By the time the summer of Charlie’s fifth birthday rolled around, I decided I was done drinking. The fact that I limited myself to two glasses a day—and even managed to go a few days at a time not drinking at all—didn’t matter. Two weeks before the party I went cold turkey, suffering through a four-day, intense, and debilitating headache, fighting off my craving to drink with a constant stream of Gatorade. After the fifth day, I actually felt a little like my old self and was proud of my abstinence. If I had a real problem, I wouldn’t be able to stop, I thought. I have this thing completely back under control.
Still, my muscles ached and occasionally trembled, and my energy level was low enough for me to worry I had contracted some kind of silent but terminal disease. Maybe chronic fatigue syndrome. Or fibromyalgia. I chose to have the party at a nearby park so I wouldn’t have to clean my house or worry about the guests’ possible scrutiny of the wine stains on the kitchen counter or the piles of laundry I couldn’t quite convince myself to fold.
“Can we have Cheetos at my party?” Charlie asked when I took him shopping with me for supplies the day before it was scheduled to take place.
“Sure,” I agreed. “It’s your birthday, why not?” I deliberately kept my eyes averted from the wine aisle. I wouldn’t even walk down it. See how strong I am?
The morning of the party arrived on a hot Saturday in August. I filled an ice chest with pinwheel ham and cheese tortilla sandwiches, grapes, and juice boxes, then carefully packed the chocolate cake I’d made the night before. I almost gave in and bought a sheet cake from the store, but I knew Charlie would be disappointed if I didn’t bake his favorite “dirt” cake, complete with cookie crumbles and a mountain of gummy worms.
When we arrived, Jess and Derek were already there, chasing the twins on the toddler jungle gym. Charlie raced over to join his cousins and my sister came over to hug me. “I feel like it has been forever since I’ve seen you,” she said, pulling back to look at me. Worry knit itself across the lines of her forehead. “Are you okay? You look tired.”
“I haven’t been feeling very well,” I said, pushing my hair away from my face, happy I’d taken the time to put on some makeup. I wore a lightweight, sage-color princess-waist sundress and black flip-flops. I forced a bright smile at Jess. “It’s just stress, I think. Can you help me set up?”
We spread out the plastic Spider-Man tablecloth and arranged a stack of plates, juice boxes, and the gigantic bag of Cheetos. The rest of the guests trickled in, with the exception of my mother, who had called to let me know she’d be a little late.
Susanne came over to help us set up the table while Brittany and Renee went off to monitor the kids on the play equipment. She gave me a quick hug. “Good to see you, hon.”
“You, too,” I said. She had come to the party with Anya, but not Brad. After the one night we’d talked about their marriage, she hadn’t brought it up again, so I figured it was something she didn’t want to discuss. I introduced her to Jess, who looked over my shoulder as I was explaining how Susanne and I knew each other from Mommy and Me.
“Oh, shit,” Jess muttered underneath her breath.
“What?” I asked, spinning around to look where she was looking. Martin was holding a woman’s hand, and the woman wasn’t his mother.
“Did you know he was bringing her?” Jess asked.
I shook my head, and my heartbeat rose up into my throat. It was Martin’s new girlfriend, Shelley. It had to be. He began dating her a few months ago, and Charlie told me that she was always at Martin’s house when he visited for the weekend. “She’s nice,” Charlie said. “She buys me candy.”
Bribery, I thought. How lovely.
I hadn’t said anything to Martin at the time, knowing he was well within his rights to date whomever he pleased, but this—bringing her to his son’s birthday party without telling me first? My stomach suddenly snarled itself into thorny knots.
“I’m going to talk with him,” Susanne said, making like she was about to give Martin a piece of her mind. “What a jerk.”
I grabbed her arm and held her back. “No,” I said. “I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. It’s no big deal. I’ll be fine.”
Susanne looked like she didn’t quite believe me.
Jess looked doubtful, too. “Are you sure?”
I swallowed, suddenly very thirsty. “Yes.” I pasted on my best and brightest smile as they approached. It was only a problem if I let it become one. I could do this. “Hello!” I said in my finest singsong voice. “How are y’all?”
Martin eyed me warily. He knew I expressed false hospitality with a bad southern accent. “We’re fine. This is Shelley,” he said, gesturing to the very thin, very blond woman standing next to him. “Shelley, this is Cadence.”
“Nice to finally meet you,” Shelley said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
I shook Shelley’s hand and gave her a tight, closed-lipped smile, taking a moment to try to see what it was about her that attracted Martin. She wasn’t exceptionally pretty—more like the surfer girl next door with expensive sandals, a spray-on tan, and slightly bucked teeth. She wore tiny jean shorts and a tight hot pink tank top that would have been better suited for one of Charlie’s five-year-old female friends. I had her beat in the breast department, though. She could have worn one of my bra cups as a bonnet.
“Shelley!” Charlie cried out. He ran across the bright green lawn and threw himself against her legs. Seeing him show her such affection, my stomach twisted even further. For a moment, I feared I might vomit.
“It’s my birthday!” he told her.
“I know,” she said. “I bought you a really great present.”
“Can I open them now, Mommy?” Charlie asked, pulling away from Shelley to give his father a hug.
“No, honey. We’ll wait until after cake, okay?” My molars were grinding as I spoke, and I could feel my heartbeat in my throat.
“Okay!” he said, and he raced back to play with his cousins and friends.
My mother chose this moment to arrive, and upon seeing Martin holding Shelley’s hand as she approached the group, she lifted her nose just the slightest bit and said, “I thought this was a family party.”
I loved her in that moment, and gave her a brief, grateful smile. “No, Charlie has a couple of friends from preschool here, too. They’re all over on the climbing toys.” I raised my hand and waved at Brittany and Renee, who were sitting on a bench watching the kids play.
“Hello, Sharon,” Alice said to my mother. “How have you been?”
“I’m well, thank you,” my mom answered, deliberately not making eye contact with Martin’s mother. Her behavior may have been impolite, but I appreciated it nonetheless. “Do you need any help with anything, Cadence?” she asked me.
I shook my head. “I think we’re all set. We can eat whenever the kids are ready.” I turned to pull the cake out of the box I’d packed it in and Martin stepped over to help me.
“I meant to call and let you know she was coming,” he said quietly. I felt his fingers brush against mine as we both held the cake platter and I pulled away like I’d been burned. The cake wobbled, and he set it on the table.
“Let me know who was coming?” I asked brightly.
“Cadence.” His face told me he saw right through my feigned indifference. “Come on.”
I gave him a huge, toothy smile. “Oh, you must mean Shelley. She seems very nice.” My heart shook in my chest. “Can you excuse me for a minute?” I asked. “I need to get something from my car.”
His blue eyes narrowed and he frowned. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said brightly. I walked briskly toward the parking lot, almost breaking into a run as soon as I saw my navy blue Explorer. I jumped into the safety of my vehicle and gripped the steering wheel to keep from shaking. I took a few deep, shuddering breaths, trying not to cry. Images from the last ten minutes rushed over me—seeing Martin holding Shelley’s hand; Alice’s cold, hard stare; the moment my son wrapped his arms around that woman’s legs. My chest ached.
A sharp rap at my window startled me. Susanne came around the car and hopped in the passenger seat. “So much for you’ll be fine, huh?” she said. She reached into her purse, pulled out a lovely silver flask, and held it out for me. My pulse sped up at the sight of it.
I stared at it, every thought in my head telling me, No, don’t do it, you’ve been doing so well, and still, my hand reached out.
In that moment, I couldn’t think of a woman who wouldn’t do the same thing if something like this had happened to her.
Over the next couple of months, I once again attempted to keep a two-glass-a-day limit, but occasionally awoke to discover an empty bottle or two by my bed. My gut ached with shame. Why can’t I stop this? What is wrong with me? I had to do something to figure it out.
In October, I finally went to my doctor for my yearly checkup, planning to talk with her about my insomnia, but not about how I’d been dealing with it. How much I was drinking was the dirty little secret I carried around, the shame I felt was just punishment for my bad behavior. I figured if I found a way to deal with the core of what made me drink—my anxiety and sleeplessness—the problem would go away.
The morning of the appointment I thought about asking Jess to watch Charlie for me, but she was having a hard enough time adjusting to life with toddler twin boys—I didn’t need to add more to her already full plate.
Charlie and I sat together in a plush, overstuffed chair in the doctor’s office waiting room. I gazed at my son, taking in the blue river of veins beneath his pale skin. He was so delicate, so fragile. “I love you, Charlie bear,” I said. I kissed the top of his head.
He looked up at me and grinned. “Love you, too, Mommy.” He pointed to the cover of the book we brought along to read. “That’s Alexander. He’s having a no-good, terrible bad day.”
I smiled. “Yes. We all have those kinds of days.”
“Not me,” he said. “My days are all good. ’Cept when I don’t get chocolate. Then I get cranky.”
“Me, too, monkey. Chocolate is good for our souls.”
He crinkled up his nose, confused. “What’s a soul?”
The receptionist sitting behind the counter chuckled quietly, overhearing our conversation, and I lifted my eyes to the ceiling as if to say, Oh boy. Let’s see if I can explain this one.
“Well, it’s kind of who you really are, honey,” I began. “What you think and how you feel. Your body just kind of carries your soul around.”
“Can you see it?” He tilted his head, still trying to figure it out.
“Hmm,” I said, stalling for a little time to think. “Sort of, maybe. Like in how a person treats someone else? That’s how you see what kind of soul they have.”
“You have a really good soul, Mommy.”
“Not as good as yours,” I whispered, leaning down to give his perfect ear a quick kiss. My eyes stung and my throat thickened as I pictured the bottle of wine waiting at home for me. I didn’t understand how I could hate doing something so much and still not be able to make myself stop. It didn’t make sense.
A few minutes later, the nurse called me back to the exam room and I helped Charlie get settled with a pencil and notepad so he could color. The nurse took my vitals, looking down at me over her bifocals as she recorded my weight. “You’ve gained nine pounds since your last visit,” she said without a shred of compassion.
And you have beady little rat eyes, I thought, then immediately felt crappy for it and happy I’d managed not to speak aloud. It must have been written all over my face, though, because the nurse frowned and left the room without saying another word.
“I don’t want to draw,” Charlie announced. He set down his pencil and crossed his arms over his chest.
I sighed. “Please, honey. Just for a few minutes. Mama needs to talk to her doctor.”
He widened his eyes. “Do you have to get a shot?” he whispered.
“No.” I rummaged through my purse and pulled out a slightly crushed Baggie of Goldfish crackers and a juice box, wondering if the day would ever come that I didn’t need to pack snacks for an hour-long outing. His face lit up as he snatched them from me. “Try not to spill, okay, Mr. Man?” I said. He nodded and shoved a handful of crackers into his mouth. Crumbs went everywhere. I sighed again.
Dr. Fields entered after a sharp rap on the door. She wore baggy black linen slacks and her white doctor’s coat on her thin frame. Walking toward me, she reached behind her head to tighten her blond, practical ponytail at the base of her neck, somehow managing not to drop the thick manila folder she carried in the crook of her right arm.
“Hi, Cadence. Hi, Charlie,” she said.
“I don’t want a shot,” Charlie said. Gummy orange cracker pulp clung to his teeth and I had to restrain myself from using one of my fingernails to scrape them clean.
“Oh, don’t worry. You don’t get one.” Dr. Fields smiled at me, revealing a set of straight, white teeth my mother would have loved. “Long time no see.”
I felt myself flush, remembering that I’d been so hungover the morning of my last scheduled appointment, I’d missed it. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been to see her.
“Not to worry,” she said, then consulted the chart she cradled. “Looks like your blood pressure is a little high.” She lifted her gaze to me. “Everything all right?”
I nodded, maybe a little too enthusiastically. “Oh, sure. A little stressed, I suppose. I’m not sleeping very well.” I went on to tell her how my thoughts twirled like batons the moment I tried to drift off. I kept it general, since Charlie was in the room, telling her only that I had worries about my diminishing career and the d-i-v-o-r-c-e.
And I’m drinking too much. The phrase perched on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t speak it.
“Stress will do that to you,” she said. She scribbled in my chart. “Let’s try some Ambien and a few Xanax to help get you through the tougher spots, okay?” I nodded. “If that doesn’t work, we’ll talk about getting you on something longer-acting, like Lexapro.” She stopped scribbling and looked at me again. “You shouldn’t drink with the Ambien or Xanax. It’s a bad combination.”
“That won’t be a problem,” I said. I’m telling her the truth, I thought. If I get my anxiety in check and I can sleep, then I won’t have a reason to drink.
“Anything else?” she asked expectantly.
“No,” I said with forced, glittering cheer. “Other than that, I’m all good.”
The holiday season passed in a muddled haze. Some days I kept to my two-glass limit, others a switch would flip inside me after a single glass and two bottles would disappear instead. I stopped being able to predict which it would be.
The phone woke me one cold, January morning while Charlie was at preschool. Three days before, I’d decided once again that I was done with drinking. That was it. I’d stick to the Ambien and Xanax—the doctor had prescribed them, after all. I would never pick up a bottle of wine again.
By noon on the first day without any wine, I was sweating so profusely I had to change my shirt. My skin reeked of alcohol and itched as though it was covered in a million tiny bugs. My muscles shook and my head felt like it just might explode. Still, I didn’t drink. I was smarter than what I was doing. It was time for me to knock it the hell off.
“Hey, lady,” Jess’s voice chirped in my ear. Her pleasant demeanor felt like tiny daggers of ice slicing into my flesh.
“Hey,” I said groggily.
“What are you and Charlie doing later today? Want to come over for dinner?”
I paused, trying to come up with a reason to not see my sister. I was in no shape to socialize. “Um, nothing, I don’t think. But I’m not feeling well, really, so I probably shouldn’t be around the twins.”
“Is it the flu?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said, faltering. “Just some kind of bug, I think.” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spent time with my sister. I was too scared to be around her very long, afraid she might see what was wrong.
“Okay,” she said, drawing the word out with an edge of doubt. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
I hung up, and the phone rang almost immediately again. This time it was the bank, an automated voice message. “Your December mortgage payment is more than thirty days past its due date. Please make this payment at your earliest convenience or you will be contacted by the loan processor within the next twenty-four hours.”
I slammed my cell shut and shook my head, as though to clear it of thought. I hadn’t slept more than two hours at a time in three days. I couldn’t deal with this kind of shit. I had the money in savings, I’d just forgotten to transfer the payment. I’d take care of it later. I dozed in and out for another hour, setting my alarm to make sure I didn’t miss picking up Charlie, then managed to drag myself out of the house.
“How are you, Cadence?” Brittany inquired, waving at me from the driver’s side of her cobalt blue Lincoln Navigator.
“Fine,” I said, waving back at her as I secured Charlie into his booster seat.
“We miss you at play group,” she said.
“Thanks. I’m just really busy, you know?” I was suddenly conscious of the fact that I was wearing a gray T-shirt stained with sweat and my hair hadn’t been washed in several days. I jumped into my car and drove off as fast as I could.
Even though he rarely took them anymore, once we got home, I led Charlie into his room and tried to get him down for a nap.
“Will you at least lie down with Mommy and rest? I don’t feel good, honey.”
“No, I don’t want to. I want to go to the park.” My son crossed his arms over his tiny chest and set his face in a stubborn expression similar to the one I’d seen on his father’s face a thousand times before.
“Not today, baby. I’m sick.”
“You’re always sick,” he said.
His words felt like a kick in the gut. My guilt sparked and caught fire in my chest.
“You will take a rest, young man, whether you like it or not.”
“No!” He pushed his body into a rigid line, then screamed at the top of his lungs, “You’re mean!” I left his room, slamming the door behind me. He shrieked and pounded on the wall for another half an hour before finally quieting down.
I went to the kitchen and stared at my too-long-untouched laptop. A pulsing, electric discomfort coursed through my body. What was I going to do? I was running out of money, I couldn’t write, and my mind spun like an out-of-control carnival ride. I felt trapped, hopeless, unable to see a way to fix any of it. And yet, I’d brought it on myself. I chose this life. I was the one who convinced myself I was a strong, capable woman who could be just fine on my own. If I couldn’t do it, the only person I had to blame was myself.
“Goddammit!” I screamed, pushing my computer across the kitchen table and into the wall.
Fuck it, I thought. I need a drink. My entire body trembling, I stepped over to the counter and poured myself a rather hefty goblet of ruby-hued cabernet. I drank straight through the dinner Charlie threw on the floor and I had no appetite for, waiting for relief to fill me. To my dismay, I remained stone-cold sober. The wine wasn’t working anymore. It had lost its desired effect. I opened another bottle.
“Sorry Mommy yelled earlier,” I said an hour later as I lay in Charlie’s bed, finally relaxed, tickling the bare skin of his back to help him go to sleep.
“Will you come to my house and tickle my back when I’m married?” he asked instead of replying to my apology.
I smiled, my eyes filling with tears. “I don’t think your wife would like that very much, baby boy.”
He turned his head to look at me. “Well, will you show her how to do it, then?”
“Yes,” I said, and I kissed him on the forehead.
The next thing I realized, Charlie was shaking me awake. “Mama!” he said. “Mama, the bathroom floor’s all wet.”
I attempted to pull myself upright. The room spun around me and my stomach bent in on itself. That second bottle had sent me for a loop. I patted Charlie on the head. “ ’S okay, honey,” I slurred. “Everything will be okay.” I blinked at him heavily and he shook my arm again.
“Water’s all over the floor,” he said. He yanked on my arm and I groaned.
“Okay, I heard you,” I said. I braced myself against his bed and pushed my body into a standing position. The clock read midnight. I staggered down the hall behind Charlie and stepped into a swamp in the bathroom.
“What the hell?” I exclaimed, jumping back out of the mess of water, toilet paper, and poop.
Charlie scrunched up his face and began to cry. “I had to go potty,” he said. “And I flushed the way I’m s’post to and all the paper got stuck and the water and poop went over the top.” He looked at me with wide, glassy blue eyes. “I’m sorry, Mommy. I didn’t mean to do it.”
“Don’t cry, baby. I’ll clean it up. It’s just an accident. Mommy’s not mad.” I didn’t have the energy to be mad.
His bottom lip trembled. “Really?”
I wobbled where I stood, and braced myself with a flat palm against the wall. “Really.” My head bobbed and I felt like I might pass out. “You go on back to bed. I’ll come tuck you in in a minute.”
“ ’Kay,” he said, and padded off down the hall. Bleary-eyed, I snatched a huge stack of towels from the linen closet and threw them onto the mess on the floor. Tiptoeing across them, I managed to adjust the toilet so it stopped running and went back to its normal level. I dropped to my hands and knees, swabbed the floor until the towels were soaked, and then took the entire smelly armful to the washing machine by the back door.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” I whispered. The tears swelled in the back of my throat. “Please. I can’t do this anymore. Somebody help me.”
There was no one to hear my cries. I took several deep breaths, grabbed the bottle of bleach, and stumbled back to the bathroom to splash some over the floor. I would have to clean up this mess on my own.
