Page 108 of Close Match
Oh, God.
“Please, let me drive, sweetheart.” I’m crying, sobbing, begging.
His only response is to slam his foot down harder on the accelerator.
“Monty, I promise we’ll get through this.” I want to reach for him, but I’m afraid my slightest touch will startle him.
“What have you done but speed up the end of his life?” I shrink back against the door when he screams at me. My skin feels like ice.
“Is that what you think?” My breath catches on a sob. I’ve forgotten about Monty’s erratic driving in the wake of that devastating blow.
“Just let me concentrate, damnit. Can’t think. Maybe…”
“Monty, look out!” I scream.
Through whatever haze he’s in, my scream still penetrates. He jerks the wheel instinctively, but it’s too late. We’re already crashing through a picket fence. The windshield shatters and sprays shards all over the two of us. My hands lift to cover my face as the Jag tears through the rough spray of rhododendrons set a few feet back.
The last thing I consciously remember is the wet sliding its way along my cheek from my eye towards my mouth.
I don’t know if it’s blood or tears.
Act 3 – Then don’t give up.
Sixty-Six
Evangeline
February
Ever since the night we were brought by ambulance to Loudoun County Hospital, I’ve calmly answered when asked who Monty is to me, “He’s the man I love.” I’ve endured pathetic looks from everyone. But they don’t know what I do. Montague Parrish—the man inside—is utterly broken. His strength is an illusion, and he’s been coping by using alcohol as a crutch. It’s not right. Nothing of what happened is.
It wasn’t when my mother did it either. Did it make me love her less? No.
Does it turn off my feelings for him? Of course not. This is the reason I refused to press charges and instead pushed for rehabilitation.
But if at the end of his treatment, he’s unable to live without the bottle, I’m strong enough to walk away with a clear conscience.
But in the darkest of moments, it’s hard not to let doubt creep in. Then I remember he didn’t realize what he was saying, that it was the alcohol taking over. The man who yelled at me wasn’t the man who held me so tenderly while I restored my sense of self. This is the man who made me realize I could rise even higher than the stars above Broadway through love. He cradled me in the tub in my fear and told me his secrets in the rain. It’s that Monty I remember when I put my hand to my heart, and it’s the rhythm of his beating I feel.
I’m not a fool though. What he did negates my absolute commitment to him, to us, but it’s hard to obliterate my love. But it’s not me who has to fight for absolution, for forgiveness, for us. It’s him.
I sit here waiting to feel the final blow of grief or to thank God for yet another miracle.
What everyone’s forgetting is that down to his soul, Monty is a man built to protect the defenseless. It’s going to destroy him even further when his faculties are restored enough to realize what happened. It’s exhausting to keep reminding people we all succumb to demons when the foundations of our world have been shattered.
Leaning my head against the cold glass overlooking Central Park, I watch as people mill about on the street below. It’s so easy to forget when you’re surrounded by all the luxuries money buy can that you’re just as susceptible to the powerlessness any person can feel. How many people wandering below are feeling this way but don’t have the means to get help for those they love? Or themselves? One second, one minute at a time, I’ve been trying to heal, and the tendrils of strength are starting to reappear. But I’ve had one hell of a support system. How many people wander alone questioning if they’ll have the courage to love again because they don’t. I let out a tired sigh.
The question nags at me until the phone rings, distracting me from my introspection. Crossing over to the couch, I pick it up. A smile tightens the still-healing skin on my cheek. “Hey, Dad.”
“Hello, beautiful. How are you doing today?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Due to his age, and the problems he had initially accepting my bone marrow, my father’s still enjoying his hospital stay longer than anticipated.
“Damn hospital food. I told Char I want Coastal Flats the minute we set foot out of this place,” he grumbles.
This surprises me not in the least. “You must be feeling better if you’re thinking of your stomach,” I tease gently.
“I’d feel better if you were here when I got out,” he retorts.
