Chapter 1
John visited a week after the funeral. The Tupperware of oatmeal cookies his wife made got confiscated at the front desk. They could be laced with something, said the unblinking woman behind the desk. Just too much brown sugar, John responded with a perfectly forced smile. The woman did not look up over her horned-rimmed glasses. She asked for his license and told him to sign and date the visitor sheet. John complied and sat in the last folding chair along the far wall and waited.
It wasn’t long before Daniel limped out, and because they both thought it was the right thing to do, they awkwardly embraced. Through hushed chatter, Daniel led them to a table on the far side of the common room. Daniel didn’t like his brother-in-law. For no reason; at least not a valid one. It was as though he possessed an allergy and John’s mere presence made him breakout in annoyance. That day Daniel hated John’s deodorant. And his face.
“How’s the food?” asked John.
Daniel shrugged. “I haven’t eaten much.”
“You should.”
There was emptiness beneath the skin from Daniel’s cheekbones to his jawline, like a corpse that hadn’t fully committed to being dead. “How are the girls?” asked Daniel. The words were tight, as though forced through a space too narrow for their meaning.
They sat in silence for a few moments. Daniel wished John would tell him lies to make him feel better.
“Emma doesn’t understand much,” said John, opting not to lie. “She asks for Claire. Especially at night. I mean, what do you say?” He ran his hand through his hair. “It’s tough. I don’t know what to say. None of us do.”
Daniel nodded. Emma was three. Her mother just died. Words were meaningless. Almost as meaningless as the extra cologne John was wearing.
“Yeah,” said Daniel. He and Claire would have celebrated their twentieth wedding anniversary next month if she hadn’t gotten sick. Maybe he would have taken her to that Italian place next to the mall. The one where they play music between the tables. She liked that, always saying how romantic it was. Daniel thought it was too loud, but Claire loved it. Maybe he would have taken her there if she hadn’t gotten sick. But probably not. Over the last eighteen months, her cancer is all that kept them together. Fucking catch-22.
“I didn’t want anyone to come,” Daniel said. He scratched the tender skin beneath his eye. He pursed his lips and glanced toward the clock behind John’s head. If he didn’t believe in the laws of nature, he’d swear the minute hand inched backwards. And giving him the middle finger as it went. God, he wanted a drink. Or ten. Or to bathe in a tub of whiskey and let each molecule of alcohol seep into his being through every pore in his body. His left knee burned and he stretched it straight beneath the table. “I don’t want to put other people through this.”
John opened his hands, revealing a smile that contained no joy. “I know,” he responded. “Neal asked me. Make sure you were okay.”
John called his father Neal, not dad or pop. That annoyed Daniel as much as the fact that his brother-in-law bought a new Audi every other year, but drank homebrewed beer out of used mason jars. Daniel’s tongue pressed hard against the gritty roof of his mouth. He had forgotten to brush his teeth. For three days he’d forgotten. Or had not cared.
John clasped his hands together and rested his chin atop the bunched fist. He started to speak, then stopped, then started again. “Dan,” he said, “use this time to get clean, man. The girls need that from you.” John inhaled deeply and stood. “You need something, let me know. Anything.”
The visiting room around them struggled with forced and hesitant conversation. Behind Daniel, a woman with fresh scabs up and down her arms held a baby close to her chest. The woman sobbed, struggling to keep her mouth closed, her overdone makeup streaking down her cheeks, pooling in the creases of her lips. Occasionally her tongue darted out to poke at the collection of dirty tears. Beside her, a man, perhaps her husband, perhaps the baby’s father, perhaps a necessary liaison between her and the outside world, leaned his head against the wall and placed a hand between her shoulder blades. His look was vacant, numbed to the routine. He patted her back and dropped his hands back in his lap. The man absently dug into the sides of his fingernails as she sobbed beside him.
“I appreciate it. Really,” Daniel said flatly. “Thanks for coming.” He meant it. He tried to not sound like an asshole. He was pretty sure he failed.
John nodded and left and Daniel was alone. Except for himself. That person he couldn’t get rid of. The days passed. Eighty-one more. During his few phone calls with Neal, Daniel told his father-in-law he didn’t want any visitors and was then angered by everyone’s willingness to obey. He committed himself as best he could to the exercises and counseling and slowly improved from painful withdrawal to painful sobriety. He cried every morning in the shower and once in the middle of the night. Never did he allow others to see. Never did he miss his wife as he felt she deserved. It was alcohol he missed more. It was alcohol’s embrace he dreamt of.
On that ninetieth morning, a morning Daniel once assumed was nothing more than a mirage on the unreachable horizon, he pressed his palms into the wafer thin mattress. He forced his shoulders upright and back in hopes of shrinking the new blubber that had taken root around his midsection. It didn’t. From the opposite bed, Howard’s belly protruded proudly into the air, its surface nearly entirely covered with coarse, black hair. A peachy knife scar ran down Howard’s side, almost to his hip. “I forgot the bastard was left-handed,” Howard had once said with a laugh.
Daniel dragged both hands down his face and stood quickly, pain again erupting from his left knee. He’d torn every ligament and some tendons taking the twins sledding when they were five. The resulting limp comforted him, a reminder he used to be something better. Maybe he could be again. But the extra weight had made it worse. He showered and shaved, trimming the unsightly hair around his ears. He cursed himself for not getting a haircut last week. If he forced one now, it’d be too apparent that he was primping himself for the day. He refused to give his mother-in-law the satisfaction. She already possessed enough ammunition.
“Getting all pretty and proper,” Howard said drowsily from his bed. He had a clear view of the vanity from his pillow and enjoyed narrating Daniel’s morning routine.
“I look like hell,” replied Daniel, examining the unsightly length of neck hair. “I should have gotten a haircut.”
Howard pushed himself on his elbows and coughed a month’s worth of flem, swallowing it in the same breath. “You do look like hell. But, too late now.”
“Too late now,” Daniel said.
“I can shave your head if you want.” Howard cocked his head to the side. “Although, I don’t know, with that gut, you’d probably look like a perv.”
One by one addicts, fathers, daughters, doctors, mothers, dripped in, filling the folding chairs that lined the perimeter of the common room. Daniel and Howard took two seats beneath the collage covered back wall. Arts and crafts time in rehab consisted of cutting large block letters from magazines and making recovery catch phrases. “Don’t do it for them. Do it for you.” “One drink is too many. A thousand isn’t enough.” “Sobriety is a gift.” From a distance, it looked like dozens of ransom notes plastered to the wall. Every time Daniel went to read an outdated magazine, he cursed the posters, knowing the secret behind Tom Cruise’s marital problems now lay behind a removed ‘T’.
Cliques based on drug preference formed around them. Most clients were there for pills or heroin, a few for coke or meth or an assortment. Daniel was one of three straight alcoholics, and for an odd reason, that often made him feel superior. Terry was on his second liver and Melissa chewed her nails down to nothing and cried during every group session. They weren’t open about it, but they’d been fucking since Melissa’s husband had stormed out of the visiting room, promising to return with divorce papers. Howard always whispered they’d be dead within five minutes of walking out the door. Daniel wondered how many minutes he had.
Beth, twentish, attractive if not for the erratic tattoos and sharp bones protruding through her skin, pushed by two women and stole the seat beside Daniel. Fresh lilac shampoo and women’s lotion filled his nostrils. Daniel often imagined Beth pouring the shampoo into her hand, then caressing it into her hair as the warm water spilled from the small of her back. Then...then he felt like a creep as new shame grew atop his old shame. Beth was barely older than his twins, Gretchen and Darla, and often looked younger. That didn’t stop the sensation in his belly from spreading.
Beth pressed her sharp shoulder into his. He didn’t press back, but failed at not smiling. Howard leaned across and gave her a silent fist bump.
“You’re out today,” Beth said, her words split between enthusiasm and disappointment. “That’s nuts. Yesterday, I don’t know, it felt so far away. Now it’s here.” She gripped his upper arm with both hands and gritted her teeth in overblown excitement. “Crazy.”
“He’s nervous,” interjected Howard. “Like it’s prom. Would you tell him his hair is fine?”
Her eyes narrowed and she studied the hair above his ear. “A trim wouldn’t kill you.”
Daniel raised his palms and looked at Howard. “I told you.”
“Nobody cares about your hair.”
Beth once again pushed into Daniel’s shoulder. “You look good. Stop,” she said with a flirtatious wink. “Healthy. Really.”
Daniel shook his head, feeling his cheeks redden under her spotlight. For all of his failures, infidelity had never been one of them. And despite Claire’s passing, he still felt married. And he still felt guilty for the thoughts that ran through his head when Beth leaned close to him. “It doesn’t matter,” he said and did his best to turn away.
Beth’s face tightened. Before she could respond, a trio of counselors congregated in the center of the circle, each holding a stack of manila folders. The room quieted. Only the newest admits continued to grumble. Then they stopped. The drone of lawnmowers started just outside the window.
Malcolm, long dreads pulled back and up in a type of man bun, broke from the circle, walking slowly within the group and fanning his face with the folders. Beads of sweat formed along his hairline, the open windows providing the room’s only ventilation. He smiled pleasantly, nodding, absorbing the anticipatory energy of the room. He crouched beside a bearded, tattered man. The man could have been thirty or fifty. The dirty patch of skin between his eyes and beard looked whitish, but could have been something else. His real self was buried beneath years of neglect and melting, wanting eyes. Daniel did not recognize him. He must have been dropped off in the night, left at the front door by a loved one, the cops, a stranger not wanting the man’s death or destruction on their hands. Malcolm rested a hand on the man’s knee, above a rip in what used to be jeans, and whispered something. The bearded man’s teeth showed awkwardly, as though he’d forgotten how to smile. Malcolm stood and raised the folders above his head.
“And so it’s graduation day,” Malcolm said with genuine cheer. “For those who are new, not in my group, I am Malcolm. In case you forget, I’m the only black dude who works here.” The room let out a few awkward laughs, most people having heard the one-liner at least twenty times. “Before we offer congratulations and good tidings to those leaving us, we have some housekeeping issues to address. In a few hours, we have at least four new clients joining us. Another three on Tuesday. I implore you, please, show them some decency. They aren’t here for your shenanigans. Don’t tell them the bathrooms have cameras. Don’t feed them lies just to see how they respond. Like each and everyone here, they want to get right, not deal with your shit pranks. Act like adults. Mature adults. Are we in agreement?” He scanned the room with raised eyebrows. “Do we need to hand out detentions?”
Malcolm covered other housekeeping issues. Men and women were not to visit each other’s rooms after hours. There weren’t special exceptions if it was for some toothpaste or a really important conversation. It went on. Daniel zoned out, wondering if his three-year-old daughter would look different. Was she still afraid to walk over the castle bridge at the playground? Did she still love pasta, but cry when it was called spaghetti? Three months for a three-year-old is a lifetime. She’d remember him. Of course she would. Unfortunately, of course, she would. If not now, she’d remember him as she sat in therapy on her thirtieth birthday.
He last saw Emma when he put her down for bed, rushing through Clifford because Gloria wanted him out of the house. Daniel hadn’t been drunk, but he spoke to his mother-in-law as though he was. Angry and distant. Unwilling to keep eye-contact. As though he didn’t care that his wife lay in hospice and that Emma had started to wet the bed again and hit kids at daycare.
In the story, Clifford jumped in the river to save a girl and her dog and the policemen were happy. Emma always asked why at the end of the story. Daniel didn’t know what the why pertained to, so he told her Clifford helped people and dogs. Why? That’s what you do when you’re stronger and bigger than everybody else. Why? You help other people and dogs. Why? It’s the right thing to do. Emma stuck her middle and pointer finger in her mouth and sucked, digging her front teeth into the callous that had formed shortly after her first tooth arrived and had only grown since. As Claire’s illness spread and Daniel drank, the callous grew.
Daniel had closed the book and turned off the light beside her bed, the nightlight flashing on and lighting the room to almost the same brightness. “Goodnight, my dear,” he said and kissed her forehead. She shifted, her hand never leaving her mouth. “Daddy,” she said as he neared the door. “It’s time for sleep,” he answered, taking a firm grip of the doorknob. “Clifford help mommy?” she asked. “No,” he responded, hating himself for not having a better answer, true or otherwise. “Goodnight,” he said and left. Except for his dreams, that was the last he saw her.
“And that brings us to Daniel,” said Malcolm. He remained in the circle’s center, but pointed to Daniel with the last of his manila folders.
Hearing his name rousted Daniel from the depth of his thoughts. He shifted higher in the plastic folding chair, feeling the judging, jealous, doubting eyes of the room upon him. He basked in the resentment. During Daniel’s first few days, he couldn’t fathom those at ninety days. Or sixty. Or three. He wanted to force something down their throats to make his own urges acceptable. Now, at the top of this group’s mountain, Daniel peered down at those placing minute atop minute. He wished them no ill will, but their unspoken animosity validated his achievements, however minor and trivial those achievements would be treated later in the day.
Malcolm introduced Daniel, not offering details of his circumstances, instead praising his willingness to stop rolling his eyes and puffing his cheeks when someone mentioned God. He invited Daniel to say a few words. Daniel waved him off. Malcolm persisted and Howard put an elbow in Daniel’s side. Daniel pushed off the chair and took hold of his certificate. He and Malcolm shook hands, Daniel’s grasp appreciative. Malcolm had convinced Daniel his own life was worth saving.
He tucked the certificate back in the folder and fanned himself awkwardly, licking his lips and raising his eyebrows. Sweat formed beneath his arms and between his toes. He suddenly felt exposed. What did he really have to offer them? He was just another fraud. Sober because others had told him it was the right thing to do. Sober because his dying wife made him promise. He had nothing to give anyone. As soon as the world wasn’t watching, he’d fill that bathtub with whiskey or vodka or even Mike’s Hard Lemonade. Wouldn’t he? Would he?
“Churchill once said,” Daniel started, “and I assume he said it when the Nazis were bombing the hell out of England. But he said, when you’re going through hell, keep going. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Or something like that.” Daniel looked at Malcolm and back to the room of half-vacant eyes. “So just keep going. That’s the only choice we’ve got.”
He sat to a few sprinkled claps.
Howard leaned over and whispered into his ear. “Did you just evoke inspiration from one of the biggest drunks in history for a room full of addicts?”
Daniel raised his eyebrows. “He was known for a few other things, too.”
After the meeting, Daniel retrieved his packed bag from his room and milled about the empty cafeteria waiting for the shuttle to the bus depot. John offered to pick him up, but Daniel declined. He had said all the goodbyes he felt were warranted. Even a few he felt were unwarranted in hopes of improving his karmic standing. Daniel wasn’t hungry, but he inched toward the refrigerator, thinking a yogurt would settle his stomach and mind. Howard walked in before he could open the door.
“Do they know you got fat?” asked Howard, planting one butt cheek on the closest table and his opposite foot on the attached stool. He twirled a cigarette between his fingers and then tucked it behind his ear. “Like Meatloaf fat.”
Daniel punched the smooth surface of the fridge, keeping his fist flat against the metallic cover, trying not to smile. Failing. “This is going to be rough,” he said. His stomach churned and he suddenly had the need to use the bathroom. “I’ll tell you, I’m trying to figure out what I’m supposed to say. How I’m supposed to say it. And I keep coming back to this. I have no idea what the fuck to say about anything. Nothing. I’m blank. How do I explain to a three-year-old why she had to go to her mother’s funeral without her father? Ever. How can I ever explain it to any of them?” Anger was the only thing keeping his sadness in check.
“Don’t. Not today.” Howard crossed his thick arms atop his mountainous belly. He dug something from his teeth with his tongue. “Today, just show up. And then do the same thing again tomorrow. Show up, show up, show up.”
The refrigerator’s fan kicked on and the monotonous hum drifted about the room. Daniel gripped the handle and then let go. “All I want to do is drink right now. What about that?” An angered edge entered Daniel’s voice. “That’s supposed to be gone. That was the deal. I come here, that goes away. And that didn’t go away.”
“No one made that deal,” said Howard.
“I did.” Daniel locked eyes with Howard. “I made that deal.”
Howard slid off the table and without hesitation wrapped his arms around his friend, engulfing him. “Don’t overthink this part. The beginning is always the hardest.”
Daniel patted Howard’s back and allowed himself to be squeezed and lifted off the ground.
“It feels like the beginning of hell,” Daniel said.
“Then you better keep going,” said Howard.
