Page 113 of Close Match
“Last page.” I wait for her response. When she comes over and wraps her arms around both of us, I let out a huge sigh. “I’ve been working off this premise he wants to get well, that it was all a mistake. What if…” I cry harder.
“Then as awful as it seems right now, you move on. You take the good you found—Everett and Char—and you move on.”
“That seems impossible,” I tell her honestly.
“Right now, I’m sure it does.” She kisses my head and then her son’s. “Now, let me get this cleaned up. How about coming to our place for dinner? Marco’s taking a night off of work to spend time with this little guy. We’re going to order in some Chinese.”
Since I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts, I agree. Soon enough, we’re out the door and headed toward her building. But I’d be lying if I didn’t wonder, as I rocked my nephew to sleep later, if Monty had the same attitude as my mother.
If the words that escaped his mouth that I thought was part of a drunken rampage were indeedin vino veritas—his genuine opinion of me.
Sixty-Nine
Montague
Iused to think that the world was made up of rules and order. It was simple; if you followed the rules, you’d have order.
Since I came to the rehab facility, I realize there are strict rules for a reason. They’re not just for the protection and well-being of the patients, but for the staff who are trying to heal us. But it’s so different than real life where, despite what people think, there are no rules, and there truly is no order. I understand now what I didn’t before. Life is a nothing but series of chaotic patterns that causes a person to do something completely insane.
I can’t help but think back to the conversation Linnie and I had when we left the Holocaust Museum. My answer was so resolute, almost without compassion. Even though I don’t technically have a record, I’m one of the criminals now. I’m one of the statistics. And now? I’d have a different answer to give her.
Grief.
I can’t say I don’t crave the comfort the bottle offers me when my nightmares wake me up at night. The journal Victor gave me to write in is often a poor substitute for the oblivion I used to find at the bottom of a glass of Maker’s Mark.
But it’s an even more inferior substitute for the warmth of Linnie’s body curled next to mine.
I would keep the shakes, the night terrors, and all my fear if I could somehow keep her, but I doubt that’s an option. As I heal with one hand, I’m losing with the other.
Some of the other patients here believe there’s a higher power guiding them through this healing process. That’s for each person to decide. Once I would have believed in a miracle, but I wasted mine at the bottom of a bottle.
That’s the grip I have on my sanity.
Closing the journal, I glance at the clock. 3:48 a.m. Why do the most uninhibited thoughts come out at the hours when I’m supposed to be sleeping, I think wearily. I have only a few hours to head back into bed to rest though it’s doubtful I’ll sleep. Dropping the notebook and pen on the chair I just evacuated, I make my way back over to the narrow bed and crawl in between the sheets Mom sent down after her and Dad’s visit. They were—of course—thoroughly checked out for contraband before the gift was passed along. I let out a long sigh while my fingers pick at a loose stitch.
If I could give up sanity to bring Linnie peace, I would.
Closing my eyes, I think about her long dark hair as it would cascade on my chest. Turning a pillow sideways, I clutch it a little tighter. “I’m so sorry, my love,” I whisper into the darkness.
My arms contract on the pillow one last time before I’m pulled back into sleep.
Seventy
Montague
“I’m glad you think you understand why I made the decisions I did, Victor,” I lash out. “Because I sure as fuck don’t. I ruined my entire fucking life because I lost the ability to carry the burden I needed to.”
“Is that what you think, Monty?” my therapist asks me.
“Damn straight.”
“What do you think was the most important decision you made in your relationship with Evangeline?” God, just hearing her name sends a shaft of searing pain through my chest.
“Driving home to the house, blaming her for things beyond her control, and demanding she get into a car with me,” I say firmly.
Victor’s shaking her head. “The most important decision you made was to become involved with her,” he says, shocking me. “What happens after—everything that happens after—is life. A lot of it is perfect, but more often than not, it’s either mediocre or downright crap. Finding your partner is finding the person who’s willing to stick through those times with you.”
“I don’t remember anything,” I admit quietly.
