Diary of an Alcoholic Housewife (14 page)

“You can?”

“Are you okay?”

“Ah …”

“Stupid question. Do you want me to come over?”

“No. I don’t want to stop you from going to the meeting.”

“If you want me to come over, I will.”

“But you really want to go to this meeting,” Eve said.

“Do you want me to come over?”

“Me, ask for help?” she asked.

“I’ll come over if you want me to.”

“Me, ask for help?”

“Do you want me to come?”

“If you want to.”

“I’m going to have dinner with my family, then I’ll come over. Have you eaten? Do you want me to bring you dinner?”

Eve said she’d eaten, but I doubted it. I hung up the phone and slid to the floor. Shit! I didn’t want to go to her house. Charlie walked in and looked at me sitting on the floor. I filled him in and he shrugged. I put dinner on the table and began eating with my family. The phone rang.

“I feel bad making you miss the meeting,” Eve said, sounding babyish and sad. “Don’t come. Go to your meeting.”

“I’m coming over as soon as I’m done with dinner.”

“Okay.”

I finished eating and called Darcy.

“Hi! What a pleasant surprise,” Darcy said. “I’m so glad you called.”

Apparently Eve never invited Darcy to go to Tracy’s meeting with us tonight because when I told her I wasn’t picking her up, she had no idea what I was talking about.

“I hope I’m not breaking any rules,” I said, “but Eve’s drunk and I’m supposed to go over there in a couple of minutes. I don’t know what to do.”

“I’m not surprised,” Darcy said. “I know her pattern. I’ve called her every day for the last three days and she hasn’t returned my calls. I knew this was coming.”

“I’m in over my head here,” I said.

“How’s your sobriety?” Darcy asked.

“I’m not worried about drinking, if that’s what you mean,” I said. “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do when I get there.”

“I babysat her a number of times,” Darcy said. “I pour out her booze, sit with her for a while, then she passes out. Is this about her boyfriend?”

“When she called she said it was about everything.”

“She called you?” Darcy asked sounding hurt.

“I’ll call you later,” I said.

I drove to Eve’s and rang the bell to her townhouse. No answer. I turned the doorknob and let myself in.

“Eve?” I yelled, walking in.

A weak little voice floated down from the second floor. “I’m up here.”

I glanced around. It was the first time I’d been to Eve’s house. It was decorated with southwestern art and mounds of clutter. I climbed the stairs and maneuvered past boxes, stacks of paper, piles of clothing. Eve was sitting in the middle of a king-size bed, cross-legged, her white sweats contrasting with the yellow-stained pillows. Her mauve and turquoise comforter was crumpled at the foot of her bed.

“Hi, Sweetie,” she purred. “You came. Why did you come?”

“Because I’m your friend and I’m worried about you.”

“Why do you like me?”

“You’re smart, funny, you’re fun to be around.”

“Really? I am?” she asked, cocking her head and grinning. “But why do you want to be my friend?”

“I just told you.”

“But I could be your mother,” she said pouting like a toddler. “I’m fifty-two. What do you want to be friends with me for?”

“You were thirteen when I was born.” We both laughed.

“Am I pathetic?” Eve asked. “Do you think I’m pathetic?”

“No.”

“Why do you like me?”

“I already told you.”

“But why do you like me?”

I repeated the list and Eve hugged me. She grabbed my hands and kissed them multiple times.

“You’re so cute,” she said. “Look at you. I used to be you.”

A nasty gleam flickered in her eyes. “I had everything. I never had to worry about anything. Now I’m broke. And Mel, Mel …” She closed her eyes and swayed her head. “You should go home to your little family.”

“You’re going through a rough patch,” I said. “It’ll get better.”

“This is the first time my business has been bad,” she moaned.

“You’ll pull out of it,” I said. “Business is like that.”

She closed her eyes and nodded. “Mel, Mel,” she said swaying again. “I haven’t talked to him in a week.” She opened her eyes and leaned toward me. “Do you know I haven’t talked to him in a week?”

“Why not?”

“I haven’t called him back.”

“That’ll do it. You know, you never have anything good to say about the guy. You complain about him all the time. Maybe you should move on.”

“Really?” she said, opening one eye.

“Do you love him?” I asked.

She closed her eye and nodded. “I haven’t talked to him in a week,” she repeated.

“Why don’t we call him?” I said. “Do you want him to come over?” I wanted Mel to come over so I could get the hell out of there.

Eve nodded and I picked up the phone. “What’s his number?” I asked. Eve recited a number, and I dialed it and an operator came on the line and told me I didn’t need to dial the area code. I had Eve repeat the number and dialed it without the area code. The line began ringing before I finished punching in the numbers. I tried again with the same result. It was like using a hotel phone where you need to dial nine to get an outside line. Eve runs her business out of her home. Maybe it was something like that, but she couldn’t explain how her phone worked or dial it herself. I pulled my cell phone out of my purse. “What’s his number?” I asked again. I dialed it and it was the wrong number.

“Am I pathetic?” Eve asked.

“No,” I said, although I was thinking
yes.

“Look at me.”

“You’re a drunk,” I said lightly. “Just like me.”

“Why do you like me?” she asked again, fingering an empty pack of cigarettes.

“Do you want me to get you some cigarettes?” I asked.

“That’s okay,” she said.

“No, really,” I said. “I could use one myself. I’ll go and get you a pack.”

Eve wanted Virginia Slims menthols. Yuck. I left and drove to the drugstore around the corner. My phone rang and it was Jason. He was in line waiting to see a movie. I told Jason about Eve.

“Are you tempted to join her?” he asked sounding worried.

“Are you kidding?” I said. “She’s pathetic.”

“Stay away from her,” he said.

“That’s probably good advice,” I agreed.

I left the store and went back to Eve’s. She was passed out, so I left her cigarettes on her nightstand and left. I looked at my watch. I was missing Max’s soccer game, but I could make the last bit. I drove to the complex and watched Max’s team win. I was grateful I wasn’t drunk. I was grateful I had a family. I was grateful I wasn’t Eve.

[Saturday, May 24 (Memorial Day Weekend)]

I called Eve three times and left messages. I went to a meeting, and Kat pulled me aside afterward.

“I don’t know how to say this,” she said. “I don’t like talking behind people’s backs, but I know you’ve been hanging around Eve and I know a flight attendant who’s new in sobriety and Eve called her—Eve relapses a lot—and Eve got her to drink with her. I’ve been thinking a lot about you and worrying about this. And Eve’s dishonest. I ran into her boyfriend, Mel, at a meeting and I said, ‘Hey, I met your fiancé, Eve,’ and he said, ‘She’s not my fiancé.’ And you know, Brenda, Eve’s been calling me and wanting to get together since I met her. And I liked her. To hear her talk, she has ten years of sobriety. I was even considering her as a sponsor. Then Mel tells me she hasn’t been able to string together six months without a drink.

“So I called Eve,” Kat continued. “I told her she needed a Fourth Step, she needed to make a searching and fearless moral inventory of herself. I told her she was screaming for it. She got really angry. So I just wanted to tell you to watch out.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll keep my distance.”

Kat is intense. She goes off in five directions at once and it’s often difficult to follow her train of thought. She has no qualms about telling you what to do, either. But she’s super intelligent, insightful, and has a knack for nailing exactly what’s going on.

I got home and Charlie told me Eve called. I didn’t call her back. I began getting ready for my book club friend Tina’s fortieth birthday party.

Tina’s party was a retro disco bash at a swanky hotel. Charlie and I walked around, talked to friends, ate appetizers, got drinks. I was okay until people began hitting the dance floor. I really wanted a glass of wine just to loosen up. I pushed the thought out of my head, took a deep breath, and coaxed Charlie onto the dance floor. I felt awkward. The last time I’d danced sober I was a kid at a relative’s wedding, ignoring my mother’s Adventists-don’t-dance glares. But after a few minutes, I hit my groove and it felt good. Nice.

[Sunday, May 25]

I went to a two-hour meditation workshop this morning with Fiona and Fay. We explored breathing and visualization techniques, and as I sat cross-legged on the floor staring at a white card with a Sanskrit symbol on it, I began thinking about the groceries I needed to buy. I refocused on the card and started thinking about the story I was writing. I concentrated on my breathing and noticed my leg falling asleep. This went on for two agonizing hours but, amazingly, I felt a peace and calm afterward that lasted the rest of the day.

We got together at Fiona’s later for a barbecue, and Fiona was still riding her peaceful, easy feeling. She was drinking a glass of white wine and Fay was drinking a beer. I grabbed an iced tea from a cooler filled with juice boxes for the kids and felt annoyed that my drinks were in the baby box. There went my serenity. Fiona began carrying appetizers from the kitchen to the screened porch where everyone had gathered, and I followed her to the kitchen to help. My gaze fell on a sweaty bottle of chardonnay sitting on the kitchen counter. Inwardly, I was salivating like Pavlov’s dog. I recalled the flavor of chardonnay and how good it made me feel. If I had a glass, I’d have another and another and another. I’d wake up the next morning hung over, vowing not to drink again. I’d find myself shaking up a martini at five. I let out a deep breath and carried a tray of vegetables to the deck. I noticed Fiona and Fay had barely made a dent in their drinks. Drinking like that would drive me nuts.

[Monday, May 26]

I joined a tennis league and played my second match this morning. I got my butt kicked. I called Eve and left a message telling her I needed pointers on my serve. Eve told me, more than once, that she used to be a great tennis player. She said she had many tennis trophies. They must be packed away in one of the many cardboard boxes strewn about her home because I didn’t see any.

[Thursday, May 29]

Wisconsin Whitley, a woman I like from the Tuesday night meeting, met me at Starbucks this morning and told me her drunk story. She said her husband had been unhappy with her drinking for ten years, but he’d done nothing about it.

“He’d bring me coffee in bed every morning because I was too hung over to get it myself,” she laughed. “I got in a recovery program because ‘we’ got a DUI. I say ‘we’ because he got the DUI, but it was my fault. We were both on the Atkins diet. You can’t drink beer, but you can drink hard alcohol. We were up in Wisconsin at our cabin and we’d gone out to dinner with friends. We got really lit. My husband wanted to go back to our cabin, which was five minutes away, but I’d told my seventeen-year-old son we’d be home that night. I got nasty and insisted we drive the hour-and-a-half back home. Five minutes away from our house, we got pulled over. The police gave my husband a field sobriety test on the side of the road, and as he was trying to walk a straight line, my son and his friends drove by.”

Wisconsin Whitley and I looked at each other and cringed.

“Yeah,” she said. “It was bad. The police took my husband to jail and drove me home. My son and his friends were there when they dropped me off. I was mortified. Then my husband had to go to drunk driving school. He started learning about alcoholism and realized how bad I was. He made me get into treatment.”

I think I found a normal recovering friend. Yea.

[Saturday, May 31]

I went to a meeting this morning, and a guy named Dave said he’d finished college and gone out with some of his classmates last night to celebrate.

“I was the only one not drinking,” he said. “I was fine with it but it felt a little weird. I’ve been sober eight years and it wasn’t like I wanted to drink, but it tweaked my brain in a small way.”

That’s it. It tweaks your brain, apparently even after eight years.

I called Sara and told her about my Memorial Day barbecue at Fiona’s and how I thought about having a glass of wine but thought it through to the hangover and didn’t drink. I told her the party tweaked my brain a little but it was refreshing to hang out with light normal drinkers.

“If you keep putting yourself in situations like that, you’re going to drink,” Sara said. “Most newcomers avoid drinking situations like the plague. Maybe they go to a family wedding or a mandatory work party, but they hightail it out of there early. Most old-timers do the same. You question your motives before you attend a drinking event. If you have a good reason for going, go. If you don’t, stay home.”

Wisconsin Whitley told me, “I can’t bear to go into a nice restaurant with my husband because not drinking would really get to me.”

I am sick of being in situations where my brain is constantly tweaked, but I don’t want to give up my friends or normal socializing. I don’t want to pack my nights with meetings and sober whackos like a lot of people in recovery do.

[Sunday, June 1]

Reed and Liv had us over for a cookout. Before we left, I told Charlie he was damned lucky I was socializing with our drinking friends.

“Don’t accept invitations on my account,” Charlie said, looking sheepish.

“Well, it doesn’t seem fair to screw up your social life,” I snapped. “People wouldn’t snort lines of coke in front of a cokehead who was trying to straighten out, but people guzzle booze in front of me constantly.”

I went into the bathroom and cried. I fixed myself up and Charlie and I went to Reed and Liv’s.

Sometimes I think it’d be easier if I were a drug addict. Neighbors don’t throw backyard heroin parties. No one offers you crack at baby showers. Magazines aren’t full of slick ads for crystal meth. I’m grateful I’m not wasting more precious time being drunk, but sometimes having a drink seems like a really good idea.