If I Die Before I Wake (8 page)

A few months ago, the men in my local meeting insisted it was time for me to get a woman sponsor. They had a woman in mind. I contacted her, met with her, and we'd been meeting regularly ever since. One day, I tried to talk to her about Tom, who still called frequently. Before I could explain that I'd been in love with him since the age of 20, that I had thought of him every morning, every evening, all those years, and that I still do, she shut me down. She might as well have been standing on a chair, wagging her finger at me while she told me that I was not ready for a relationship, that I needed to stay away from
him, that all I needed to be concerned about was my sobriety and accepting my life as is. I wanted to tell her that I needed to resolve the situation with Tom, deal with my feelings, so that I might find a bit of peace in my sobriety, but I realized it would be an exercise in frustration.

The following day, I approached Helen, whom I'd spoken to many times about Tom. She said, “Do you love him?” I nodded, barely able to contain the flood of tears that threatened to fall. She was thoughtful for a moment before she said, “Maybe you ought to open the lines of communication instead of hanging up on him every time he calls. Keep the door open. You never know what might happen.”

A sob escaped from the deepest part of me. I wept. What Helen suggested was what I wanted, but fear held me back. Tom was the one person with the capability of hurting me beyond repair. Helen pulled the bedcover back and said, “When you stop taking risks in life, you might as well crawl in here with me.”

The next time Tom rang, I took Helen's advice. I felt like a teenager with a new boyfriend, right down to the fluttering heart and butterflies. I let him in.

Then, it happened. He showed up in Sullivan late one night and called me. He was drunk and told me that the police said if he didn't get off the square they were going to arrest him. Against my better judgment, I drove to the square and let Tom follow me home, my only intention being to get him sobered up so he could drive back to Mattoon. But he wanted to stay at my place. I refused. He said he didn't have enough gas to get home. I told
him I'd follow him to the gas station. He said he was too tired to drive. I told him I'd get him a room at the motel. He tried every ploy he could think of before he finally gave up and left.

I had taken the risk. It didn't work out, but it didn't kill me. I still loved him, would probably love him until the day I died, but that didn't mean I could be with him. I learned a valuable lesson that night. I'd walked through a fear that had haunted me for years. I accepted the truth of my feelings for Tom, but understood that it was time to tuck them away and never drag another man, like all my ex-husbands whom I didn't love, into my life. If I couldn't be with Tom, it was time to live my life as a single, independent woman … sober.

——

By the time Angel and I arrive back at the apartment, I'm feeling better. It's time to get showered and dressed for the day ahead. Having remembered the risk I took with Tom, I can put on a brave face and get through a new experience today. I don't know why everything new I do has to be a struggle, but maybe one day, if I keep trying, facing my fears, it will get better. Something Jack told me early in my sobriety crosses my mind. He said, “From this moment on, you don't owe anyone anything anymore.” It seems like all my life I'd done things I didn't want to do for people I didn't particularly like for one reason or another, but usually to make them like me or to feel as if I fit in. Maybe that's where my current feeling of dread is coming from—worrying about fitting in today.

——

My ride is here. I scoot into the backseat next to Anne and Patty, both dressed in nice dresses and heels. Jack turns from the driver's seat and comments on how attractive I look. I assure myself I look presentable in the beige slacks and a crisp white cotton blouse I picked up at a thrift store. I spent a lot of time washing them out by hand. I hung them near the heater to dry, then pressed them on a towel on the kitchen table.

By the time we reach the Holiday Inn in Decatur, I am relaxed. We've been sharing drinking stories, talking about different meetings, and I forget to worry about what I'm wearing. It's going to be a good day. Inside, we're ushered to a table for six where Paul, a longtime friend of Jack, awaits our arrival.

The problems begin with a tray of six champagne flutes on the waiter's tray. It's a champagne brunch! For every patron who is buying a meal, the golden bubbly is free. The others laugh and decline the wine, but I want it, can't take my eyes off the chilled, sweating glasses, can almost taste it, feel the oblivion take hold. It takes everything in me not to tackle the waiter as he walks away, grab the glasses, and drink every drop.

On the way home, I feel like I've been in a blackout for the past three hours. I know I was there, ate the meal, listened to the speakers, and met new people, but it's all a blurry background behind the tray of drinks foremost in my thoughts. When the car pulls in front of the apartment, I can't get out, away from the others, fast enough. I've had an epiphany. Either I'm an absolute fraud, or there is something seriously wrong with me.

As soon as the car turns the corner, I gather up Angel, jump in my own car, and drive to the cemetery. It's not unusual to visit the graveside of my son on the weekends, to sit near his gravestone and talk to him about my week, the changes in my life. This day, it's different. I can't stop crying, don't feel the connection to him, my thoughts consumed with the times I sat in that very spot and drank whiskey until the gut-wrenching pain in my heart was obliterated. I don't know what to do with that pain anymore. It's like an open wound with no salve.

Exhausted, cried out, I drag myself back to the car. Upon leaving, I turn the opposite way out of the cemetery drive, take the road through Kirkland to the highway so I don't have to pass the liquor store on my way into town. I barely got past it on the way out of town. At home, I pace back and forth through the three rooms, my mind working furiously. Is everybody else in the program doing what I've realized I'm doing—mouthing the prayers and slogans, going with the flow, all the while wondering why I'm doing it this time? Am I simply working another system to meet some sick need to belong? Am I deluding myself into believing I can ever be any better than I've ever been? What is the point of it all? The kids are dead, the husbands and boyfriends gone. I basically have no family left that wants anything to do with me, and my life is going nowhere.

I'm so tired. I drop onto my bed and pull the blanket up to my neck. What I wouldn't give to go to sleep and never wake up. The prayer crosses my mind. I say, “If I die before I wake, I pray the Lord, my soul to take.” Maybe I'll be reunited with my kids, Mom, and my Aunt Ruthie. Angel jumps on the bed to
curl up next to me. What would happen to her if I died? What about Helen? Helen needs me. She would be so disappointed if she could see me now. Once she told me she loved me so much that if I ever took another drink, she would fire me.

For a moment, thinking of Helen calms me. But she's dying, has told me she is ready to go at any time. Her undying faith allows her to believe a part of her will go on, will be reunited with her loved ones. I want to believe that. but I don't. All I can think of is the pain I'll suffer when she leaves me. As much as I appreciate the meetings, Helen and Angel keep me from crossing that fine line back to insanity.

What a time we've had together. I love being at Helen's house, fixing her meals, having someone to eat with and talk to. She lets me bring Angel to work with me because my apartment is so hot in the summer. I stay cool at night by soaking a sheet in cool water and laying it on the floor, where I can sleep in front of a fan. Helen's nicely furnished, air-conditioned house is a blessing. One of the few things Helen can still enjoy is food. We come up with all kinds of ideas for special meals. On her birthday, I surprised her. She loves to read Essie Sommers romance novels, which are set in England. I'm hooked on them too. In the back of some of the books are recipes for English food. Using the recipes, I created her an entire English meal, from Scotch eggs to Yorkshire pudding. Some of it was edible, some of it not so much. We ate. We laughed. We decided English cooking was not my forte.

Although the family is paying me as if I'm working, I can't wait for Helen to get home from the hospital so we can get back
to our normal routine. I suppose I should call one of those AA people. That's what they tell us to do when we are in crisis. It's hard, when I have this much time sober, to admit the truth. Today, I want to drink more than I want to be sober. I tell myself I can't listen to any more AA crap. I resent those I go to with my problems who quote the book, bring up the steps, and tell me to pray. I'm doing the best I can. As soon as I think it, I know it's a lie.

Other members of AA have made suggestions. I've tried some of them. I have three prayers taped to my bathroom mirror. I read them out loud each morning, but they are meaningless words. I try praying, to make an effort each night to write down three things for which I'm thankful. I've started half-assed attempts at making amends to those I've hurt. It all seems like just another con on my part. I don't mean it. I don't feel resolved. It's those damn steps and the God stuff that are holding me back. Maybe I'm like one of those people mentioned in the big book who are constitutionally incapable of being honest with themselves.

I won't get drunk today. I want to be there for Helen when she comes home. Reluctantly, I pick up the phone and punch in the numbers.

IT
'
S NEARLY EASTER
. Carefully threading the needle, I tie it off in a knot and push it through the thick white fur. Another few days, and I'll be finished with the Easter rabbit costume I'm making for the big egg hunt at the park. It has been a job sewing the entire thing by hand, but the extra money will come in handy. I'm saving up for a small window air conditioner to buy before the sweltering days of summer hit. The landlord said they would remove a window so I could have it installed if I agree to leave it there if I move. Since I don't know how I'll
ever have enough money to move, I agree to the terms. I can't go through another summer like last year.

No one could have been any happier than I to see the new grass sprouting through the soil, trees budding, and flower shoots poking their heads up to meet the sun. It was a tough winter. On the coldest nights, Angel and I curled up on the old couch together and shared body heat. Every two to four hours the alarm sounded, informing me I had to get up to start the car, let it run for a few minutes, and place a heavy rug over the radiator. If I didn't, it would be frozen up in the morning, and I'd have to walk to work.

Before someone told me how to keep my car going, I walked a lot. When the temperature dropped drastically, I went to my meeting and shared my plight with the local men. I thought surely one of them would start giving me a ride or at least look at the car. It's not like I could afford to take it to a garage. Instead, one of them said, “Do you have good boots?” I did. He said I should be grateful for that, and put an end to the conversation. I seethed throughout the hour meeting, stomped home through the snow and ice, took the boots off, and threw them against the wall of the tiny living room.

Early the following morning, the same man showed up at my apartment, put jumpers on my battery, got the car started, and told me how to keep it going in the frigid weather. I regretted the horrible names I had called him in the privacy of my home the night before. The truth was that he was right to ask about the boots. I hadn't always had them. Years ago, when I attended college at Eastern Illinois University in Charleston
and lived on state aid, Jon, Angel, and I lived in a tiny motel room that had been converted into an efficiency apartment. The only pair of shoes I had gave out, the soles separating from the leather. I had to go to class. With only a few dollars to my name, I ran into one of those dollar stores. There was a basket of sandals on sale. I grabbed a pair, paid for them, and left. I didn't realize until I got to school and put them on that they were two entirely different shoes. I had to wear them.

The final stitches in the big rabbit feet done, I stuff the ends with cotton wadding and go to check on the papier-mâché head. Once it dries, I will add another layer of newspaper soaked in the flour, salt, and water mixture. I love making costumes and have been making them since Jon started school. At Halloween when he was in the first grade, I made him an entire knight costume from cardboard, tinfoil, and glue. He won first place. After that, people began asking me to make costumes for them. It has always been a good source of extra income.

Easter Sunday I awaken to a strange sound. Opening the door to let Angel out, I can't believe my eyes. Everything is covered in ice, the trees and power lines sagging from the weight of it, blades of grass and flowers frozen in mid-growth, the car completely covered with a layer of ice. I won't be going anywhere today … and what about my rabbit? Although I feel bad for the kids who won't be at the park for the Easter egg hunt, I'm glad I already got paid for the costume.

Between the money I made for the costume and money I made at Christmas for creating handmade piñatas, I have enough
stuck away in a can in the kitchen cabinet to purchase the air conditioner. Things are looking better.

Spring comes slowly, but with the bright sunshine emerges a feeling of hope. I don't mind the cold, or the snow and ice, but I hate the gray days that seem to last forever in Illinois. One more week, and I'll be going to the store to buy a small air conditioner for my bedroom. It will be like heaven after last year. I'm proud that for the first time in my life, I'm doing things right: working, paying my own bills, making my way in life without the help of a man, without lying or cheating anyone. It feels good.

——

Something is wrong with Angel. I fall to the floor next to her jerking body. She goes limp in my arms. NO! Not my Angel. God, please don't take her from me. I can't breathe. I can't think. I've got to do something. Laying her gently on the bed, I dial Jack's number. He comes quickly. By the time he arrives, Angel is up, but disoriented and walking in circles. Carefully, I wrap her in a blanket and hold her close as Jack drives us to the vet.