Fall to Pieces: A story about addiction and love Page 8

  It’s Luke, in a suit and tie, like me. “Thanks, baby,” he calls over to Annabelle, flipping on the “open” sign in the front door.

  “I forgot the light again,” Annabelle tells him.

  “Chance is the only guy who would be here now anyway,” Luke says, whacking my head with the back of his hand as he passes by.

  “That’s not always the case,” Annabelle corrects him. “Anyway, I have to get down to the school. I’m supposed to be volunteering in Ginny’s classroom at two.”

  “Go on then. I got it. I just need to change out of this monkey suit.”

  Annabelle peels her apron off and places it on a hook near the kitchen door. “Hey, Luke, how was the funeral?” she asks.

  Luke peers around the corner, unbuttoning his white collared shirt. “It was bizarre.” He disappears behind the wall again. “Chance, I thought you were coming to the funeral too. What happened to you?”

  “I was there for a bit.”

  “Hmm, didn’t see you,” Luke says, turning back around the corner with his usual plain black tee shirt.

  “So, there’s some strange stuff going on in that family. I overheard a few people talking, and it was all about Keegan’s girlfriend, who apparently drove him to his suicide.”

  My heart drops into the bottom of my gut. What could this woman have been doing to her boyfriend to cause him to take his own life? He was the one who never mentioned her. I suppose there could have been a reason for that, but still—nothing is adding up.

  “That sounds kind of rough to assume ... for anyone to assume, really,” Annabelle says. “Unless, maybe he left a note.”

  “Well, this one woman who was there—she might have been Keegan’s mom or something, she was passionate about her hatred for his girlfriend. She said Keegan was an upstanding man, provided for himself and his girlfriend. He was in love with her and would do anything to show her, but nothing was ever good enough. She sounds like a real piece of work. I mean, I didn’t see any young women at the funeral, so I’m not sure if she was even there. Who does that?”

  “Hmm,” I pipe in. “Sounds odd.”

  “Not really. I guess they had been together since high school, so she was always the pact leader, taking him for a ride. He got sick of it and couldn’t find a way out after being with the same woman for so long.”

  I find myself shaking my head with disbelief. I don’t know August enough to agree or disagree with what I’m hearing, but I don’t want to believe it. Plus, that woman in the parking lot seemed like she had a vendetta against August.

  “His girlfriend could have been there, and you just didn’t see her,” I suggest.

  “Nah, the same woman said she ran away before stepping foot toward the coffin. They were saying she didn’t want to see what she caused.”

  Anger is rising within me, and I don’t have a good reason to feel this way. I guess they could be right, but if they’re not, they’re pushing August down a lonely road.

  “Well, as it turns out, you can be the judge of who Keegan’s girlfriend truly is,” Annabelle says.

  There is silence for a long moment, then Luke turns the corner, changed out of his black suit pants, now seeming content in his faded, worn jeans. “What are you blabbing about out here? How would I know her?”

  “She’s the chick who has been drinking up all your whiskey every night,” I mutter, taking another sip of my soda. I grab a napkin, run it along my face, and toss it down to the counter in a crumpled ball. “Look, we shouldn’t be making assumptions. She could be a nice woman, and everyone has her pegged wrong.”

  Luke shuffles his hand through his hair, loosening the slicked down strands. “Dude, no one said she was a psycho nut who forced her man to kill himself. Chill.”

  “I know, I’m just saying. We shouldn’t assume.” Annabelle’s lips curl into a smirk as she wipes down the bar top.

  I thought she was leaving.

  “Oh man, oh man,” Luke says with a grin.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You’re smitten with this girl.”

  “Okay, enough,” I tell them, pushing my stool out from the bar. The scrape from the chair’s legs moans against the uneven wooden floor. “Let’s have some respect. She just lost her boyfriend of however many years. I feel bad for her. I’m not in love with her. Hell, I don’t know anything about her.”

  “But you think she’s pretty,” Annabelle adds in.

  “How do you two go from talking about how this girl could have been the cause of her boyfriend’s suicide to me being in love with her? First, I’ve known her less than a week, and don’t you think I’d want to find out the truth before falling in love with someone tied to a rumor like we’re hearing?”

  “Well, someone is on the defensive,” Luke says, pushing my buttons.

  “All you have seen me do is offer help to a woman who looks troubled. If that’s too much for you to chew on, well then, so be it.”

  “Chancey, relax. We’re just busting your balls,” Annabelle says. “Take a deep breath.”

  “You two are one of a kind. You know that?”

  “Now, don’t go calling me an ugly old fart,” Annabelle jokes.

  “You’re both ugly old farts. Have a great rest of your day.”

  “You too,” Luke calls after me as I walk out the door.

  There’s no way August can be the person everyone is making her out to be. Although, someone like that would probably feel the need to drink her troubles away. I just didn’t see that type of anger in her eyes. It was a different kind of rage—irritation caused by pain.

  Chapter Fourteen

  August

  The first feeling I have upon opening my eyes this morning isn't regret. It's just a question. How? "Keegan, how did you get from point A to point B without wondering what you were doing to yourself?"

  No answer, as usual. There is never an answer.

  Once again, my head is throbbing, my stomach feels hollow, my throat is dry, my tongue is like a piece of sandpaper, and I have to go to work.

  Keegan was a landscaper. He had about twenty customers and tended to two or three a day. His income was sub-par, and his working hours were usually over by noon. Once upon a time, he wanted to open a restaurant, move us down to the Caribbean, and have what he referred to as "the best life." I was on board. I supported Keegan's dreams, desires, and goals. I did so until his problem grew to be bigger than his dreams.

  After graduating from high school, he had trouble holding onto jobs, couldn't stick to the hospitality classes he was taking in college, and eventually decided landscaping would be his big break in life. It was a slow, degenerative progression of his disabling lifestyle. I still stuck by his side, working twice as hard to make the income of two people. I cooked, cleaned, and tended to him as if he was a child.

  He never did thank me. Instead, he gave his love and attention to a bottle.

  After splashing cold water on my face, I glance into the mirror, noticing the bloodshot appearance within my tired eyes. My complexion is pale, making my hair look darker since it frames my face. Someone might think I look sick.

  Maybe I am.

  My morning routine feels as though it takes a bit longer than usual, but I'm moving at a sluggish pace, dragging my heavy feet as I mentally check off tasks in my head.

  The first thing I made sure to do was refill my flask. I'm sure that's what Keegan would have done before leaving in the morning.

  I'm halfway across town when I realize I forgot to change out of my blue fuzzy-slippers.

  There's no way I can go into work like this. It's unprofessional, and I have two parent meetings today.

  I pull a u-turn on the quiet street I'm driving on but hear a blaring horn as I do so. My gaze catches in the rearview mirror, noticing a sedan stopped crookedly behind me.

  Yikes. I hold my hand up, hoping to offer a gesture of apology.

  With more pressure on the gas, I take off back toward the apartment, needing to make up for the
lost time. I'm driving faster but no more than ten miles over the speed limit. At this time of day, a little extra speed is necessary as everyone tries to race to work.

  I shove the parking gear into place as soon as the squeal of my brakes hum. Then, I run up the stairs through the front doors, up to the next set of stairs, and pull myself along the railing for extra support. By the time I reach my front door, I'm struggling to catch my breath.

  I must be out of shape.

  It takes just a minute or two to locate my work shoes, switch them out for my slippers, and pull the front door closed behind me.

  With a death grip on the stairwell railing, I take the steps as quickly as my heels will allow. When I reach the Jeep, I pat myself down, searching for the keys, coming up empty-handed. Where did I leave those?

  I spin around, looking up at the apartment building's front entrance, feeling a little dazed and lost. Then, I glance into the Jeep to see if they're still inside. They are.

  I never leave my keys inside the Jeep.

  My arrival time at work is thirty minutes later than it should be. The house manager is pacing when I arrive, which has me wondering if there's a problem.

  I'm not up for handling any issues at the moment. My head is pounding.

  "Where have you been?" Leena asks, glancing down at her old-school brown-banded watch. "It's nine-thirty."

  "I'm so sorry, Leena. I forgot something at home and didn't realize until I was halfway there."

  "I see," she says with a frustrated sigh like she doesn't have time for this conversation we're having. "We have a situation that I need your help with."

  "Sure, let me just put my stuff down in my office, and I'll be right there to help."

  Screams from upstairs alert everyone in the house that there is a problem. The cry doesn't sound familiar, but it is ripping through my head like a knife.

  I drop my things and rush toward the staircase that leads up to the second floor, hearing the screams grow louder.

  What in the world is going on?

  As I make it upstairs, I follow the sounds through the hallway with small bedrooms attached. The floor creaks, moaning and whining about its old age, in case I didn't already know. I notice the golden chevron wallpaper is peeling outside of the bathroom, probably from the showers' steam. Then I reach the last room, Willa's room. The small space that fits a dresser and a twin size bed contains a screaming thirteen-year-old child.

  The site appalls me, steals my unsteady breath. Willa has pulled out chunks of her hair, thick, dark blonde waves, leaving bald, bloody spots in its place.

  Willa never speaks, just internalizes her pain.

  Keegan never spoke of his pain. He just drank it away.

  I'm not sure which is worse.

  "Hey," I call out, trying to keep my voice calm, soothing, lacking worry and concern. "What's going on?"

  She releases a growl and yanks at more hair. "Willa, let's take a deep breath," I tell her.

  Her eyes are full of anger but seem empty at the same time as if she is watching a horrible nightmare play out on the other side of the wall that separates us from the hallway.

  Her body convulses, and I wish so badly I could just give her a tight hug. People need hugs when they're upset. It's a scientific fact.

  "What happened?" I ask without hope of a response since she has been here six months and has yet to answer any question.

  "A nightmare," she says through an exhale. I haven't heard her voice before now. She sounds older than she is and foreign. Though, I know she was born and raised outside of Austin.

  "Okay," I tell her. "I hate nightmares. They feel so real sometimes."

  "He was back," she says.

  I nod my head, letting her words sink in for a moment. The records we have about Willa mention physical abuse and assault from her step-father. Her house was a hub for drug trafficking, and both her mother and step-father are now in prison.

  Willa and I sit through therapy every week, but the session consists of me talking and working through whatever internal battles she is enduring. I'm not so sure I've been helping, though.

  "He's in prison, Willa."

  She jerks her head up and down with understanding. "It was real," she mutters.

  "I know, but it's not anymore."

  She shakes her head again, then runs the tips of her fingers through her hair. "It hurts, but not as much."

  There are days this job takes an emotional toll on me. Today will be one of them. "Leena will be up in a minute to take a look at your head, okay? After she cleans you up, I want you to take a shower and come downstairs to my office so we can chat. I'll even make you hot cocoa, okay?"

  "Yes," she says, nodding her head in agreement.

  Each step I take, back down to the first floor, leaves me with a wave of nausea. I'm probably hungry and dehydrated.

  With one foot in my office, I find Leena right behind me, closing us inside. "What in the world has gotten into you?" she asks.

  I do my best to appear confused. "What do you mean?"

  "First off, you smell like alcohol. We can't have that here."

  I didn't have time to take a shower this morning.

  "Second, you look like you're sick."

  I called that one.

  "Third, you need to take care of yourself before you can take care of troubled children. Consider this a warning, August. I can't have you here like this again. Do you understand?"

  This is why Keegan couldn't keep a job.

  "I'm getting better, Leena. In fact, I have an appointment with my therapist at lunchtime today."

  "I'm glad to hear that, August, but really, I need you to be on the mend, and you seem to be going down a rough hill."

  "I'm fine," I try to assure her.

  "You're going to need to prove that to me."

  "I will."

  "Not today. I've canceled your appointments. I need you to go home, shower, and do what you need to do to freshen yourself up. I can't have you here smelling like you just crawled out of a bar."

  "You canceled my appointments?"

  Leena is a very straightforward kind of person. She doesn't say things to get a rise out of people. She has obligations and fulfills them, doing what she must.

  "Go home, August." Her tone is blunt, and her words are direct. Unlike my emotions, which are unforgiving as tears stream down my cheeks. I never cry.

  "I'm sorry," I offer.

  "As am I. Go take care of yourself, please."

  Feeling ashamed of my actions, I collect my belongings and quietly head for the door, hoping to avoid a scene.

  While pulling out of the driveway, I remember telling Willa to meet me downstairs after her shower, and yet, here I am, going home. I'm letting her down but without a choice.

  Keegan always let me down, by choice.

  Maybe letting Willa down was my choice. The line is becoming blurry.

  Emily Packerton, Psychologist, DMFT (Doctor of Marriage and Family Therapy)—the nameplate has never changed in the four years I’ve been coming through but today is the first time I'm walking through this door alone. We needed counseling before we even discussed marriage. If Keegan and I hadn't been together since high school, I would have seen the red flags. Couples should not be in counseling unless they are trying to work through a committed relationship.

  I read the book, "He's Just Not That Into You," but it wasn't clear in my case. I'm not sure if Keegan was not devoted enough or if it was the alcohol taking on a life of its own and swaying his attention away from me. When he went through his sober times, he was all about me. Keegan loved me and showed it. It was like he had two personalities.

  Dr. Packerton runs her practice alone, so the office space is small and intimate. The waiting room can seat four people at max, and her office is about the same size.

  The walls are a soothing blue, perfectly trimmed with white finishes. A vase of yellow daffodils sits perfectly in the center of the dark-oak coffee-table, but the room smells more o
f lilac. It must be an air freshener. And there's soft meditative music, sounding like Mayan wind instruments, harmonizing with each other, to relax anyone sitting between these four walls. Unfortunately for me, the music isn't working.

  Dr. Pakerton's door opens with a quiet swift movement. I wouldn't have known she was standing in the doorway if I was facing the other way. She seems happy to see me, but I can only imagine the thoughts running through her head. Keegan isn't here. I haven't called to tell her what happened, but part of me assumes she may have found out from a different source, considering she has been treating us, and he committed suicide.

  Dressed in charcoal tapered slacks, white stockings, and flower-decorated flats, she pushes the sleeves of her simple white blouse up a few inches to the center of her forearms as if she's about to dig into a load of crap. "Come on in, August." Her voice is soothing, a perfect match for the room's vibe, but even a soft hum is like the hammering of a nail inside my head.

  I take a seat on the pastel blue couch, accessorized with pale orange throw pillows adorned with various coordinating patterns.

  "Before we get started, I'd like to say how very sorry I am for Keegan's passing. I can only imagine what you must be going through right now."

  How can she imagine? Has she lost a boyfriend of thirteen years to suicide? Probably not. "How did you find out?"

  "I received his medical records since he was a patient of mine."

  "Oh," I respond.

  "August, do you want to tell me how you're feeling?"

  I am inconsolably sad. What does Dr. Pakerton think I'm feeling? Besides, didn't she just say she can assume how I'm doing? If she can, why is she asking? "Horrible, but relieved."

  Her eyes do that thing where she wants to show a human reaction to my response, but at the same time, needs to remain professional without judgment. "I see. Why do you think you're relieved?"

  I feel the need to smirk because it seems obvious to me, yet I should be sitting here crying my eyes out, according to everyone else. "I was Keegan's water well, Dr. Pakerton. He drained me until there was nothing left. Then, he died of thirst. I knew something was going to happen. It was only a matter of time. It was a waiting game, and there was no winner."