Girl Walks Out of a Bar (13 page)

Six weeks later, Alan and I decided that we would live together in Pittsburgh. On a visit to New Jersey a short time later I told my family about our plans. Boyfriends came and went in my life, so they hadn't given my recent trips to Pennsylvania much thought. Neither my dad nor my brother seemed upset when I brought up the move. They both expressed some version of, “If it's what you want, I'm happy.” They'd both always been like airtight PR agents to the stars: never uttering a word about my private life unless the topic had been approved. My professional life, however, was a free zone.

“You're leaving a lot behind with that job,” Dad said.

“It's OK, Dad. I can work at Alan's firm. He showed the Managing Partner my résumé, and the guy said I'd be a fit in their marketing department. So, I've already got a job. It's a fantastic firm.”

My dad laughed. “See? All the time you were unhappy at work? Now that job is letting you write your own ticket. That's great.”

As always, my mother had more to say on the subject. “I really don't like that you're going to be in Pennsylvania. We barely see you as it is.” We were sitting in the kitchen, just as we had done for serious talks when I was a kid. But now I kept my hands underneath the table so she wouldn't see them shake. She was wearing one of her track suits, the kind that adorned countless older women in Atlantic City casinos, and she accessorized with a full face of makeup and gold bracelets that swung from her wrist. She had just come from her weekly manicure and hair appointment.

“Mom, think of it this way,” I said, “People just don't work as hard out there. That means I can come home a lot. And when I do, I can stay for a few days or even a week instead of having to race back to Manhattan.”

“Don't try to lawyer me out of this. It's too far. And what about kids? Alan's Catholic and he takes it seriously. You're going to raise Catholic kids?” she asked.

“I told you already, we're going to raise them with both religions. We'll celebrate both sets of holidays. Lots of people do it.” I tried to give a casual shrug, but I felt my lip twitch.

“So tell me this,” she said, “when you have a boy, are you going to have a christening or a bris? Thought about that one?”

Sweat began to dampen the back of my neck. What time was it? Four o'clock. Absolutely close enough to five, especially on a Saturday. There was no navigating that conversation without alcohol.

“Do you want some wine?” I asked as I pulled one of their white wine glasses out of the cabinet. I knew how she'd answer,
but offering tempered the creepiness of drinking “alone,” right next to my mother.

“No, not yet,” she said. “I want to know what it will be—a christening or a bris.”

I opened the refrigerator and poured a very full glass of cold, white wine, taking a long drink while my back was still turned to her. What I felt like saying was, “Mom, I'm a goddamned alcoholic! I'm drowning in a fucked-up life! I'm drowning in cheap cabernet. I'm drowning in tequila. I'm drowning in vodka. When people aren't looking, I take an extra swig. I drink the second I get home from work. I drink in the bathtub. I drink after the party's over. Mother, I'm drowning and Alan is throwing me a line!”

But what I said was, “I don't know, Mom. We'll cross that bridge when we get there.”

“Well, I'm not happy with that,” she said.

“I know you're not.”

When she went upstairs to change, I poured another full glass of wine. My parents kept their cases of wine in the basement, so I scrambled down there and pulled out two more bottles to chill in the refrigerator. My parents didn't pay attention to their wine inventory until it got low, and that had always worked to my advantage.

The wedding weekend arrived in June 2000, less than two years after Alan and I had reconnected, and guests from all over the country descended on New York City. Many of them stayed at the Gramercy Park Hotel, just across the park from The National Arts Club where my parents had been longtime members. It was always assumed that I would be married there.

One of the things that connected Alan and me was that we both preferred casual events. We planned a rehearsal dinner at John's Pizza in Times Square on the Friday night before the wedding. No formalities, no speeches—just a big buffet of pizza, garlic knots, salads, and fried calamari. And of course, an open bar.

“Do you care if your father and I don't come into the city on that Friday night?” my mom had asked a few weeks earlier. “The dinner is really for you and your friends, and I'm going to have a house full of people.”

“That's fine, I guess,” I said. But I wondered, wouldn't people think it odd that my parents had skipped my rehearsal dinner? Maybe even odder was that I was more concerned about public opinion than the glaring fact that my parents wanted to skip my rehearsal dinner.

Alan was clearer. “I'm really disappointed,” he said. I was worried that he'd taken it personally. But not worried enough to do anything about it.

The day of the wedding was stifling, the hottest of the year with sweltering humidity. I wore a cream colored Badgley Mischka gown with a skin-tight bodice and flouncy raw silk skirt that I'd found at the Saks sample sale. I spent the afternoon getting ready with my bridesmaids in an upstairs room at the club, having our hair and makeup done while we threw back bottles of champagne and ate chocolate-covered strawberries.

My dad proudly walked me down the aisle and both a priest and a rabbi married us as two hundred friends and family members watched and fanned themselves, thanks to a failed air conditioning system at the club. I nearly fainted under the chuppah, but I blamed it on the heat, not fear or the full bottle of champagne I had already consumed by myself.

Within minutes of wading into the crowd during the cocktail hour, Alan and I separated. Our reception area comprised several of the club's rooms, and he and I spent most of the cocktail hour apart. The party was a swarming ant farm of energy and activity, and we connected with our guests independently.

Through the evening, I drank only champagne and was grateful that I had gotten a good amount into me before the ceremony. It was hard to get a drink, especially when everyone wanted to talk to me, and I could feel my buzz starting to die. My stomach was too tight to grab any of the shrimp, mini quesadillas, pigs in a blanket, or other standard wedding appetizers that the formally attired waitstaff offered around.

“Here, you have to eat something,” Devon said, shoving a plate of mixed pasta toward me. Her blonde hair was swept up and she wore smoky eye makeup and bright pink lipstick. Bent on avoiding every possible tradition trap, I had I let my bridesmaids wear any black dress they wanted.

“No thanks, sweetie. I'm good for food,” I said. “But who do you have to fuck to get a drink around here?”

Devon laughed and said, “I can't believe you're married!”

“Me neither,” I said. Oh my God. Married. It certainly didn't feel different. But why didn't it feel more blissful? Would that happen after the wedding? Would marriage make me normal?

Through the crowd I could see Jerry and David rushing frantically toward me. “Hurry up!” David blurted. “The band called you for the first dance!”

“Seriously? The cocktail hour is over? Can somebody get me some champagne, please?”

“Yes, but let's go!” They tried to cut a path through the crowd, but people kept stopping us to grab a minute with the bride. When we finally made it to the parquet dance floor, I gasped, “Where's Alan?” as my head darted around like a neurotic bird.

They both shrugged. “He's
your
husband,” Jerry said.

“What should I do?” I begged David as the eight-piece band began to play “our” song. Perspiration broke out on my back and chest under the gaze of dozens of guests who stood in a half circle, murmuring and bobbing up and down as they craned their necks to look for the groom. The air conditioning had been fixed by then, but that didn't keep me from sweating.

“Let's dance!” David gallantly held out his arm like an awkward prom date trying to hide his discomfort behind theatrics. I grabbed the hand he raised high in the air and rested my other hand on his shoulder, and we started slow dancing. I tried not to meet anyone's eye, imagining my mother trying to fake a smile as she watched this unfold.

Midway into the second verse, Alan came crashing through the crowd as if he were trying to make it through the doors of the A train before they slammed shut.

“I'll take it from here,” he said, as he cut in on David and flashed a broad smile. David dipped forward in a dramatic bow and scurried off.

“Sorry, dear,” Alan said into my hair. “The guys had me at the bar. I'm really sorry.”

“It's OK, it's all right,” I said, nodding to people with exaggerated smiles as we circled the floor. I caught my mother's eye and couldn't tell if the tight look on her face was sadness or worry.

“How are you doing, honey? Are you OK?” my mom asked three months later as we did the
New York Times
crossword puzzle together over the phone. “We miss you so much.”

Alan was out for a long Saturday run with one of his buddies. Because he didn't drink the way I did, he was still able
to train for marathons and stay in great shape. I, on the other hand, had all but stopped exercising for the first time since college. But I hadn't stopped drinking. I'd gained seven pounds since the wedding.

“Yeah, I'm good,” I answered. The wine swirled around in my oversized glass as I fought back tears.

By the end of summer I had deemed noon on Saturday the official start time of the weekend cocktail hour. This didn't make me feel guilty at all, especially if I'd had a particularly productive morning of shopping, laundry, and miscellaneous errands. Once the car was officially settled back in the driveway, it was safe to start opening bottles.

My chronic unhappiness had gotten worse since the wedding, but I was determined to fight through it and make this thing work. Although I knew it wasn't helping, I couldn't put the bottle down. Alcoholism was the monster I had planned to leave in New York, but it had followed me to Pittsburgh where it cast a long shadow across my shiny new life.

How easy it is to keep drinking to excess despite living under the same roof with a normal person. Even though Alan and I had gotten drunk together many times, it was almost always at my instigation. And as was the practice with most normal people, as he had gotten older he drank less. I had hoped that our life together would show me what that felt like, but instead I just found places to hide the bottles.

At my wedding shower, someone had given me cookbooks, and I'd managed to learn to prepare three dishes: bowtie pasta with shrimp, filet mignon with walnut oil dressing, and linguini with chicken and peppers. One night after work as I stood in the small, charming kitchen of our small, charming house, I was making the linguini dish and drinking wine.

“Do you want a glass of wine?” I called out to Alan.