“I'm seriously fucked up, I know that.”
“Please—”
“Give it a fucking rest, lady. Is your mother like this, too? Is this how she drove away your father? Harping on him all the time?”
“What did you just say?” My back went ramrod-straight. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard.
“You heard me,” he mumbled, though he didn't repeat it. He took a swig of his scotch.
“Did you ask how my mother drove away my father?” He just looked at me through bleary eyes. Choking back tears, I explained what had really happened. “My father died of lung cancer when he was 48. So you can fuck off.”
He looked down. “I didn't know.”
I was shaking now, filled with rage and pain. “I don't like talking about it. I try not to even think about it, it was so awful. But if you weren't an asshole, you might have asked me about my dad. Have you ever noticed that I wear his sweaters all the time?”
“I just thought you liked dressing like you were homeless.”
So now he was insulting me on top of everything else? “You are such a fucking baby,” I yelled. “You have no idea what I've been through. You’ve never taken care of anyone but yourself. And you don't even do that well.”
“You're so good at telling me to get up off my ass,” he sneered, his voice venomous. “But you never do it yourself. You're too scared to do what you really want. You’re good at lecturing me and trying to make me feel like a failure, but you're not exactly off following your dreams."
Tears streamed down my face and I bit my fist, so angry and hurt all at once. I wanted to scream, throw his bottle of scotch into the fireplace, burn the house down with my fury. But that wouldn't do any good.
He wouldn't change. He'd sober up tomorrow and apologize, but it would only be a matter of time until he had a bad day and this happened all over again. I knew what I had to do. I had to get off the roller coaster. It made me sick and sad, but since when had life ever been easy?
“Goodbye, Ian,” I informed him. “I'm quitting.”
“Suit yourself,” he growled. When I didn’t move immediately, he shooed me away. “If you're going to go, then why are you still standing around bothering me? Go!”
I spun around and left the room. There wasn't much to pack in my bedroom, and I had it all stuffed into my suitcase within minutes. I'd left my family home not two hours ago with the intent of making a break from all the dysfunction. Now it looked like I'd be plunging myself straight back in in no time at all.
The next train didn't leave until six the next morning, so I spent a sleepless night pacing in the bedroom. Broken-hearted, wounded, I forced myself to take stock. I could blame Ian, blame my mother, find fault with my sisters, but I needed to take a real look at what I'd done to get myself where I stood today. I couldn’t take the easy way out and wallow in self-pity. I needed to figure out where I’d gone so wrong so I could make some serious changes.
I would head back to my mother's house on the first train, but this time the house would be a way station, not my final destination. I didn't know what I'd do next, but I knew it had to be something different. The choices I'd made up to now had not served me well. It was time to turn my back on the past, and start living my life.
Just before sunrise, I walked downstairs, not at all surprised to see no sign of Ian. He would probably sleep until noon, then awaken, rubbing his eyes and not quite remembering what had happened the night before. I wouldn't leave him a note. I'd let him fit the puzzle pieces together himself. Perhaps he'd never remember exactly why I quit. It didn't matter either way.
Out into the start of the early morning light, I made myself a promise. Beginning right then, I wouldn’t accept compromise. I deserved more out of life, and I was going to go get it.
14
Ian
The day Annie left, I barely got out of bed. My memories of the night before were foggy, at best. She hadn't written a note saying she was leaving, yet I could tell. It was as if there was a finality to the quiet emptiness of the house. I knew without looking that she’d cleaned out her belongings. I wouldn't see her out in the gardens anymore. She wouldn't come bustling in the front door with groceries, or fight with curtains in the living room. She was gone for good.
I felt too shitty to care. Dimly, I was aware that at some point I would, but right then everything hurt. I'd taken a bad fall and managed to smash my knee, bang my elbow and whack my head. Who would have guessed I could do myself so much harm in such a short period of time?
Sunday morning, it has been raining hard when Annie had left. It wasn’t a day to attempt a walk outside, but the day had dragged on and I felt restless. Over the past month I'd been working out steadily, building both my upper and lower body strength, and I was starting to see results. At least I thought I was.
I'd clearly overestimated my abilities. Feeling sturdy and sure on a treadmill with sidebars to keep me steady and support my weight was a far cry from walking outside on uneven, slick rocks. I’d meant to simply follow a path around the house, using my cane. I only ventured out to the lookout point because the ocean had looked so tumultuous, churning and gray in the storm. Stepping too close to the crumbling edge, lost in the ruthless view, I’d lost my balance. My cane slipped and I went down hard. I was lucky I didn't break my wrist or shatter my elbow.
With no one around, and no phone on me because I'd headed out without it like an overly-confident idiot, I'd lain there on the rocks in the pouring rain for a while. Cursing a steady blue streak, I'd blasted the rain, the slippery rocks, my faulty cane. I'd cursed all of the doctors over the years who'd said that they could help me.
I'd cursed Annie for inspiring me to try. Before she came into my life, nothing could have induced me to head out for a walk in the heavy rain. Back a few months, I wouldn't have found myself lying out there injured in the mud. I might have still been asleep. If I had been awake, at that time of day I would have been enjoying a mug of coffee, maybe doing a crossword.
But there I was, alone, bleeding, helpless. That's what I got for reaching too high. Icarus had tried it, flying up toward the sun with his wax wings. Heat had melted them when he got too close and sent him plummeting to the earth. I'd let myself catch some of Annie's optimism. Like a disease, her pep talks had infected me, pumping me full of false hope. Look at where that got me.
Most of all, lying there in the mud, I'd cursed myself. What kind of an idiot was I, heading out for an exercise walk in the pouring rain without a cell phone? Had I thought my 40-minute daily exercise routine had somehow cured me? There was no cure. I’d forgotten that.
It was because of all the time with Annie. She made me forget myself. But lying wounded in the mud, I remembered.
I’d managed to drag myself, slowly and painstakingly, crawling on my belly like a rat back to the house. Struggling to the kitchen, I’d downed a fistful of the remaining painkillers Annie hadn’t thrown out, managed to wash my face, hands and bloody elbow, and changed my shirt before the narcotics started kicking in. Once the welcome numbness began creeping over me, I grabbed a couple of bottles and made it into the library to stretch out on the couch. If I’d had my way, I never would have gotten up from it again.
Annie found me there, hours later. I hadn't expected her until the next morning. I couldn't remember much from our interaction. What I did remember seemed like a nightmare. Images came back to me of her face stained with tears. I remembered calling her Mary Poppins. Worst of all, I remembered why she wore those hideous sweaters.
Her father had died of cancer. That I remembered clearly, her yelling at me, asking hadn't I wondered why she wore those sweaters? The details were foggy, but I was pretty sure I'd continued to insult her. I was pretty sure I’d pulled off the ultimate trifecta, insulting her mother, her, and her late father all in one drunken blast.
Picturing her in
those hideous jumpers, too old and big, I felt as low as gum on the bottom of a shoe. Still, indignant, sulky protests popped into my mind. Why had she never even mentioned her father before? How was I supposed to know?
But even as I tried to find her at fault, I couldn't quite do it. She'd told me that losing her father was too painful to talk about. I, of all people, should understand that some subjects weren't fun to discuss. No, it was on me that I’d made assumptions about her single mom and her family situation. I was the one who’d fucked up.
I felt physically awful the day after she left. Two days after, the mental anguish overtook the physical. By some stroke of luck, my injuries were minor. The scrapes and bruises would heal. The damage I had done to my relationship with Annie would not.
She was gone for good. I had lost the best thing that had ever come into my life, and I had no one but myself to blame.
The thing that most frustrated me about depression was the clichés. Deep in the midst of pain, tormented and ripped apart by the demons in my own mind, I was still self-aware enough to realize there was nothing special about my situation. Songs had been written about it. You don't know what you've got ‘til it's gone.
My despair and self-loathing left me at the end of the road. I could turn hard left or right, but continuing on as I had been over the past couple of months was no longer an option. Annie was gone, and with her the reawakened hope she'd fostered in me. The small steps I was beginning to take both literally and figuratively, working out, cleaning house, cutting back on the booze and pills? That wasn't going to work anymore. Either direction I chose, it would have to be a dramatic change.
I could man-up and pick the uphill battle, fighting with all I was worth to get my life back on track. I could explore every option available to restore and improve my physical health. Taking stock of where I was at and what I wanted to achieve in life, I could start going after it like an attack dog.