Midnight Curse

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her die again. In every agonizing detail. No matter what, he could never save her. And he tried, boy did he try. Her big brown eyes widened, the headlights cast a shadow over her face, but he could still see the fear. The last thing she ever screamed was his name, “Thomas!” It echoed in his ears, even in waking hours sometimes. So did the sound of all the glass shattering, who knew there would be so much glass.

He shouldn’t have been driving so fast, it was raining after all. They were arguing and in his anger, his foot became heavier on the pedal. Not intentionally of course but when someone dies, your intentions mean fuck all.

He spent months in the hospital, he had nine broken bones and needed 110 stitches. Doctors and nurses spent hundreds of hours putting him back together again and teaching him to walk and dress himself. He hated that they wasted their valuable time. Sometimes he imagined they ignored him until he died a slow, painful death behind the curtain. It’s what he felt he deserved. Or maybe he deserved to live and suffer.

Doctors prescribed many things, starting off light and hopeful with Prazosin and eventually throwing the entire medicine cabinet at him. Nothing worked. The dreams pierced through everything.

As probably expected, he turned to booze. Pints became half gallons. He could drink an entire 30 pack himself. He drank more and more everyday like it was some kind of competition. Even fall down, black out drunk, the dreams still visited him like a midnight curse. Only now he would startle awake in a pile of vomit. Soon drugs joined the booze, the dynamic duo it usually is, he wasn’t picky, he took whatever he could get his hands on. After two trips to rehab at the urging of his devastated mother, he was sober a year and two days. A victory he hardly felt like celebrating.

The door bell rang, it was his mother like it was every Friday. She had two brown bags of groceries for his empty fridge. Her weekly check in. “Steak was on sale,” she said, pushing past him into the kitchen. She started putting dirty dishes in the sink and turned on the water. “I’ll make you one before you go to your meeting. Brought a baked potato for ya, too.”

She knew that was one of his favorite meals, “Thanks, ma.”

“How was work this week?” her sneaky way of making sure he hadn’t been fired or quit yet. Like the five jobs before this one.

“Good as it can be,” he said. His newest gig was washing dishes at Waffle House. He’d been at this one a good three months, some kind of record. They had plenty of hours for him and keeping busy was good for his sobriety or something like that.

She started poking through his mail on the counter, a couple late notices caught her eye, “You’re behind on your power bill?”

“Oh, I just gotta pay it. Haven’t had a day off yet,” he said. It was a half truth. He had the time, he just didn’t have the energy.

“I’ll drop it off with mine,” she slipped the bill in her purse and started the stove. “Meeting’s at seven, right?” Her weekly check in happened to be the same day as his AA meeting, what a funny coincidence.

“Right,” he said. While she was cooking, he started the dishes. Although it felt like she was dragging him half dead through a battlefield, he knew that if not for her he would surely be six feet under.

She dropped him off at the church. Sometimes he insisted on biking. He didn’t want to be his mom’s passenger princess, but his license was suspended after a DUI so his options were limited. “Pick you up at 8!” she said.

“No, ma, you go home. Sure you’re tired from work. I’ll catch a ride from a friend.” He didn’t have a friend. He would just walk but he didn’t want her to know that. She worried too much.

“Okay,” she said, but he could tell it wasn’t really, she still had that familiar soft look of concern. Moms can’t help it. “Text me when you make it back, please?”

“’Course,” he said, grabbing his water bottle and pack of smokes. “Love ya, ma.”

“Love ya too, kid.” Even though he was thirty, she still saw him as her little boy, especially lately, she was taking care of him more than ever.

The whole group was outside, most of them smoking and talking. He usually kept to himself. The meetings were just a way to pass the time. Most everyone had a sad story to tell, he listened and learned that addiction was often born from tragedy and pain. Once upon a time, he didn’t understand the addict. He missed that time.

“Hiya, Tom,” Pat made her way through the crowd, she had been his sponsor for the past year. She was holding the usual cup of black coffee and a lit cigarette. Most everyone else had a vape these days. Blowing big clouds of cotton candy mango blueberry pineapple smoke up into the sky but she always had a pack of Marlboro Gold’s, 100’s. “How ya doin’?” she took a long puff. Her hair was silvery and thin, pinned up with a clip that looked enormous on her small head.

“Doing alright,” he said. “You?”

“Can’t complain, I’m upright,” she laughed a little, it was raspy and rough. Then came a wet cough. “You didn’t call me this week, guess that means you had a good one?”

“Right,” he agreed even though he hadn’t seen a “good week” in a couple years now. Good in terms of sobriety, sure.

She looked down at her watch, “Alright, everybody, lets get headed in.” She stubbed out her cigarette and left it on the curb as usual, like a treat she could finish later. She often took charge, she’d been going to these meetings for far longer than any of the others. She was the self appointed mom of the group.

Tom never shared, he was a listener. He found comfort in the company of people who understand his struggle even if they don’t know all the details. He thought some day he might be ready to share, but that day wasn’t today.

It started to drizzle a little on his walk home, you’d think it would be refreshing but the drops were hot. Middle of August in Georgia, it’s not the best time for a walk, especially a long one. A beat up red car slowed beside him and pulled over, it was Pat, “Tom, get in, I’ll give ya a lift.”

“Thanks Pat,” he got in even though he really didn’t want to, he was dreading the conversation they would have to make. Her car was full of empty coffee cups, he kicked them with his feet to make room. Now he was the passenger princess to his elderly sponsor. What a sense of humor life has.

“You’re down on Abercorn, right? In the little condo’s?” she turned the radio down, Highway to Hell was playing. He found it to be fitting.

“Yeah, the second one on the right.” He pictured the home he had shared with Elizabeth. It was a small little place and needed a lot of repairs but it was theirs. He stopped making payments during one of his binges. He lost it, like he lost her and he lost himself. That was home to him, not this condo, but that doesn’t matter anymore.

“You been sleepin’ any better, Tom?” The answer was already written on his face, in the exhaustion and dark circles, the addition of wrinkles faster than time should allow. Most people would not recognize him from before the accident.

“Yeah, little bit,” he lied because he just didn’t want to talk about it. Pat nodded, she never did push him. She knew he wasn’t ready and you couldn’t push someone to be ready, that’s not how this stuff works.

He laid in the bed and stared at the ceiling. As cars drove by outside, the lights would dance and make shapes up there. He didn’t want to see Elizabeth die tonight. Not any night.

He always tried to fill his head with good thoughts right before falling asleep. It never helped but he did it anyways. They got married on a crisp October day. She was laughing, a big laugh that went up to her eyes, she was spinning in her beautiful white lace dress. God, she was such a sight. In the morning, she was so mad at herself for getting a wine stain on her dress but he loved that about her, even her messiness was graceful somehow.

He woke first that next morning, her blond curls were spread over her pillow, her lips slightly parted. He couldn’t believe he had married her the night before. How lucky he was.

He started to drift off to sleep, hoping that the good thoughts would carry over, just one time.

“Thomas!” the scream. The headlights were headed straight for her. Those beautiful blond curls now matted with blood, glass peppered through out. Her face unrecognizable. EMT’s, “Stay with me, stay with me.” No, no, no.

“BETH!” he sat straight up in bed, gasping for air, feeling around in the bed like she would be right there next to him. Her side was empty. In fact, she didn’t even have a side in this bed. She never would. “Please,” he cried, tears in his eyes. “Please.”

He splashed some cold water on his face and stared at himself in the mirror, the self hatred was tangible. These are the moments when he longs the most for a drink. Last time he relapsed it was a night like this.

He grabbed his pack of Pall Mall’s and his phone, heading for the balcony. He kept a chair out there for this very reason. He opened the slider and stepped out, it was midnight. Streets were empty and the air was cool. There was the soft patter of rain on the pavement.

As he sat there in the silence, the slider next to his balcony crashed open and out came a woman. She was wearing a long white nightgown. It was sheer. And he immediately looked away because he could see her shape underneath. He cleared his throat so she would know he was there. “Oh!” she said, startled, crossing her arms over her chest. “What are you doing out here?”

“I can’t sleep,” he said.

“Me either.” He didn’t recognize her but he knew that someone had just moved in. He saw the moving van a few days ago. “You got a smoke?”

“Pall Mall’s,” he couldn’t picture her smoking one of those.

“Can I have one?”

“I guess,” he passed over one smoke and the lighter. She passed back the lighter and sat on a stool, taking a long drag.

“What’s your name?”

“Tom.” He didn’t ask hers but she didn’t care.

“I’m Zoey, just moved in. You look sad.” She was not very good at social cues, she always said what she was thinking.

“I am,” he said, startled by his own honesty. It came too easy.

“Me too,” she said. “Guess that’s why we can’t sleep.” She had a book under one arm, she opened it and started to read under the dim light. He played on his phone, turning the volume down as not to disturb her. They sat without talking anymore, but it wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable.

The next night, the midnight curse came again. Back on the balcony he went, with his pack of smokes and phone. She was already sitting on her stool, this time in a baggy T-shirt and shorts. Her legs crossed, hunched over a book. Must be a good one, she was so engrossed. She looked up when she heard his slider open and smiled a little, “Hey, Tom.”

“Hey, Zoey.”

“Got a smoke?” she laughed a little, it was a sweet sound.

“Sure,” he passed over one smoke and the lighter. This became their dance.

“I made brownies, you want one?” she asked.

“Sure.” They were double chocolate with chocolate chunks. She brought him a little cup of milk too. She reached on her tip toes to pass them over. It was then he realized how beautiful she was. Wispy brown hair and chocolate eyes. There was sadness around the eyes and the mouth, a deep sadness he recognized. He didn’t know her story. He didn’t have to. He sat with her every night, on the balcony. A ritual, a passing of time, but one he began to look forward to and so did she.