grabbing a clean glass from the rack she just carried out.

  “It’s been one of those weeks,” I respond.

  “I hear ya, hon.” Without another question, the woman pours the whiskey over ice and hands me the glass with a cocktail napkin. “Let me know if I can get you anything else. I just got to go grab the other rack of glasses from the kitchen.”

  “Thank you,” I offer.

  “Day drinking gives me a migraine,” Chance says, staring forward at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

  “That’s nice,” I respond.

  “So, Keegan came here almost every day. He enjoyed his whiskey, much like you are, but he had a dark secret no one knew. Keegan was quiet about his personal life but loud about everything else. He was a funny drunk, but he was funny all the time, so no one ever knew when he had too much to drink. No one spoke up about the amount he drank. No one followed him home to make sure he wasn’t driving. No one asked him enough questions.”

  I hate everything he’s saying. I hate that he knew Keegan. I hate that he thinks he knows me. I hate that he doesn’t care how hard he pushes my buttons. I hate that he won’t just go away.

  “Jesus, stop. What’s with you? Are you trying to make this harder for me?”

  “No,” he responds.

  “Okay, so what is it then?”

  “What do you see when you look at me?”

  I take a second to study him, not because I haven’t already taken a look, but because I wonder if I’m missing something.

  He has all four limbs, no visible scars. His eyes are green but olive-green with a hint of gold. His coppery colored crew-cut hair matches the wild freckles on his face, offsetting the square jaw that gives him a hardened look. He looks like he works with his hands for a living, and judging by the barrel-chested athletic appearance; I would say it’s most likely hard labor. The mild sunburn on his cheeks tells me he probably does this work outside. I don’t know whether I’m right, but that’s what I see when I look at him.

  “A creep,” I respond.

  He purses his lips and nods his head. “Fair enough, but maybe you could look a little harder, darlin’.”

  “What exactly am I looking for?” I could point out the dirt beneath his fingernails and the fact that the look doesn’t go well with a three-piece blue suit that he chose to wear to a funeral. I could also tell him most people choose to wear black to a funeral, but those are minor details I can safely assume he wasn’t waiting for me to notice.

  “Who am I?” he continues.

  “Your name is Chance. Chance, I don’t know.”

  “Chance Miller,” he corrects me. “I wasn’t asking about my name.”

  I lift the glass of whiskey to my lips, taking a break from the twenty questions I believe he is trying to use to distract me from my misery.

  “Okay, then what am I looking at, Chance Miller?”

  “Pre-existing damage, the damage that formed scar tissue stronger than anything else in my body. Damage that would protect me from ever experiencing anything worse.”

  “Fall off your bike when you were five?” I ask. I smirk to remove a little bit of the jerk appeal. This conversation is getting more serious than I’m in the mood for—not that I’m in the mood for any type of discussion, but I lost power over that when I got into his truck.

  “Sure, darlin’. It hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.”

  “I figured, but at least now you know nothing will ever hurt you as much as falling off that bike, right?”

  The bartender places his food down in front of him, and I wave her over. “Could I have another, please?”

  Without assumption or accusation in her eyes, she fills my drink and moves on. I guess this is the time of day to hang out in this place. I wonder if she served Keegan drinks at this hour.

  Since Chance looks like he might need a few minutes to polish off his lunch, I take advantage of the opportunity, finishing the drink with a few big gulps and reaching into my clutch for the money I had folded up and shoved to the bottom. I place the cash beneath a cardboard coaster and step down from my stool. “Thank you for the ride.”

  Chance’s mouth is full as I walk by, but he swallows the food before I reach the door. “Where are you going?”

  I tilt my head to the side, wondering why he would be asking me such a personal question. “I don’t believe that is any of your business, Chance Miller.”

  He looks irritated or frustrated by how his eyebrows arch then deflate as I take another step backward. “Look, answer me this,” he says before taking a swig of his soda. “Are you in trouble?”

  “I’m not as dumb as Keegan,” I say, walking out the door. What the hell? What kind of nerve does he have, asking me that question, today of all days?

  When the door to the bar closes, a sense of relief overwhelms me. I need to be alone, able to swallow my thoughts and drown the hatred I feel inside.

  I pull the four-inch heels off my feet and walk down the paved sidewalk without caring what anyone thinks of my barefoot look. My feet are killing me. The sharp gravel against the bottom of my feet hurt less than the shoes. In any case, everything is numb in
comparison to the thoughts firing through my head.

  I find the small bike path set off this road has a cobblestone inlet that overlooks the water, knowing it should be quiet this time of day.

  As I expected, the masses of people I might typically expect here are at work or doing whatever another normal thing they would be doing on a workday after lunchtime. I drop my shoes against the stone ledge and sit down, swinging my feet around the front to dangle over the calm water.

  I close my eyes for a long moment and lower the slim strap on my clutch down to my wrist. The flask slips out easily. I twist off the cover and pour the remaining contents into my mouth. I don’t have much left, but there wouldn’t be anything left if Chance hadn’t interrupted me earlier.

  “Every chance you got to be alone, the bottle was in your mouth,” I say out loud. “You never quit. You never had any intention of quitting. You wasted us, our life, me.” I replace the top of the flask and place it down beside me. “This doesn’t feel good … being drunk all the time. My pain is still here. My anger is louder than ever, and I still can’t forgive you.”

  After a quick glimpse at my watch, I already know where my next stop is on this beautiful day off.

  Every weekday between two and three o’clock on Blue Corn Avenue, in the basement of Church Andrews, Keegan would join others in his situation. I’ve never been inside of that church, but I have sat outside many times, searching for Keegan’s truck, making sure it was where it was supposed to be. This is what a caretaker does.

  My feet are throbbing with pain as I approach the arched red doors. I wasn’t planning to do so much walking today. I would have worn my flats if I had. Chance messed up my plans.

  I wrap my hand around the golden handle of the door and use most of my strength to pull against the heaviness. The church unfurls before me, reminding me of my irreverent behavior when it comes to religion. I don’t remember the last time I’ve attended Sunday morning mass or any ceremony in a church, for that matter. Mom and Dad didn’t raise me as a strict Christian, but I went to classes for a couple of years and made visits to church on holidays. Once I went to college, those days fell behind me.

  The scents of old wood, dusty books, and floor cleaner fill the air. The pews are empty, leaving me to focus on the altar in front of the glowing glass-stained windows, portraying history in the form of art.

  A soft sound of mutters steers my attention to the right, where a door is propped open by a wooden wedge.

  Red carpeting lines the stairwell between the old white walls, and the chocolate-brown wooden railing is loose, worn, and beaten. The musty smell in the stairwell morphs into an aroma of coffee and sweets. Just like Keegan said—the coffee and doughnuts are often more of a reason to come than the company involved. In any case, I was glad he went.

  Not that it ended up helping him.

  About a dozen people are chatting in small groups within the wide-open space. The only separation in the room is the exposed chestnut-wooden beams, situated every ten feet or so. A few people are crowding around the pastries and coffee, a couple of people are in the seats located in the center in the formed circle, and the others are in private conversations in two of the room’s corners.

  If I were here for help, I might feel overwhelmed and leave before anyone sees me. I’d have changed my mind by now.

  “Welcome,” a soft voice greets me from the opposite side in which I was facing.

  I turn and find a meek-looking woman with shoulder-length chocolate-brown hair fluffed out to the sides, uneven bangs that curl up above her eyebrows, and a patient smile to go along with a set of tired dark eyes. She must be the head sponsor. I’ve always wondered if the sponsors volunteer or if they’re sponsors because they’ve been sober longer than everyone else.

  “Hi, I’m—ah, new here,” I tell the woman.

  “That’s wonderful,” she says, switching the styrofoam cup of coffee from her right hand to her left. She reaches out to shake my hand. “I’m Alana.”

  “I’m—” I think for a moment. Do I want to use my real name? I don’t technically belong here, nor do I want anyone to know who I am. “I’m April.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, April.” Her voice is calming, inviting, like something I would hear on one of the meditation videos I sometimes listen to at night. “Please, come join us and have a seat.”

  I thought the introduction to AA would have been a lot worse. I had envisioned a swarm of hugs and vows of understanding, but it isn’t like that. It’s comfortable.

  I take the seat, four spots away from where I assume Alana’s chair will be since there is a clipboard beneath.

  Now that there are four of us in seats, the others seem to notice and claim the remaining spots around the circle.

  “Welcome, everyone,” Alana speaks out. Her tone remains even, but there’s a slight increase in her volume. “I’m glad you could all make it today. Who would like to start us off with something they might like to share?”

  A man sitting directly across from me with an untidy beard, matching dark moppy hair, and thick lines on his forehead, raises his finger. He’s leaning forward with his elbows pressed into his knees and a cup of coffee in his left hand. “I’ll start,” he says. “I’m Albert, and I’ve been sober for two weeks, and it’s just getting harder and harder. My daughter had a cup of apple juice in her hand yesterday, but all I saw was beer. I told myself I needed to try it to make sure she didn’t mistakenly have a beer in her cup. When I tasted the apple juice, I had a moment of realization: I’ve lost my damn mind.”

  A couple of snickers and friendly agreeable sounds make their way around the circle. The social worker in my head would like to ask him if he was apprehensive about his daughter drinking beer or if he was trying to satiate his desire by convincing himself it was beer.

  “I’m Toni,” the woman beside Albert speaks up. “I’ve been sober for two months, and I have a newfound love for running. I have more energy than I ever remember having, and it’s been amazing. However, I cried myself to sleep last night because one of my best friends had a bachelorette party, and it was at my favorite bar. I couldn’t risk the temptation and had to miss out.”

  Alana places her hands in a praying pose against her chest. “Unfortunately, social situations will continue to be a struggle for us all, but rest assured, it will get easier after time, and you’ll be surprised to see how many friends support you by altering their plans to accommodate your lifestyle..”

  I wonder what Keegan said while he was here. I wonder if he was honest about how he took advantage of my love or the fact that I was more than accommodating to his lifestyle and never drank or asked to meet my friends at a bar. I lived that life with him—for him.

  I can’t do this.

  I stand up from my seat and look around the circle. “I’m sorry. I don’t belong here. I’m not ready to become sober yet but thank you for your time. I wish you all well.”

  No one interjected, which surprises me. I’m free to leave and walk out of the room without feeling like eyes are burning into my backside.

  When I reach the street level and push open the door, a hand rests on my shoulder and scares the ever-living crap out of me. “Holy—”

  “Ooh,” I hear.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, turning around.

  It’s Alana. “Take my number. Call me if you need help. I’m here. I’ve been where you are.” Alana hands me a business card with just her name and phone number. I take the card out from between her fingers and slip it into the side pocket of my clutch.

  No, Alana. No, I’m sure you have not been where I am, but someone you love probably has been.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chance

  “Do you know who that woman was?” Annabelle asks as I dab my fingers to my plate, collecting the last few crumbs from my sandwich.

  “Sure do,” I tell her, being vague.

  “And?” she presses. “I’ve never seen her around here before—she doesn’t
strike me as the type to be at this bar.”

  “That there,” I point to the door, “was Keegan Power’s girlfriend—a girlfriend no one knew a thing about.”

  “He had a girlfriend?” Annabelle questions. “Then again, none of us knew he was suicidal either.”

  “That was my first reaction too.” I don’t know August well enough to make assumptions about what kind of relationship she had with Keegan, but I must assume by her obvious pain that she was more committed to him than he was to her. “Poor girl,” Annabelle comments. “I can’t imagine picking up the pieces from something like that. Honestly, I only met Keegan a handful of times, but I wouldn’t have pegged him as a troubled man. He hid it well.”

  This gnawing feeling in my gut won’t give in. Forgetting about Keegan for a minute, August is like a puzzle I want to solve, but there are so many missing pieces, and I don’t know if anyone would be able to find them all. I understand heartache. I know what it looks like, but what she’s going through … is way more. “How do you know her?” Annabelle asks. “Keegan’s girlfriend.”

  “She’s been visiting this bar for the last week, trying her best to drink as much as she can withstand. We were wondering what her deal was. Now, I think I know.”

  “Hmm, Luke didn’t mention her.”

  “You know how Luke is,” I tell her. “This is a job, and he does what he has to here, then heads on home to his real life.”

  “I guess, but he shouldn’t be serving her with the condition she’s in,” Annabelle adds in.

  “He can’t deny her, either ... I don’t think. He can’t put his foot down because she isn’t a typical drunk.”

  “She might need help,” Annabelle continues.

  “Every man in this bar, including myself, might need help, Annabelle. And, this is why you work the early day shift,” I remind her. “You wouldn’t make a good salesperson, you know.”

  “Shut it, Chance Miller.”

  I frisbee a coaster at her just as the bar door opens. The clattering of the bells echoes loudly inside the empty bar. For a split second, I hope and wrongly assume August might have come back.