Bethany Lopez

(First two chapters)

Chapter 1

It isn’t like TV or movies. We never sit in a circle and the coffee isn’t free. At this meeting a donation of $1 is strongly encouraged. Long, brown tables fill the musty room and circles of cold fluorescent light bounce off their surface. Outside a helicopter flies low, buzzing the building and temporary drowning out the droning of the secretary at the front of the room. I wonder who it’s chasing and if some dangerous fugitive will burst into the room in a blaze of gunfire. I stare angrily at a window covered with a flap of cardboard that blocks out the cool night breeze. No free coffee and no air-conditioning. 

I’m a newcomer. The newcomer at this Wednesday 8pm discussion meeting. At least I don’t have to stand up and admit it anymore. I’m a week away from 90 days sober and am finally starting to blend into the crowd. Every meeting I attend feels like it’s overrun with old-timers who have decades of sobriety on me. They are grateful alcoholics, and I hate them for it. I do not feel grateful for these skin-clawing cravings and the dreams I have of getting loaded every night. 

Elise pokes a finger into my ribs and I jump. 

“Listen!” she hisses. She always knows when my mind drifts. I shift in my seat sitting up straight for a moment before my shoulders inevitably slump back to their natural position. My newly-sober mind finds it impossible not to drift — especially when a speaker rambles on incoherently, unable to form thoughts or make sense. Their brain too damaged. They got sober too late. A living, breathing cautionary tale.

In these rooms, I’m lucky. I haven’t killed anyone, been thrown in jail, been ordered here by a judge, lost everything, or much of anything really. On the surface, I appear to be a “high-bottom drunk”. But no one knows my bottom. No one except Elise. What kind of fucked up parallel universe do you have to be in where rape isn’t a low bottom?

In here they would call it a “God Shot”. To me it was just a lucky coincidence. Elise with eight years of sobriety under her belt just happened to be working the register at CVS the day I walked in nursing a hangover in search of Gatorade, vodka, and morning-after pills. A first time cocktail for me. When I paid at the register my hands were shaking too much to maneuver my driver’s license back into my wallet, so she threw it in the white plastic bag holding my purchases.  

“Are you ok?” 

I was far from ok. I started crying as soon as our eyes met. Four hours and  an order of street tacos later she walked me into my first AA meeting. Deep down I knew this is where I would end up. These were my people. This is where I belong; among the thieves, cheaters, master manipulators, the liars. The biggest lie I’ve ever told is that I’m a bad liar.  

Elise listened. No one had listened to me in a long time. 

I shook as I vomited out the night before. Typical black out. Atypical outcome. At least for me. So many drunken hookups over the years. They exist in this fuzzy place in my brain. I lock them there. They escape when I’m alone at night in my bed and I flush hot recalling how I behaved. I hope I’m the only one with these memories. I can’t own my promiscuity because alcohol already staked its claim.   

I told her about how my binging had slowly evolved into some level of impairment 24/7. How I planned my life around drinking. Avoiding restaurants and gatherings without alcohol. My father the angry drunk. My helpless mother. How I needed something to dull the pain of growing up in that house. Something to take the sting away in the bad times and something to amplify the happiness in the good times. 

I think I told Elise everything and when I was done she asked if I would like to go to an AA meeting with her. I followed her. Desperation’s sharp fingers kneaded into my back, pushing me along. 

Behind me the door opens. We all instinctively look and see a nervous man. An obvious newcomer. His eyes ask if he’s in the right place. Of course he is. No one walks through these doors by mistake. Most of the room looks away from him after a second, playing it cool, trying not to scare him away. A few smile and wave him in. Elise sizes him up. Head to toe, casting a glare of aggressive judgment. I know when the cigarette break is called she’ll approach him and greet him properly. It’s what she does. I just want to be invisible but it’s impossible being invisible with Elise. 

Elise fills the room. Physically and emotionally. Tall, thick and strong like an Amazon. A tower of a person topped with bleached blond spiky hair shaved on sides and the most impeccably-applied eye make-up I’ve ever seen.  She was famous a decade ago. Made a list of the most powerful TV producers in the Hollywood Reporter. She became a gay feminist icon– a crown she wore hesitantly, but proudly–, all while being drunk out of her mind and wondering why she wasn’t happy. She was high functioning until she wasn’t. 

One too many falls on red carpets and drunk shenanigans at after parties led to whispers about her drinking, but her real crime was that she stopped making money. After her third show in a row failed to be picked up she quietly left the scene. Her phone stopped ringing and she stopped calling. It was a mutual breakup. She fell into the “lost everything” category of AA, but somehow she was happy. Happy working a register at West Hollywood CVS. Grateful. Damn her. 

Chairs slide against linoleum and the group stands unintentionally in unison for the ten minute break preparing us for the fifty minutes of former-drunk wisdom we are about to experience. I dislike speaker meetings. It growing increasingly rare for the speaker to be good. They range from rambling to forgetful to repetitive. If I stay sober maybe I will be asked to speak. No way I could fill fifty minutes. “Hi, I’m Jana. I used to drink. Then I was raped. Now I don’t drink. Please join me in the Lord’s prayer.” 

I wander outside for some fresh air hoping no one tries to talk to me. Elise has already approached the late newcomer. He barely makes eye contact and slowly backs away from her nodding his head when she introduces herself. You can’t catch them all. 

Elise swats away the cloud of cigarette smoke swirling around me. I breathe deeply. The smell reminds me of freedom. The illusion of being carefree. I miss this illusion. 

“You’re not calling Charlie are you?” Elise asks. I can’t control my eye roll and audible annoyed sigh. It’s automatic when I feel like I’m being scolded. A very teenage response and unsightly on a thirty-three year old.

“No.” It’s the truth. I’m not calling Charlie. We haven’t spoken since the day I moved out. Have I been thinking about him obsessively? Of course. 

“Did you do your writing?” This time I do manage to stifle my eye roll and sigh. AA has homework. We’re supposed to “write about it,” “It” being our feelings. In my first couple of weeks I thought I would stumble across something profound in my rambling chicken scratch. A realization and the reason why I am what I am. Seems to work for other people.  

Now Elise wants me to write about what I think my “higher power” is. In east Texas, my higher power was a terrifying entity who saw everything and hated me. Per the pastor at my grandfather’s funeral, I was going to hell because I didn’t attend church. I was seven. 

My parents believed in God. My mother loved angels. Every December she would drown our house in angel dolls and figurines she would snatch up at during after Christmas clearance sales. Our living room looked like it was gearing up for a holy war. The angels standing guard in a long and intimidating line on the coffee table and entertainment center. As a family we didn’t subscribe to any religion and didn’t attend church. In my town this was the equivalent of taking the mark of the beast and sacrificing virgins on our front lawn. 

My sister, Leslie, thinks if we had gone to church we would have had a much better life. I guess she thinks church attendance would have cured my father’s alcoholism and prayer would have rid him of the tendency to be an abusive dick. I stopped caring about our lack of religion around middle school. Around the time I really started to understand what hypocrisy was.   

“I’m working on it.” Elise can detect the lie but lets it go. Maybe she can see how this line of questioning is making me crave a drink. It is this careful dance of push and back off that probably keeps me in AA.  

My enthusiasm for AA is waning. Suddenly sobriety doesn’t feel better than the memory of intoxication. My eyes are drawn to the neon lights of bars and liquor stores. I can feel the phantom whiskey, vodka, tequila on my tongue. The warmth of the burn down my throat and splintering off in my veins to my fingertips, my toes, my eyelashes. I want it more than I want air. The pink cloud of new sobriety has dissipated. 

I know I should get back to that place. When it seemed like AA readings were written about me. Just for me. “Pitiful and incomprehensible demoralization” someone long ago had predicted me and knew I would one day need this message. I used to break down and cry during the readings. Cry from being buried under so much truth. AA was a life-line and I was obviously drowning. I did what they told me to do. Got a sponsor. Went to thirty meetings in thirty days. Did my readings, my writings. And things were going smoothly, until one day they weren’t. 

A Tesla cut me off on the 101. Entitled dick. Of course he thinks he’s better. He drives a Tesla and I drive this ten-year-old Toyota compact. The damn mail lady won’t stop sticking junk mail for the entire building in my mailbox. A person I cold-called at my telemarketing job told me to get a real job. A meeting ran out of coffee the same day I decided to save money and skip my morning run to Starbucks. Obviously the world is out to get me. Why not pile it on and take a peek at Charlie’s Instagram? Palm Springs. Vegas. A few of our old LA haunts. Lights catching condensation on bottles. Ambiguously-framed images filled with lens flares and women I don’t know. Their hands resting on Charlie’s chest. His leg. His face. One millisecond before a kiss. 

What the fuck do sober people do when things take a shitty turn?  A hard day at the office equals a whiskey straight up. An exhausting day with the kids? Pop open that bottle of cab you’ve been saving. 

I had been sneaking booze from my parents’ liquor cabinet since I was thirteen. Right after Leslie turned fifteen, ran away from home and got pregnant. Those nocturnal pilferages were not my first drink. That happened a year before on a family camping trip. On a canoe, with my cousin Kurt, in the middle of a lake deep in the Texas piney woods. He was five years older and he scared me. His moods were volatile and being around him reminded me of being around my father. Carefully avoiding landmines and running for cover when that strategy failed. I didn’t feel I had a choice when he told me we should go for a paddle on the lake. 

His chest was a fire with a fresh sunburn. The uneven and unrecognizable tattoos he claimed his friend had given him with only a sewing needle and some ink were dark against his red skin.

He removed a berry wine cooler from a small red cooler and handed it me. Kurt must have noticed my disappointment as he popped open a can of beer I recognized as my father’s. He had promised me orange soda. 

“You’ll like this more. I promise.” 

I was the goody goody. The one with good grades who always said “Yes, sir” and “Yes, ma’am”. My aunt was constantly bellowing at cousins that they should be more like me. They wanted to take me down a notch. They had no idea who I really was. It wasn’t my fault they were too stupid to realize the best way to do whatever you want is to fly under the radar. 

The wine cooler was fizzy and sweet. I gulped it down and for a while only felt my stomach expand with the carbonation. I didn’t start to feel any kind of buzz until I was halfway done with my second one. And for the next twenty years I was consumed with the need to experience that feeling over and over again. That sweet spot. When every bone, muscle, tendon down to your cells feels warm and light. When smiling feels like your natural state and laughing doesn’t hurt. 

My parents never knew. They had so many bottles and I only ever skimmed off the top. They enjoyed their own cocktails every night before bed so they just assumed I they were drinking it themselves. Every trip to the grocery store took us on a detour to the liquor store. I drank only at night and only alone. No need to attend high school ragers where the chance of getting caught was too high. 

Alcoholics usually have their favorite drink. Mine is the highest proof at the lowest price. Something probably better suited to clean a toilet. I had no time for palate pleasing bouquets of flavor.  

A bell rings and cigarettes are extinguished and people shuffle inside for the rest of the meeting. 

# # #

I toss and turn on the hand-me-down mattress Elise procured for me. After almost three months in this little Koreatown studio it is still the only piece of furniture I own. Sleeping when I was still drinking wasn’t great, but it  happened. Yes, it was restless, but it still existed. Sleeping while sober does not happen.  

Besides the insomnia, my physical withdrawal has been mild compared to some AA horror stories. I didn’t have to check into an inpatient detox. Didn’t get the shakes. But my skin still crawls, especially when I’m alone with my thoughts. Best word to describe my detox? Uncomfortable. Like a tiny pebble you can’t kick out of your flip flop. Or a relentless gnat flying in your eyes.  

I crawl off the bed and onto the wooden floor. I lay in snow angel position. I can’t stand for any part of my body to be touching another part. Then suddenly the urge overtakes me to curl into a ball. All body parts must be touching now. And I rock myself. Burying my face as hard as I can against my knees. It hurts my nose.  

I miss the bungalow just off Melrose that I shared with Charlie. In the spring when we’d open the windows the breeze carried the stinging scent of citrus from our neighbor’s lemon tree. My new neighborhood swirled with exhaust fumes and an assortment of off- brand fast food cuisine.

“You are so sexy.” Charlie’s voice floats in the middle of this agony. I squeeze my eyes shut seeking out this memory. Searching for something good in this abyss of misery. “Sexy.” It was the first time we slept together and I couldn’t believe it has happening. 

I have yet to come across a cliche about Los Angeles that isn’t true. It is filled with dreamers, people reinventing themselves, transplants. No one is from LA. You live here long enough and you can’t avoid your life becoming entangled with these dreamers who have reached varying levels of success. From sitting behind the new “it” girl and her giggling entourage at a movie in a nearly-empty theater on a Wednesday afternoon, to a recognizable TV actor who enjoys weekly bar trivia at a trendy old Hollywood restaurant. Famous friend of friends of friends cross your path and invade your real-world existence. 

Once upon a time there was a boy named Charlie. He came to Hollywood with big dreams. But who doesn’t? He was the pride of his small town in a far off land called Iowa. When they thought of talent they talked about Charlie. “That kid is going to be something”. 

But Charlie had a secret. A secret he never told another soul. He didn’t think he was good enough. For he had an emptiness inside of him that could never be filled. He was missing something. A very important piece that prevents you from always feeling that you’re miserable failure and allows you to know that you are truly loved and people aren’t just pretending to be your friend. The piece that stops you from needing to drink away the terror of life. 

So Charlie left his small safe town to see if that piece of himself was in Los Angeles.  He did what he was supposed to do and what was expected. And he did everything the best. Extra work in movies turned into commercial work which turned into guest spots on a variety of true crime shows playing the body, the witness and then one day he was promoted to murderer. He became recognizable. “Oh, that guy!” they said. “I’m going to buy that guy a drink!” Charlie loved his fans. 

At twenty-two he was cast in a network show which became a “cult favorite”. That’s code for low rated. It lasted four seasons and lives on in syndication fives times a week at 4:00 am. He’ll probably have drinks bought for him for the rest of his life. A “fun brush with fame” story tourists can tell. 

Despite what he thought were his best efforts Charlie stayed at “Oh, that guy” levels. Popping up occasionally in your favorite high-rated sitcom delivering a one-liner and a raised eyebrow or selling you a male fragrance that would make you irresistible to women. Too many times he showed up for a job blitzed. Who did this guy think he was? He didn’t have enough fame or money-generating capabilities to make trouble.   

We were bound to cross paths. Two explorers. Two failures. Two drunks. There are a finite number of bars in Los Angeles. Finite number of people. You’ll eventually run out of both to discover. 

I met Jason at a temp job deep in the San Fernando Valley. About eight of us sat in a small windowless room. We were each assigned to a cubical and a phone. How telemarketing is still a thing remains a mystery to me. Our only supervisor was a harried woman who would peek her face in the morning and after lunch. That was our cue to minimize our browser widows and look like we’re intently studying the spreadsheet underneath. 

Jason demanded the room. Loud and partial to instigating intense discussions about the state of art in our society. He wrote. He directed. He produced and ‘when necessary’ he acted. I wondered what he meant by “when necessary”. Were there acting emergencies I wasn’t aware of? The equivalent of flying on a plane when someone has a heart attack and they ask if there is a doctor on board? He made sure everyone knew he was too good for this temp job. We all thought we were too good, but we didn’t advertise it. 

He only talked to me when he had exhausted all the pretty girls. I was polite while wishing he’d leave me alone. 

Every week he invited everyone out to what he described as this great low-key place on the Hollywood border and despite living close at the time I declined the invitation. I only liked going to bars in the evening before they got crowded. But one Thursday he said the magic words. Happy Hour. 

The bar was small and uncrowded. Dimly lit. Smoke from outside drifted in and blues played at a perfect volume. I liked it. I looked around searching for Jason or someone else from work. And that was the first time I saw Charlie. In real life. Not on screen. He was sliding a credit card across the smooth antique bar.  The bartender waived him off. The universal it’s on the house sign. And it took a second for my brain to dig up the memory of me pausing to watch a too-handsome blond guy on a television in my dorm common room. Oh that guy!

Jason had befriended Charlie at an audition which I would find out later apparently never happens. As the reality television gods have said you’re not there to make friends.  Jason was proud of his semi-famous friend. Charlie may have been the real reason for these constant invitations. A status trophy for him to show off. 

And how could one resist showing him off? He looked like a damn Disney prince. When Jason introduced us I examined Charlie’s face searching for some kind of flaw, but couldn’t find one. 

Charlie signaled to the bartender. 

“What are you drinking?” I looked around thinking he couldn’t be talking to me. Jason had already wandered over to a table of women and I had expected Charlie to follow. Instead he took a seat next to me at the bar. 

“Jack Daniels. No ice.” 

“Wow. You mean business.”

“Well, we’re at a bar.”

He smiled, “I admire that.” 

He was not my type. Too good-looking. Too LA despite his heartland roots. And as much as I wanted to turn away from the intense glare of his blue eyes I couldn’t. 

As the night went on we kept talking he winked at me. Wrapped a toned arm around my waist. It was playful and innocent on his part, but I turned into a cartoon character. Stuttering over one syllable words my eyes turning into giant throbbing red hearts. 

He was looking for a roommate. I needed to escape the downtown apartment I shared with a manipulative model who wouldn’t pay her share of the utilities. Around midnight we realized we were the answer to each other’s predicament. We could match each other whiskey shot to whiskey shot. What more was there to know about each other?  

A temporary living situation turned into three years. We were sometimes partners in crime, sometimes best friends, sometimes convenient hook-ups. And I waited for him to fall for me the way I fell for him.  I hate that I’m still waiting. 

I hate myself for missing him. I hate myself for a lot of things but right now missing Charlie is number one. 

I can end this never-ending shame spiral with Nyquil. Just for tonight. Just to help me sleep. I hope this isn’t breaking my sobriety. Just in case, I won’t tell Elise. 

Chapter 2

“Good morning, I’m calling from the Firefighters Aid Association. Do you have a moment to discuss—” The line goes dead and I breathe a sigh of relief knowing I’ve probably dodged a disgruntled elderly person who has asked many times to be removed from this call list. 

The job description from the temp agency sounded better than most. Clerical work for a charity. I can do clerical. I can do good deeds. This was neither of those things. Usually, I have an idea how terrible a job is going to be. Like the time I worked in the stock room of Sears folding and hanging clothes. Does not sound fun, and it was not fun. So you have to give it to the Firefighters Aid Association. They surprised me. 

After four days working here, I suspected that The Firefighters Aid Association wasn’t exactly on the up-and-up. From their vague mission statement, We help the heroes, to their unmarked sketchy offices, to the fact that besides myself there was only one other employee/owner–my boss, it was becoming clear this was less aiding firefighters’ and more aiding and abetting. 

My cubicle is empty except for a landline phone and thick packet of Excel documents with names and telephone numbers.  A script of exactly what to say if someone actually picks up is taped next to the phone on the desk. At least previous jobs provided a computer I could stealthy surf the internet on. 

I’m to make a sales pitch about why they should donate to The Firefighters Aid Association and update contact information when needed. People move. People die. A lot of deaths. Only old people have landlines anymore. 

Despite his dishonestly-written description of this job and his ripping off old people my supervisor Tim seems like a nice enough guy. I appreciate that he doesn’t hover over me and doesn’t give me a call quota, but I was excited this mind-numbing assignment was ending. Imagine my surprise when he approached my cubical before lunch and told me he was finalizing a call packet for me for next week.   

“I thought this assignment ended on Friday.”

“No, I told the agency I’d need someone for a while.” Tim smiles like he’s delivering good news. 

A while? How could there be no definite end to this? 

# # #

I eat an age inappropriate Lunchable out of a plastic grocery bag sitting on a low concrete wall under some shade. All the park benches lining the road are taken with other lonely workers eating their lonely lunches and few homeless people nod off in the hot June sun clutching plastic bags bursting with unidentifiable possessions. 

I should really eat a vegetable. Would some broccoli undo years of binge drinking and greasy fast food hangover cures? 

A wind tunnel forms between the skyscrapers and I sit on the plastic lunch bag to keep it from blowing away. 

How the fuck do I get out of this job? The thought of coming back here with no end in sight is unbearable. My horrible life choices stretch out in front of me reminding me how I ended up here. 

My singular focus growing up was escaping. I’d watch planes fly over my house burning with envy for the people on it flying away.  I had no special talents, but I was smart. And poor. Scholarships were my only ticket out of there. That drive kept me up until three o’clock in the morning hunched over physics or pre-calculus homework. Teachers loved me so recommendations were no problem. I played volleyball, basketball, ran track. Was on the school’s literary magazine and even dabbled in drama and choir. I looked great on paper. Escape was my dream. My full-time job. So consuming that I forgot to decide on an actual career and goal after my flight from a southern gothic cliche. I entered college with my major undecided. And I exited three semesters later still undecided. And here I sit more than a decade later. Undecided.  

I scroll through my social media feeds since I feel bad about myself anyway. My sister, Leslie, just posted something. She posts a lot. It’s a picture of her and my nephew Hezekiah tubing on the Comal river. Coolers filled with beers and lime-a-ritas strapped to their tubes. 

A cold beer sounds amazing.  

“I shouldn’t wear a bikini,” Leslie frowned, examining herself in a full-length mirror taking note of every flaw that no one can see. I sat on her bed dressed for a day of fun on the river and waited for her to get over her insecurities so we could go. Four summers ago I flew to Texas for a visit. Leslie sounded like she needed me. She had just filed for divorce from her husband, Shawn. She called often, wine fueling her near hysterical sobs and fears about dying alone surrounded by dogs. She’s allergic to cats. 

“She shouldn’t be wearing a bikini,” Finally on the river, she shared her thoughts with me under her breath her eyes guiding mine to a woman thick with flesh that’s pinched into an american flag bikini. The woman was having a blast. Laughing, smoking, tipping a bottle of Shiner back. Blissfully unaware of Leslie and her opinions. The woman was free. I envied her. I slipped into the cool gentle currents, suddenly aware of my small breasts, cellulite and a million other things that disqualify me from wearing a bathing suit in public. 

My sister’s and nephew’s smiles frozen in time look up from my phone as I fight to block the glare of the sun. I wonder who took this picture. Perfect framing. Perfect lighting. Perfect social media Leslie. 

She had Kai when she was sixteen. Shockingly that relationship didn’t last. Kai didn’t know his biological father. After years of struggling as a single mother she met Shawn and it looked like her troubles could finally be over. 

Shawn was a recently-divorced father of two who coached Kai’s soccer team. His ex had scored a hefty settlement with alimony and child support but he still had plenty of money thanks to his position of vice president at a large oil company. He fell for Leslie instantly, but she played hard to get. Eventually, he wore her down with flowers and expensive dinner dates. I liked him, and he was fun to share a drink or twelve with. His drink of choice – Crown Royal. 

He loved Leslie, and more importantly he adored Kai. Bought him the newest and greatest everything. He hugged Kai seemingly unembarrassed and unaffected by the southern masculinity that led many men to never show affection towards anything but their dogs. 

But Shawn also believed in tough love, and when he felt Kai misbehaved he never hesitated correcting him with his belt. And Kai changed. He went from a sweet kid who would run to me chanting “Aunt Jana, Aunt Jana! Aunt Jana!” well into middle school, to a moody and dark adolescent who barely tolerated my hugs. I refused to accept this was just teenage hormones. 

“I don’t want or need his money.” Leslie slurred over bottles of Lime-o-ritas. After the river we soaked in her hot tub swatting away mosquitoes in the Texas twilight. Leslie discovered Shawn’s affair when his mistress called. She was done being just the side piece.  

Dehydration, heat, and Lime-o-rita made me nod my head enthusiastically. In that moment I felt close to her. 

“You don’t!” I said overcome with the illusion of true sisterhood. But she did need his money. We both knew she did but I seized this moment of closeness because they were so rare. 

Leslie and I might as well have been different species. She criticized me for not being a lady, but never told me what that meant. Maybe it was that I wore pajama pants in public or would go days between brushing my hair. I hated that she was physically incapable of leaving the house without her makeup applied. She could spend an entire day clothes shopping while I grabbed the first shirt off the first rack and called it a day. As aggressively tomboyish as I was she was an unapologetic girly girl. The only thing that bonded us was our shitty childhood, and as the years passed it was clear that was not enough to hold us together. 

Across the street ladies lunch in a downtown street side restaurant. Sip their mimosas or their martinis straight up. Giggling at the naughtiness of their daytime drinking.

 I used to liquid lunch with Charlie. Starting with Irish coffees ending in whiskies straight up. Charlie always picked up the tab.  Over time, our roommate agreement was more lax and I contributed to rent and bills less and less. We lived simply. Staying in more than going out and squeezing every penny we could out of his royalty checks. I might have gotten room and board, but he got a full time admirer. An on-call-24/7, biggest fan. I ended up being dependent on a man despite swearing I never would. I wasn’t Leslie. I wasn’t our mother. But I am. I am both of them. Take care of me. Love me. Protect me. 

# # # 

After lunch I gather my courage and approach Tim’s door, hovering just outside. He looks up, smiling, and waves me inside. 

“It’s so nice having someone else in the office for a change.” He picks up his coffee cup, never breaking eye contact with me while he sips. I laugh nervously. This is getting more uncomfortable by the second. 

“Tim, I just wanted to say that I appreciate this job so much—” His smile drops and I continue, “But I thought it ended tomorrow.”

“If you appreciate it then you should be happy.” His eyes drill into mine as he places his cup on the desk. His once smiling face like stone. The silence between us begs to be filled and I feel an urgent need to diffuse the situation. So I conjure up an old stand-by. Submission. I cast my eyes downward, my voice soft and quiet. 

“I am happy, and so grateful, but unfortunately can’t come in next week.”  The force of Tim’s loud exasperated sigh seems to propel him backward into his chair. 

“These damn temps.” He grumbles. “If you don’t want to come in next week how about you not come in tomorrow?” I sit frozen and in shock at how quickly this escalated. 

“I’m sorry?” It’s a question. Would my regret make this better?

“You should be. You know not all jobs are going to be dream jobs, Jana. But you should be a mature enough person to show up. You’re going to get a rude awakening in this world. Good luck.” 

I rise from my chair as Tim begins feverishly dialing a phone number. 

“Is Margot there?” Margo is my contact at the temp agency. He’s tattling on me. 

# # #

Elise’s first sponsee killed herself a week before I shuffled into the CVS to buy morning after pills. Heather. The group was still feeling it and sometimes I felt I was an invader when I sat in Heather’s usual seat next to Elise. They looked at me with bewilderment, some with tears in their eyes.  They tried not to talk about her, but a lot of the meetings ended with the theme of you just can’t save everyone. 

The only thing I know about Heather was that she was in AA and NA. She celebrated one year of sobriety took her cake Elise presented her beaming with pride and gratitude. Then went back to her apartment and hung herself. She was drunk and high. No one knows if she relapsed that same night or hadn’t been sober for a while. 

Elise’s jaw now tightens at the mention of her name. Heather’s death is her failure. No one thinks this but Elise. 

People congratulate me on choosing Elise for my sponsor. Say I chose a good one. I don’t correct them. She chose me and I’ve never been more closely supervised in my life. She was the first and only person I called after getting fired this afternoon. 

“You’re too soon into your sobriety to stay in a bad situation if you have the means to leave.” 

I don’t necessarily have the means but before the job with Tim I hope I proved myself to be a decent employee. I showed up which was pretty much the most important thing in temp work. 

The reprieve from Elise did motivate me to be on my best behavior during this meeting. My back is straight against the chair and everytime I can feel my mind slipping into other thoughts I internally scold myself.  

My phone rings in my purse. I jump and bend down to retrieve it avoiding what I can imagine is a severe look of disapproval from Elise. I flush and shame sweat bubbles up on the small of my back. How did I forget to turn it off? Charlie’s face appears on the screen. It’s him. He’s texting me.  I flip the ringer off and duck out of the hall as fast as I can. Suddenly not caring about the disturbance I’m making.

Call me. My stupid heart pounds in response to these two words. I grip my phone looking down at the text and pacing. What could he want? To tell me how wrong he was? That he loves me and wants me to move back in? 

I look towards the hall and see Elise examining me through the windows. She would not want me to call him. She’d want me to put my phone up and come back inside.  She’d probably want smash my phone a dramatic gesture of defiance. 

The line rings long enough for me to have second thoughts about my second thoughts. How is he not answering? He just texted me. Charlie finally picks up. 

“Hey.”

“Hey.” I wonder if he could hear my voice shake. 

“How are you doing?” A question he sounded unsure he should be asking. 

“Fine.” We take a deep breath in unison. We haven’t spoken for almost three months. After years of being so intertwined. I left right after I told him about Jason. How I came to after blacking out with him on top of me on the floor of my walk-in closet. How I told him to stop and he didn’t. How he only stopped when he was finished with me. 

I left the bungalow for good right after Charlie said he didn’t believe me. 

Jason would never do that. 

You both were drunk. 

Hook-ups happen. 

I mean look at us. 

I left everything I owned which wasn’t much. Charlie’s house was fully furnished when I moved in. Including my bedroom. I went straight to Elise because I had no one else to go to. Elise took me to a meeting. Then to her apartment where I stayed until I found my own place a couple of weeks later. I was so close to the edge. So close to becoming Heather. 

So much silence. A thousand different universes wait in that silence, waiting to see if they become reality. In one universe Charlie apologizes and begs my forgiveness. In another I say “Have a nice life,” and hang up walking confidently into the meeting and into my new life of sobriety. Finally it’s Charlie that chooses a universe. 

“Uh, well, there’s a kid here, Kai- who says he’s your nephew.”