Stay

Stay

By Heather Ann Martinez

We were up early looking at the first sunrise of our marriage. After many proposals, I finally agreed to marry you. The sunrise was perfect. Our coffee cups were warm and seemed nestled into married life. We thought we would have thousands of mornings to look forward to like this. We thought there would always be sunrises we would enjoy or some we would even forget and spend a few extra hours in bed alone. We forgot our hearts, our passions and what we were asked to do. We knew we were not born to be on this little planet circling a sun alone. We could not ignore our neighbors in need. What brought us together was a meal at a homeless shelter in the heart of the city. You were working off some community service hours for a DUI and I was helping in the way I knew how.

Where you came from money, I did not. I could rub more than a couple of coins together. I had a little more than most in a savings account, I suppose. I never forgot that the people I shared a community with did not have that much. Many of them served in a war when they were just out of high school. We armed boys with tags and guns. We called them men, but they were scared kids. Some of my neighbors are single mothers. I walk some of their kids to the local elementary school in the morning so that their mothers can catch the bus to the subway station. I knew it bothered you, my dear husband. I thought you were more upset with the fathers that left their children, but you were angry with me. You were angry with the time I took away from you. I admit I did not see it. I did not think about it. I did not pray about it. I just acted. I just wanted to help the children that played basketball in the courtyard. I wanted to be there for the kids that brought me my mail when I was sick, and took our dog out when we weren’t home on time. I wasn’t aware that what I was doing was not what you wanted me to be doing. I thought you understood that you had a great upbringing, and there are so many people who did not have the same opportunities.

Somehow, I could not ignore their faces. When I was at work, I thought about you of course. I thought about the kids I had walked to school earlier that morning, and I thought about all of the people I would meet throughout the rest of the day and week. I felt blessed to be a blessing. I thought you were on board with what I was doing. After all, we met serving this community. You moved into my apartment and gave up your penthouse suite. You gave up many of your luxuries. I thought you understood that we were meant to be here. I thought you would heal here, that you would embrace our neighbors more than the bottle. It wasn’t me you were missing every morning. We may have shared coffee and many sunrises, but we also shared a lot of secrets. You drank from the time you rolled out of bed until the time you dragged yourself to bed sometime in the evening. You didn’t pretend to sugar coat your intoxication. You even invited me to join you. I’d pretend to sip whatever you had or throw out whatever portion you gave me. You’d sing bar songs and speak loudly at me. You would apologize when you were sober. You would attend A. A. when it suited you. You would remind me you knew you had a problem. You would say that you were winning the battle. I did not think you would win the war. I thought you were stronger before we married. I didn’t know how much you drank until we moved in together. We were weeks away from our wedding date. I thought you would change.

In my own mind, I thought you would see that what you were doing was hurting us. There were moments it seemed obvious. You made such a spectacle of yourself at the holiday party my boss threw for the company at his home. You slurred every word you said and called my boss several names to his face. I tried to stop you. I apologized for your behavior. I cried. I grabbed your arm and you brushed me away. I wanted to leave, and you wanted to stay. In the end, we were not given a choice. My boss called the police. You spent the night in the county jail. The police officers told me I should not make any excuses for your behavior. They heard every excuse in the book. They said it was a miracle that I didn’t have any bruises. I told the police officers you were never violent. You were not a mean drunk. Somehow, you kept your job. At least, I thought you kept your job. You were not at home during the day. I knew most of the bars in our area did not open until after one. It didn’t occur to me that you weren’t frequenting bars in our area. You would start drinking at your cousin’s house before ten. You’d continue at your mother’s house around lunchtime.  You would call your sponsor, and you would lie. You would tell me you were going to stop. You just needed a little bit more time to taper off. You thought you could go without treatment. You said you would do anything to put us before your next drink.

You wrote out a declaration and signed it. You wanted to do anything to stay sane, to stay sober, to stay with me. You had some small victories. You learned how to deal with stress. You opened your eyes in the morning, and there were some mornings you saw me. There were some mornings when I saw you as if for the first time. I wished we could have inhabited those moments a bit longer. I didn’t want them to become memories. I didn’t want anything to distort them. I didn’t want them to fade. I loved you more in those moments than I loved you outside of them.

It has been a year now. You finally agreed to treatment away from our home. The doctors have said you are making progress, but they do not think you will be ready to come home for a while. I do not wake up to the sunrises. I moved out of the city. I hope that some day you will be able to join me in this rural sanctuary. I stay up every night and watch the moon reflecting on the lake.