As I turn into my driveway after dropping Charlie off with Martin, I eye my cozy, red-brick 1920s bungalow as someone might upon seeing it for the first time. The structure itself was beautiful—rare, detailed, latticed brick found only in older Seattle neighborhoods, leaded glass windows, a convex wall making up the front of the house. A substantial weeping willow was the garden’s focal point near the sidewalk. Looking out from my living room window seat, I’ve always thought that the willow looks like the bottom half of a genteel lady, carefully lifting her hoopskirt.
I’m conflicted over Jess’s suggestion that I sell my home. My son spent his first five years here, but it’s also where I descended into the bottle and endured my darkest days. If we moved into something more affordable, I’d be leaving good memories behind with the bad. Then again, leaving the bad ones might be exactly what I need.
Once inside, I set my purse down on the entryway table and let my eyes travel to the living room shelves. The sight of Charlie’s Spider-Man action figures and Lego creations jars something loose inside me. My pulse races. Even though I’ve just left him, I feel disjointed and panicky without him here. It’s like my body is missing its skeleton.
Dropping to the couch, I blow a heavy breath out through my lips. I think about how I used to long for quiet—a leisurely meandering through my days. The first few years of being a mother, especially, when sleep seemed like the fabulous sex you’d once had with a stranger and would never get to experience again now that you were married. I yearned for mornings without a screeching infant, mornings without a husband accusing me of misplacing his keys.
At one point, I remember wondering if I would be better off if Charlie never existed. This shadow of a thought, this brief turning over of my heart to the darkness that lay inside it, this is what haunts me now. Is all that resulted from my drinking some kind of cosmic retribution for spending one selfish moment wishing I had not become a mother? I didn’t mean it. Charlie is my gift, the best thing, hands down, that ever happened to me. I’d never heard other mothers discuss whether or not they were actually cut out to be a mother, nor did I have the courage to ask any women I knew if the question ever crossed their minds. The words were obscene enough inside of my head—saying them out loud felt unfathomable.
My cell phone rings and I see Susanne’s name pop up on the tiny screen. We’ve only talked once since I got out of treatment, and while she understands the basic outline of what has happened with me over the last couple of months, I am too embarrassed to tell her too many of the dirty details. She knows I’ve stopped drinking and Martin has filed for custody. For now, that’s enough.
“Hey there,” she says. “Long time no talk. What’re you up to?”
“Not much,” I respond. I gnaw on a hangnail on the outside edge of my pinky finger. “How are you?”
“Stressed. You want to go out for a drink?”
I pause, feeling awkward. “Um, I’m not drinking anymore. Remember?”
“Not even wine?” She laughs and I picture the bloodred curve of her lips. “C’mon, it’s medicinal.”
My mind flickers briefly on the feeling of a perfectly cool, spherical crystal goblet in my hand and what a swallow of wine might taste like. I have to cough a little to clear the gag from my throat. “I can’t. Sorry.”
We’re both quiet for a moment, unused to conversation with each other unaided by the lubricant of wine.
“What’re you guys up to tonight?” I finally ask.
She sighs. “The usual. Bath with a screaming toddler, followed by an enormous martini with my husband. Slightly drunken sex, if he’s lucky.”
I don’t know how to respond. I’m suddenly hyperaware of everyone else’s drinking patterns. Andi assures me that “normies”—otherwise known as people who don’t have a problem with alcohol—don’t register how much wine another person leaves in a glass, or how many shots of scotch their friends knock back over dinner. She says it’s a reflection of an alcoholic’s obsession with alcohol, how he or she keeps track of other people’s consumption rates. I don’t think I have an obsession with alcohol—I think I notice it more because my problem with it is so recent.
“Well,” I manage to say, “I hope you have a good night.”
“You, too.”
After we hang up, I think about how much it disturbs me to hear about Susanne’s drinking. I can’t imagine what it would be like to sit down with her and watch her do it, to smell the wine and have it right there, within my reach.
I’m not sure I have it in me to say no to her when I’ve barely learned to say it to myself.
One chilly but clear January afternoon, I picked up Charlie from school and took him to Golden Gardens Park in Ballard, not too far from Alice’s house. I’m going to be a good mother, I’d decided the morning after the toilet overflowed. I’m going to write and clean my house and play with my son. How I was living was ridiculous. I wasn’t a victim. I was a strong, intelligent, and capable woman. I’d succeeded at everything I’d ever set my mind to. I gave up the pretense of being able to stop altogether; instead, I once again limited myself to two glasses of wine a day. I was certain I could practice some measure of self-control. It was like going on a diet—all I needed was some discipline.
“Why aren’t we going home, Mommy?” Charlie asked.
“I thought it would be fun to have an early picnic dinner.” I glanced in the rearview mirror at my son. “It’s so nice outside. I packed submarine sandwiches and Cheetos.” I’d called Jess to see if she wanted to bring the twins along and meet us, but both of them had bad colds she didn’t want to share.
“What else?” he asked, reaching over to pat the top of the ice chest sitting next to him in the backseat.
I smiled, knowing he was fishing for dessert. “Oreos and milk. But only after you eat at least half of your sandwich, okay?”
“Okay,” he agreed. We found a spot near the play area to lay our blanket, then I chased him around the equipment in a game of monster tag until he was ready to eat.
“You’re a good monster, Mommy,” he said as he shoved a handful of Cheetos into his mouth.
“Well, thank you,” I said. I was always the one to play the monster, chasing my son around with fake, menacing growls. He finished his meal in record time, then raced off to play in the sandbox with a group of other children. I sat on a nearby bench to catch my breath and tried not to think about the wine I would have once I got home.
“Your son is adorable,” a woman said after she sat down next to me. Her delicate Asian features were accented by a copious blessing of splotchy tan freckles on her cheeks.
“Thank you,” I said. “He looks a lot like his father.”
“He looks like you, too,” she said. “His smile is yours.” She leaned over and offered her hand. “I’m Leila.”
“Cadence.” I gestured toward my son. “And that’s Charlie.”
“Is he an only child?”
I nodded. “Yep. How about you?”
“Tyson is on the slide. He’s four. And Becca’s on the merry-go-round. She just turned three.”
“Wow, that’s a handful.”
“Don’t I know it. My husband works like a fiend, too.” Leila said. “Does yours help you much?”
“I’m divorced,” I said. “What school do your kids go to?”
“I’m homeschooling, actually,” she said. “We belong to a pretty big group of families who have decided to go that route, so they still get a lot of social time.” She had been put in the position of defending her decision to others. I could hear it in her voice.
“Ah. You are a better mother than me,” I said, not wanting her to feel she was being judged. “I don’t think I could do it.”
“I know, it’s a lot being home with them all the time. It could drive a woman to drink.” She laughed.
I forced myself to laugh, too, because I knew this was what she expected. I’d seen websites devoted to moms who joke about drinking wine out of sippy cups; pages on Facebook dubbed “Moms Who Need Wine.” There, drinking was talked about as a way to channel your former, nonmotherly self, laughingly referred to as “Mommy’s Little Helper.” I understood all of this was meant to be tongue-in-cheek—purely innocent fun. But as I sat there with my hands shaking, thinking of the bottle of wine waiting for me, I did have to wonder if any of those women thought about the other side, too. If they considered, even for a moment, the possibility they could end up just like me.
That night, I stared wide-eyed at the ceiling in my bedroom, unable to sleep. I debated with myself whether or not I could make it through to morning without a drink. I’d finished my two glasses when Charlie and I got home from the park, and I was out of both my prescriptions from the doctor. My heart pumped in my chest at a frightening, demanding pace. My skin was cold and clammy. Tiny seismic warnings rolled out through my muscles. If I didn’t get up soon, the shakiness would only get worse. I didn’t want to drink—don’t do it, please don’t do it—but my body’s insistence on relief was about to take over.
Cold, creepy-crawly twinges moved along in my muscles. My body was desperate for rest but my mind had a different idea altogether. I tried deep breathing, tensing my muscles and then relaxing each one; first my toes, then my feet, my calves, my thighs, moving up my entire body until I got to my head, where I realized I had no idea how to tense my brain, let alone any clue how to make it relax.
Just a glass, I told myself as I rolled out of bed and stumbled down the hallway. Only enough to take the edge off so I can sleep a few more hours. Charlie would be up at 6:00. I needed to get him to preschool by 9:00. My fatigue was profound. My body felt as though someone had poured sand into my head, my eyes, my limbs. I can’t keep doing this. What the hell is wrong with me? I need to get my shit together.
I stepped into the kitchen and regarded the bottle teetering on the edge of the countertop next to the sink. I hadn’t bothered to cork it and a fly danced around its lip. Brushing it away, I picked up the bottle and stared at it as though it might have had something to say. Drink me, maybe? Or perhaps, more likely, STOP drinking me, you stupid bitch.
My belly warped in a strange dance of revulsion and impending relief. I chose relief. Holding the neck of the bottle with my right hand, I lifted it to my mouth, halfway gagging as I chugged down the first few swallows. My throat clenched in disgust and I pressed the back of my hand over my mouth, fighting the urge to vomit. The wave passed and I took another pull on the bottle. The heat of the wine burned through my body and slowed my pulse. I knew the nausea would cease. It only came back if I stopped drinking.
“Mommy?”
“Shit!” I exclaimed, jumping at the sound of Charlie’s tiny voice. He stood in the entryway to the kitchen, watching me. He wore plaid flannel pajamas and clutched his blanket with both hands. I jerked the bottle behind my back and heard its contents splash around.
His lower lip pouched out, quivering, and his eyes filled with tears. “Sorry.”
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry.” Guilt immediately flooded my senses. “Mommy shouldn’t swear. You just surprised me.” I placed the bottle on the table and kneeled down next to him. I felt softer after the wine. More pliant. The way I wished I could always feel. “What are you doing up? Did you have a bad dream?”
He nodded and leaned into my shoulder, nuzzling the base of my neck with his damp face. I kissed the top of his head and rubbed his warm back in a small circle. He pulled away, crinkling up his perfectly snub, five-year-old nose. “Your breath smells yucky.”
“Everyone has bad breath in the middle of the night, sweetie,” I said. His words stung. My mouth felt like it had been used as a litter box and probably smelled about as good. “Come on. Let’s go back to bed.”
“Can I watch TV?” he asked.
“No,” I said. My voice sounded like I’d been gargling gravel. “It’s late.”
“Please?” he whined.
I sighed, closing my eyes. So much for collapsing back to bed. “Fine. You go curl up on the couch and Mommy will be there in a minute.”
“ ’Kay.” He plodded off to the living room and I stepped over to the table. There was only a swallow or two of wine left, and I knew this wouldn’t be enough. Tears welled in my eyes as I finished it, already thinking about where I’d stop to pick more up on my way home from dropping Charlie off at preschool.
If I could wait that long.
I wasn’t sure that I could. Lifting the bottle to my lips, I sucked the few remaining droplets of wine and a sudden panic filled me. It was gone, and I was nowhere near feeling like I could close my eyes and go back to sleep. The backup bottle of vodka I kept in the freezer was already empty. I hadn’t bought more, thinking if I didn’t have it in the house, I wouldn’t want it. My heart began to jitter in my chest again, demanding that I drink more to appease it. It terrified me how much more I had to drink to find a place of relief. It was the briefest sensation, barely lasting longer than a breath. Most days, I couldn’t reach it at all.
Maybe I could zip to the store, I thought. It’s only a few blocks away. I staggered into the living room, where Charlie had curled up on the couch with his blanket and quickly fallen back to sleep. I’d only be gone a few minutes, ten at the most. He’d never even know I wasn’t there.
I stared at him, every motherly cell in me screaming to not do what my body was demanding, but I simply couldn’t stand the thought of lying in my bed the rest of the night with a jackhammer in my chest. I could have a heart attack, and what would Charlie do then? I grabbed my keys and slipped out the front door into the frigid night air, being sure to lock the door behind me. Shivering, I climbed into my car and drove as quickly as I could with one hand over my right eye. The last thing I wanted was to get in an accident.
The store was deserted except for the cashier standing at the register with a bored look on her face and the teenage boy stocking the shelves on the cereal aisle. Elevator music played an easy-listening rendition of “Time of Your Life” by Green Day. I grabbed a handcart and kept my body tense and my head down, trying to appear as sober as possible.
I returned to the front of the store with a liter of merlot, a couple of bottles of cold medicine, and a box of tissues.
“My son has a horrible cold,” I said. “Poor thing. My husband is waiting with him in the car.”
The cashier eyed the liter of merlot I placed on the turn belt.
Then she looked at me. “I can’t sell you the wine. It’s the law. No alcohol between two and six a.m.”
“Oh,” I said, suddenly flustered. I had no idea. “Well, I guess I’ll have to pick it up later for my dinner party then. Maybe after work.”
The checker nodded, though the look of disgust on her face was obvious enough that even I, in my foggy stupor, didn’t miss it. She knew I was a liar. So did I.
I sped home, opened the front door, and saw Charlie hadn’t moved from his spot on the couch. Relief washed over me. See? He didn’t even know you were gone.
I took a couple of hefty swigs of the cold medicine, draining half the bottle. Curling up behind my son, I closed my eyes and felt my remedy gush through my veins. Within minutes, I fell into a deeply medicated, troubled void, barely noticing how easily I’d surrendered my chance to dream.
The blare of my cell phone woke me with a start. I struggled to piece together how I’d ended up on the couch with Charlie, who was lodged against me, out cold. Wine, store, cold medicine. I leaned forward and fumbled with the phone, which I had left on the coffee table the night before, having failed to plug it into its charger.
“Hello?” I said. The word came out rough and slow.
“Hi, Cadence. It’s Lisa, from the Sunshine House?”
Charlie’s preschool. Oh, crap. What time was it? I squinted at the DVD player on the shelf: 9:30. Shit. “Hey, Lisa. God, I’m sorry, I meant to call you. Charlie was up with an upset stomach last night. We must have overslept.” The lie slipped out too quickly for me to stop it.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Lisa said. “Does he have a fever?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, reaching my arm out to press my open palm against Charlie’s forehead, as though the act would somehow support his feigned illness. He stirred a bit, but didn’t wake. “No, he feels okay. Probably just something he ate. I’ll have him there in about half an hour, if that’s okay.”
“Sure. We were just worried about you guys.” She paused. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, of course, I’m fine!” I say, maybe a little too brightly. “Why?”
“You sound a little hoarse.”
“Just tired, I think,” I said, clearing my throat. Which was true. My head throbbed. I needed Advil and I needed it fast. “See you in a few.” I hung up with a sigh and shook Charlie awake. “Come on, baby. We need to get you to school.”
I managed to get him dressed and out the front door in less than fifteen minutes.
“You forgot to give me breakfast, Mama,” Charlie said in the car.
“Shit,” I said, reaching over to my purse and rooting around as I drove. My head was heavy and I had to fight to keep my eyes open. I found a slightly squished cereal bar beneath my wallet and handed it back to my son.
“It’s all mushy,” he said.
“It’s all I have,” I snapped. I heard the crumpling of the foil wrapper and then immediately felt like crying for yelling at my son.
We pulled up in front of the bright yellow church that was converted ten years earlier into one of the most highly rated north Seattle preschools on record. Charlie raced to the front door and I walked slowly behind him. Lisa’s pert, pretty face appeared in the window before she came out to greet us in the hallway.
“Hey, Charlie,” she said, mussing his hair with her fingers. “Everyone else is already in circle time. Why don’t you go join them?”
I smiled and crouched down, wobbling on the balls of my feet as I did so. “Come give me a hug, baby,” I said, and Charlie jumped over to kiss me good-bye. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”
After Charlie was gone, Lisa looked at me, concerned. “He seems like he’s okay,” she said, “but I’ll call you if he doesn’t feel well enough to stay.” She paused. “Did he eat?”
“Part of a cereal bar,” I said. I clutched my forearm over my stomach, hoping I wouldn’t be ill. I needed to leave, anxious to stop at the store and pick up more wine. “He didn’t have much of an appetite.”
“You don’t look like you feel very well, either,” Lisa said. Her eyebrows pulled together as she spoke.
I made a half-coughing, half-laughing sound. “I don’t, really. I might be coming down with whatever it was he had last night.” Liar, I thought. You’re just a huge, disgusting liar.
“Do you want me to call Martin and have him pick up Charlie so you can rest?”
“Oh, no,” I protested, waving my hand in front of my face. “I’ll be fine. I just need a little sleep.”
“Okay,” she said, her voice still hesitant. “Call me if you change your mind.”
“Thanks.” I got in my car, thinking there was no way in hell I wanted Martin to know the shape I was in. I drove to the other side of the freeway to the liquor store, not wanting to return to the market I’d been to the night before, fearful the same checker might still be working her shift. I didn’t want to be doing this. A violent war waged between my mind pleading no and my body screaming yes. My body won the battle every time.
Once home, I hurried into the kitchen and uncorked one of the four liters of Spanish merlot I’d bought, explaining to yet another checker about the imaginary dinner party I was hosting that night. I also stashed another gallon of vodka in the freezer, thinking I would leave it there and not touch it unless I ran out of wine. I would never have to leave Charlie alone again.
At the sound of the cork popping out of its tight confines, my mouth moistened. I poured the wine into my coffee mug and took three long, hard swallows, holding my breath until I felt the familiar warmth spread throughout my muscles. Tension unknotted itself in every fiber of my flesh. Thus momentarily relieved, I glided over to the kitchen table and fired up my laptop. I wanted to sleep, but I needed to work.
I opened Google, planning to begin research on the celebrated chef at the Dahlia Lounge. I thought I might be able to sell a quick and dirty profile piece on him to Seattle Gourmet. But instead of typing in his name, I found myself typing in the words, “Do I have a problem with alcohol?”
A long list of links popped up, and I clicked on one that indicated it contained a questionnaire. As I sipped tiny, measured amounts from the mug of wine I needed to make last for the next two hours before I went to pick up Charlie from school, I took the quiz.
“Have you ever decided to stop drinking for a week or so, but only lasted for a couple of days?” Yes. More times than I can count.
“Have you ever switched from one kind of drink to another in the hope that this would keep you from getting drunk?” Yes. The previous week I’d decided to only drink beer, reasoning it had a lower alcohol content than wine, and ended up drinking a twelve-pack in a single afternoon.
“Do you tell yourself you can stop drinking any time you want to, even though you keep getting drunk when you don’t mean to?” Yes. Over and over again.
When I clicked on the results, it said I had a problem and should consider seeking help. Discomfort snuck its way back into my body with every breath. I took the test again, switching my answers around, trying to make the computer prove there was nothing wrong with me. But no matter the answers I selected, no matter the number of times I tried, the results were clear. I didn’t understand how this could be. I wasn’t a partier—I didn’t drink in high school or college. Why was this happening to me now?
Staring at my hand wrapped around a coffee mug filled with wine, I felt utterly detached. I thought that particular appendage might belong to someone else. This couldn’t actually be me, sitting here drinking at 10:30 in the morning. This wasn’t me, a woman who left her child alone in the house.
Stop it, I thought. But then my arm lifted and before my mind could protest, the wine was on its way down.
Later that day, after picking Charlie up from school, I leaned against the counter in my tiny kitchen, bottle of merlot in my grasp. My son stood in the arched doorway, his almond-shaped eyes growing wide as he watched the scarlet fluid flow into my favorite moss green coffee mug. I tensed the muscles in my arms to control the tremors. I didn’t want Charlie to see me spill.
“That’s not coffee, Mama,” he said, hugging his worn, blue baby blanket tighter to his chest.
I averted my eyes from my child and gulped down two long swallows. It only took a moment for that familiar feeling to wash over me, like hot honey pushing through my veins. I closed my eyes, trying to hold on to it, knowing it would not stay.
“Want to watch TV?” I asked with a watered-down smile. We did this too often, lying on the couch with the curtains pulled, me drinking, my son entranced by cartoons.
“Okay,” he said. He turned around and padded into our living room. Charlie crawled up onto the couch and patted the cushion next to him. “Here, Mama. You sit next to me.”
“Where else would I sit, baby?” I asked, taking another pull on my wine. I took lurching, unsteady steps out of the kitchen and over to the front door, making sure the stainless-steel chain that Charlie couldn’t reach was secured. That way, in case I passed out, he couldn’t wander outside.
Dropping to the couch, I snuggled Charlie against me with one arm and gripped my drink at the end of the other. Already a seasoned pro at getting electronics to do as he commanded, he turned on the TV. The racket of banging and whistling side effects filled the room and my son settled back comfortably into the crook of my arm.
I closed my eyes. Only for a while, I thought. Only until he wakes up all the way. Then we’ll go to the store. Or the park. My breath came in short, cutting bursts, so I took another swallow, knowing the wine would slow my galloping pulse.
I pushed myself forward and filled my cup again. My son was watching an infomercial on some sort of kitchen gadget. “You want cartoons instead, sweetie?” A part of me knew I was slurring, but I told myself Charlie wouldn’t notice. He had a bit of a lisp himself.
“Yes, please,” he said. His eyelids were heavy. So were mine. I switched to the Cartoon Network and turned the volume down. I snuggled us beneath a blanket, my legs outstretched onto the coffee table. My eyes closed. Just a few minutes, I thought. Just a few minutes to rest.
“We’ll go to the park later,” Charlie said, making a statement rather than asking me a question. “You’ll take me later.”
Violent guilt stormed inside me. The alcohol dilated my usually watertight emotions and opened a floodgate of tears. My child knew full well we would stay in the house with the blinds closed. I’d broken enough promises to him for him to know the truth.
Feeling my sobs, Charlie twisted around to look up at me, worry etched his fine features. He brushed the damp curls away from my face.
“What’s wrong, Mama?” he asked, resting one pudgy, moist palm on my cheek. “Did you have a bad dream?”
“I’m just so sad, honey,” I said, weeping. “Very, very sad.”
He used the silky edge of his blanket to wipe my face. “Don’t cry,” he said. “It’s okay. Don’t cry. I will take care of you.”
His words only made me cry more. It was not his job to comfort me. A mother should protect, not fall apart. I hated what I’d done; I hated who I was. I wasn’t sure I could do it anymore. So I did the only thing I knew would erase how I felt—I opened another bottle of wine.
I didn’t take Charlie to school the next morning. I was much too drunk to drive and I knew it. I could barely stay conscious. I lay on the couch, knocking back a swallow of wine every time I came to enough to lift the bottle to my mouth. I told myself to stop, but felt powerless against the compulsion. My hand reached out like it was under someone else’s command.
Charlie sat with me, watching TV. But the next time I struggled awake, he was gone.
“Charlie?” I called out, my tongue thick and unmanageable in my mouth. “Where are you, baby?”
“In the kitchen, Mommy,” he said. A few seconds later he was standing next to me. I peeled a single eye open and saw he had a yogurt in his hands. What time was it? When was the last time I’d fed him? My vision was too blurry to see the glowing blue digital numbers on the DVD player’s clock. I wasn’t sure if it was day or night.
Charlie touched my face. “Are you okay, Mommy?” he asked. “Please wake up.”
I fell back into oblivion. My cell rang several times, but the sound was muted, as though traveling through water. My body was leaden, weighted to the couch; I couldn’t have stood up to answer the phone if I’d tried.
More time passed, and then, suddenly, there was a pounding at the door. “Cadence?” Martin said. He knocked again. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think.
“Daddy!” Charlie cried. “Mommy’s sick.”
“Go to the back door, Charlie,” Martin’s voice instructed. “Can you unlock it and let Daddy in?”
No, I thought, struggling to convince my body to wake up. It would not cooperate. My eyes refused to open. I floated in and out of awareness, trying to balance on the slippery edges of unconsciousness.
I heard the back door squeak on its hinges. The sound of footsteps. Martin’s hand on my shoulder, shaking me. “Cadence, I’m taking Charlie with me,” he said. “I’m going to pack a bag and bring him to my house.” His words were muffled, but I could still detect his disgust. It soaked through my skin and melded with my own.
I still couldn’t open my eyes. The front door slammed shut and I drifted back into the dark, far, far away from the truth.
Several hours later, I awoke with a start, my heartbeat chugging in my chest like a freight train. I groped for the bottle of wine on the table, opening my eyes just long enough to see it was empty. Kitchen, I thought. More in the kitchen.
I rolled onto the floor and crawled into the kitchen, pulling myself up to the table where there was another liter of merlot. The last liter. If that didn’t do it, the vodka in the freezer would.
Charlie. The thought of my son pummeled me, and it all came rushing back. Martin, pounding on the door. Taking Charlie away.
“No,” I creaked. “No, no, no.” Oh God, he’d taken my son. What was I going to do? I had to call Martin. I had to make this right.
It took me three tries to get his number punched into my cell phone correctly. It rang once, then went straight to voicemail. “Martin,” I said, trying to make my voice sound as calm as possible. “I took a medication that reacted with a glass of wine. That’s why I was on the couch.” My words were soupy and loose. I could barely understand them myself. “Please. Bring Charlie home.” I hung up, knowing he would not call me back, knowing I was a liar.
Oh dear God, what had I done? I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live in a world where I’ve hurt my child. He deserves better than this. He deserves better than me.
With my hand around the neck of the bottle before me, my gaze moved to the counter where the bottle of Advil sat. I wondered how many it would take to end this. To end me.
The shrill of my cell phone made me jump. I grabbed it and answered, thinking that against the odds Martin might be calling.
“Cadence?” It was Jess. “Are you okay? Martin called me and said he had to come get Charlie.”
I began to sob, in huge, body-racking movements. “He took him, Jess. He’s gone. How did he know? How did Martin find out?”
“The preschool called him when you didn’t show up with Charlie.” She sighed. “What are you doing, Cadence? What the hell is going on?”
“I’m looking at a bottle of pills,” I said in a sudden wash of calm. What I needed to do was clear. “And a glass of Spanish merlot.”
“Cadence, don’t you dare,” my sister yelled into the phone. “Don’t you fucking dare! I’m on my way over, do you hear me? I’m on my way right now.”
I sat numbly, waiting with my hand on the glass, floating in and out of awareness. Before I knew it, my sister was through the back door. “Did you take anything?” she asked, snatching both the bottle and the glass of wine and pouring the contents down the kitchen sink.
“No,” I said, weeping.
“Where’s the rest?” she demanded, grabbing my chin and making me look at her.
“What?” I asked, blinking heavily.
“The rest of the alcohol, Cadee. Where is it?”
“Vodka. In the freezer.”
She let go of my chin and strode over to the refrigerator, slinging open the freezer door. She rooted around for a minute, then pulled out the gallon of icy, clear booze. It went down the sink, just like the wine. “Is that it?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She stormed down the hallway, then returned with a bag stuffed with a wad of my clothes. “Here,” she said, throwing a pair of flip-flops next to my feet. I slipped them on.
Wrapping my arm over her shoulders, she half dragged, half carried me to her car.
“I’m sorry,” I said as I climbed into the passenger seat. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Her expression morphed into a strange mix of sadness and fear, but she didn’t respond. She slammed my door shut, raced around the front of her car, and hopped behind the wheel.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked.
“The hospital,” she said. She didn’t talk to me about my drinking. She didn’t say she knew why Martin took Charlie away. All she said was, “You’re going to be fine.” Over and over she repeated this to me as I rocked back and forth in the leather front seat of her Lincoln SUV, my heart racing, sobs shredding every breath.
“This is not me,” I whispered through the tears, “this is not who I am.”
“Yes,” my sister said. “It is.”
