If I Die Before I Wake (4 page)

Back on solid ground, my laughter turned to tears as Alma shook me, hard, yelling that the devil was in me, that I was evil, and she'd see to it that I never came to the river again. I thought at that moment that I should have let go. I should have closed my eyes, let go of the boat, and drifted away.

——

Angel's barking brings me to the present. Rising to my feet, I realize I have to face one more day when I don't have the courage to let go, to give up my life, even if it's a life of misery. I've thought of so many ways to kill myself, but something has always held me back. While Jon was alive, I had a good reason. I didn't want to leave him feeling about me the way I felt about my mother. Now that Jon's gone, I don't know why I can't do it. It's certainly not because I think things will ever get any better.

It's a short drive to the cemetery. After brushing the leaves from Jon's grave and pulling a few weeds that have grown up around the stone, I settle on the ground and lay my hand on the cold marble. I miss him—his laugh, that crooked grin he got when he played a joke on me or said something witty. Most of all I miss his love. He's the one person in my life who loved me in spite of myself. Tom, the man I've been secretly in love with for over ten years, comes to mind. I thought he loved me—I don't know how many times he bailed me out of trouble, even paid for my divorces, paid to have Jon's body flown home from Arizona. But—and there's always a
but
—I can't be with Tom. Our relationship was always a disaster, and there is no reason to believe it wouldn't be again. I will not let him hurt me. I can't deal with any more pain.

Angel's on my lap, head hanging out the window, as I drive slowly back to town, to Mary Jo's house. There's an unfamiliar car in the driveway, so I park on the street. Inside, I notice her bedroom door is closed. It's confusing, but what she does, and with whom, is not my business. I start down the hallway toward
my bedroom. Mary Jo calls my name. Outside her door, I acknowledge her. She tells me to come in. It must not be what I imagined it to be, I think. I open the door. There they are, Mary Jo and my lawyer, who's a married man, propped up on the bed, stark naked. They do nothing to hide their nudity.

I'm no prude, especially when I've had a few drinks, but it's like a train wreck—I don't want to look, but can't stop myself. Mary Jo pats the bed and invites me to join them. Stunned, I mumble a few words and back out the door, closing it behind me. I hear them laugh. In my bedroom, I lock the door, and with shaking hands, begin to stuff my belongings into the two bags I brought with me. It's time to go home.

IT
'
S A HOT
S
UNDAY IN
J
ULY
, nearly a year since life as I knew it changed. The house is closing in on me. I consider going up to the town square, to the air-conditioned shops, but I don't have money to spend and I can't stand being around other people. Another visit to the cemetery? No, I've got to stop going there. I don't want to stop remembering Jon, but knowing where he is, and the truth of what put him there, is too much. I might as well take a stick with me and beat myself up every time I stand over his grave.

I slip into a skimpy silver bikini I've had since we lived in Florida during one of my more disastrous escapades a few years earlier. Grabbing a towel, I pick up the folded lounge chair that hangs on a nail on the screened porch, set it up in the yard, spread the towel over it, and return to the house for supplies. I shuffle through the books on life after death stacked next to the couch, pick one, grab a pack of cigarettes and a spray bottle filled with water, and fix myself a Long Island iced tea over ice in a tall, frosted glass.

Stretched out beneath the large oak in my side yard, I pick up
Here and Hereafter
by Ruth Montgomery, but I can't focus on the words. I've read everything I can get my hands on about the spirit world, but I'm still not convinced that it exists. If I ever get any spare money, I'll invest in a television. I had a small, 19-inch one that I bought at a yard sale, but it broke. I miss the distraction. After lighting a Salem, drawing the hot smoke deep into my lungs, and finishing off half my drink, I begin to feel a bit better.

Eyes closed, a warm breeze blowing gently across my nearly naked body, my thoughts wander to what month it is. I can barely remember the past year. I know I went to work, cleaned the house, walked the dog, ate food, slept, but none of it seems real. Is this what my life will be like? The rest of my drink slides down smoothly. I gave up worrying about my drinking months ago. It's the only thing that gets me through the day, allows me to sleep through the night and face each new morning. And what does it matter now? A cold beer would taste good.

A long white tee shirt with Mickey Mouse dancing across the front of it covering my swimsuit, I jump in the car and head
for the liquor store. At the drive-up window, I order a six-pack of Coors, my favorite beer, pay the man, and pull out. Is that black car following me? Who is it? The car doesn't look familiar. I'm being paranoid. I keep watching it in my rearview mirror. It's pulling into my driveway after me. I can't see the driver through the tinted windows. What the hell is going on?

The car door opens. A woman steps out. It takes me a few moments to realize I've seen her before. But where? She smiles, waves, and says, “Got a beer?” I'm standing there with a six-pack dangling from my hand. Of course, I've got beer. I nod. She approaches. A hand over my eyes to cut the glare of the sun, I finally recognize her. A long time ago, I don't recall when exactly, I went into a local bar just off the town square. It was packed, and the woman in my driveway was the only one working. I heard her say the help hadn't shown up, so I offered to help her. She refused curtly, and I left thinking she was a bitch. Why is she here now? She doesn't look mad, so I surely didn't do anything to offend her during one of my blackouts, like sleep with her husband or insult her.

“Do you remember me?” she says. “I'm Cheryl. We met—”

“I remember,” I interrupt, remove my shirt, and take a seat on a lounge chair. When it comes to people, I don't like women as a rule. I had a couple of women friends—one cheated me out of money, and the other started rumors about me. I'm not looking for any new girlfriends.

Laughing, she says, “Sorry about that. It was a bad night. So, are you gonna offer me a beer or what?”

Curious, I pull two beers out of the plastic rings, hand her one, and pop the top on the other. As if she belongs here, she goes to the side of the house, picks up an old wicker chair, moves it next to my lounge, sits, and takes a sip of the cold beer. “I haven't seen you around for a while.”

It's too expensive to drink in the bars. If I let men buy me drinks, they expect to be paid one way or another. Lately, I haven't been up to paying that price, except for a couple of times I went to town in a blackout and woke up in a strange bed, with some awful man I wouldn't give the time of day sober. “I don't get out much.”

“You want to go out tonight?”

“With you?”

“Why not? There's a band at the Legion.”

I consider my options. I can spend another night alone—just me and the dog, reading a book about what happens to people when they die, drinking as much as I can, and passing out. Or I can go dancing. I haven't been dancing in a long time. We don't have to become bosom buddies, but she would be another body to walk in with. If I meet someone interesting, I can dump her.

“Why not?” I concede.

“I'll pick you up at eight.”

Second thoughts assail me as Cheryl's car pulls out of the drive. It's too late. I don't know her last name, have her phone number—or a phone, for that matter. I'll have to go.

The chair stowed on the porch, I go inside, put the rest of the beer in the refrigerator, telling myself I can't drink anymore
because I need my senses about me tonight. Besides, I've already got a good buzz going. Cheryl'll be back in a few hours. I'll spend the time soaking in a bath, do something unique with my hair, and put together the best outfit I can find. If I'm going out, I'm going to look good. Cheryl is a striking woman, with her dark hair and green eyes, and I know she's a lot younger than I am … maybe in her twenties. I turned 31 in June. I won't allow her to show me up.

Standing on a chair, I review my image in the dresser mirror. In a pair of cutoff Levi shorts, a low-cut denim vest that emphasizes my cleavage and tanned skin, a pair of strappy sandals, with my makeup done to perfection, my hair styled in a bubble of soft curls around my pixie face, I don't look my age. As a finishing touch, I stick large silver hoops through the holes in my ears. Maybe one more beer just to get me in the mood.

Before the Legion, Cheryl and I stop at Jibby's Tavern, where I worked from time to time as a bartender, barmaid, dishwasher, salad girl, and second cook. I see a few people I know from the past, but
everyone
knows Cheryl. Drinks appear as if by magic, bought by her friends. I like this girl. She drinks like me, can swear with the best of them, and the drinks are free. I could do this—get back into the single bar scene, have some fun, meet new people, and have a life. As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I feel the familiar weight of guilt settle into my heart. It's how I feel every time I laugh, enjoy a meal, or attempt a new, exciting experience. I know it should have been me that died. I had my chance at a life, and I blew it. Jon paid the price.

Cheryl's gone off to mingle, or something else. It's time for me to leave. I gulp down the rest of my drink, turn on the stool, jump down, and run headlong into a man. “I'm sorry,” I mumble, anxious to make my exit.

“I'm not,” he replies. “Can I buy you a drink?”

He's attractive, has a nice smile, and is pleasant enough, but the last thing I need is another man in my life. “I've got to go.”

“C'mon, one drink, then if you want to leave, I won't argue.”

I spy Cheryl. “There's my ride. I should go.”

Cheryl isn't ready to leave. She's hooked up with some guy and decides to stay at Jibby's. I have no excuse to refuse the man, who introduces himself as Bill, one drink. Bill orders beer. I order a gin and coke. We talk. We laugh. We flirt. I discover he works for the city in the water department, is divorced, and has one boy who lives with his ex-wife. He is a few years younger than I. I find myself comparing him to Tom. I stop myself short, and ask Bill to drive me home.

——

Windows rolled down in Bill's older pickup truck, we sit in my drive, enjoying the warm summer evening and exchanging bits and pieces about our lives. Bill shares openly. I don't reveal much. If he knows who I've been, it would probably scare him to death. I'm not sure if it is me or the gin talking, but I say, “I read tarot cards.” I hadn't touched my cards since some strange events involving them and Jon's death. My skin crawls. I wish I could take the words back.

“Would you read for me sometime?”

“Sure,” I say with no intention of doing so. The evening is over for me. I have to get in the house, take a shower, blot the memories from my mind. I am fooling myself if I think I can get back into the dating scene, socialize like nothing happened. “I've got to go.” I jump out of the truck.

“Can I call you?”

I turn on the way to the house. “I don't have a phone.”

“Can I see you again?”

I shake my head and hurry through the door. What was I thinking? My back against the door, I bury my face in my hands, weep as if it all happened today, and know my life is never going to be any better than it is at this moment.

“
THEY
'
RE COMIN
'
TO TAKE ME AWAY
, hee hee, ha ha, ho ho,” repeats in my mind. I don't know the song, just the one line, but I can't get it out of my head. I can't stop shaking, rocking, crying. What am I doing in the middle of the living room floor? Why can't I get up, pull myself together? I did everything right this time. How did it go so wrong?

——

There was a man. What was his name? He showed up the last time I spoke with the group about addiction. Another thing that went wrong: the others made it clear they wouldn't be asking me to speak again. It was a cold, wet night in early October, and we'd gone to speak to an Amish community in Tuscola, Illinois. I didn't even know the Amish had problems with alcohol and drugs, but there was a big crowd at the old schoolhouse. I looked out over the audience, many of whom were men with beards and flat black hats, women in long dresses and bonnets, and a number of young people. There was also an older man in the front row that didn't look like he belonged there.

Even though I'd had a few drinks, just to take the chill off and calm my nerves, I wasn't drunk. The group, which consisted of the local sheriff, a doctor, and other concerned professionals, put me in charge of the bong, where they burned pot so the people could identify the odor if they smelled it in their real lives. As I sat there, drawing in great breaths, I began feeling pretty good. I spoke last, but couldn't remember what I said. The crowd filed by to look at the drug paraphernalia, sniff the marijuana. One Amish man, his wife and two teenaged sons in tow, said, “It smells like burning leaves.” My response was, “Well, if it's not fall, and you smell that, it's probably pot. That shit just hangs in your buggy.” The boys laughed, but their father went to speak to the sheriff who was in charge of the gathering. In the meantime, the out-of-place older gentleman who had looked up at me from the front row walked up, handed me a slip of paper, and said, “In case you ever need us.” On it
was written “AA,” his first name and last initial, and a phone number. Infuriated and insulted, I turned sharply and knocked a glass pipe to the floor, where it shattered into pieces. Who the hell did this guy think he was?

——

What was his name? I need that slip of paper. Drawing in a big gulp of air and releasing it slowly, I struggle to my feet. Rubbing my hands together vigorously, wringing them, I try to stop the shaking to no avail. It's as if I've got one of those diseases, palsy or something. As I rummage through old purses, jackets, it dawns on me: I threw it in a trash can as I left the Amish schoolhouse. Rita! Rita will know his name. Awkwardly, I dial her number. I try to sound casual, and we chat about inane things for seemingly endless minutes. Finally I ask Rita for the man's name. Off the phone, I fumble with the phone book until I find the one she gives me.