The Dark Place

I promised to change. At least that’s what I told everyone. Now whether or not I was sincere at the time, I couldn’t tell you.

I promised to change when I was nineteen. My mother sat at the kitchen table praying into a bowl of half-snapped peas, while Daddy flicked me with holy water like I was a cat who had climbed onto the Christmas tree.

“You’re going to hell, girl!” he screamed. Spit flew from his mouth, and his face was as red as the tomatoes freshly picked from our garden. I stood there with droplets of water running down my skin staring at the picture of Jesus above the mantle. I already knew I was a sinner, and no amount of holy water was going to cleanse my soul. But, to appease my disgusted parents, I vowed to change. To be the sweet Catholic girl who prayed every night before bed, who faithfully carried a Rosary in the front pocket of her apron for life. 

I promised to change when I was twenty. My infant daughter was screaming in her bassinet—the drawer of an old dresser that I found abandoned in an alleyway. But I couldn’t get off the couch. I was someplace else. In a deep, dark place, that smelled of rot, and I was looking at my home through a small, hazy lens. Soiled diapers littered the living room’s rug, old take-out containers were stacked crookedly on the cramped kitchen countertop; rice spilled onto the peeling linoleum floor. I could hear someone crying: “get up and feed her!” I thought it may have been my voice, but it did not like sound like me. It was nurturing and responsible. I was neither of those things.

I promised to change when I was thirty, sitting in the back of a cop car. Fat raindrops slammed against the roof like angry fists. I had a hard time keeping my eyes open. The world was spinning, and I was falling back into that dark place; it stalked me from the nearby treeline. I could hear my daughter screeching like a distressed bird, but I couldn’t bring myself to look out the window.

“Mama!” she cried, over and over until I decided that I didn’t know who this ‘Mama’ person was. I’m a creature—a monster—in this dark, gloomy place.

 “Don’t let them take me from you!” she shrieked. Her voice was muffled against my clogged ears. I think I hit my head. My saliva was pasty, and dribbles of vomit were stuck to my chin. Before I had time to do a play-by-play of past events, my head slumped back against the hard seat, and I was out.

I promised to change the day my daughter moved out. I think I was thirty-seven. And no, it wasn’t some tear-filled, lovey-dovey goodbye, where I helped her carry the last box full of her childhood things placing, them into the trunk of her car—my life was not a damn insurance commercial. I mean, there were tears, but not that kind. We had gotten into an argument, just another Thursday night in the Roger’s household. She decided to pour the last of my life into the bathroom sink. I jumped off the couch, eyeliner melted down my face in the summer heat; dirty bra straps hung off my thin shoulders. I pushed her to the side and ran my tongue up and down the stained porcelain, trying to lick whatever was left of my sanity.

Once I was certain that I had gotten every last drop, I licked my lips tasting the diluted gin; globs of toothpaste were stuck to my teeth. I flew down the narrow hallway, knocking that picture of Jesus right off the wall, where it smashed into a thousand pieces.  

She was in her room, packing a bag, stuffing whatever she could find into it—trying to get the hell away from me. I was angry, blindingly so. I kicked the flimsy door in and stood there baring my teeth like a rabid dog. My fists were clenched so tightly, I didn’t notice the bottle opener that I had been carrying. It dug into my palm; a thin stream of blood dripped onto the ground.

She looked scared. I would have been too, had I not been so angry.

“I can’t do this anymore,” her voice shook, and tears ran down her tired face. I tilted my head to the side and without a moment’s hesitation, I threw the bottle opener at her with brutal force. I wanted to inflict pain; I wanted her to feel what I felt. An open, gaping wound, and the only antidote for that came with a clever label and a hangover. I hit her alright. After I’d realized what I had done, she ran past me and out into the dark night, with only a duffel bag filled with a few items of clothing and five bucks that she stole from my purse. Well played I must admit. I stood in the middle of her bedroom for a few minutes unable to move, staring at nothing. Then I collapsed onto her small bed, curling up into a ball. I grabbed her pillow, and inhaled the scent of her shampoo, taking all my feelings of sadness, guilt, and regret, and burrowed myself into that dark place, unsure if I would return.

__

“Mom, wake up.”

         I peel my crusty eyelids open meeting the stern gaze of my daughter. She’s a superhero, really, cape and all.

 I’ve built a ship as vast as Noah’s Ark, made from beer bottles, whiskey glasses, champagne flutes, and red solo cups. Hell, you can even throw a few water bottles in there because I, Jeanine Rogers, managed to take something so pure and clean, like water, and turn it into a tainted concoction. On this ship, I’ve floated across every river, lake, and ocean of booze you can think of—isn’t that poetic? Looks like I had a knack for the written word, after all.

My daughter and I are parked in front of the Redstone Treatment Centre. Snow falls from the sky. Dainty, fragile flakes, getting tossed around by the increasingly aggressive wind. And lord it’s cold. The type of cold that turns the warmest of smiles into the frostiest of frowns. The ole’—get me out of this cold, can’t feel my damn nose, why the hell do I still live in this country frown—Jack Daniels is good for warming up the skin mittens on days like these. Too bad he’s elsewhere.

My daughter glances at me from the driver’s seat, carefully wiping a speck of dust from the steering wheel. Her car is spotless, not a piece of garbage anywhere and the dash is shiny and detailed. Clearly, she didn’t get that from me. I function more on disorganization and chaos, like a tornado, Mother used the say when I was a little girl. Running around our farm, destroying everything that I came in contact with.  

I study my daughter’s face, aged beyond her fifty years. I take full responsibility for that one. Her hair, which was once a deep chestnut, is streaked with grey that flies frantically on top of her head from the warm air flying through the air vents. Wrinkles bleed down her face like a weeping tattoo. I think I should feel sad. Awful, really, but I feel nothing. I know what I am—I accepted it a long time ago.  

We’ve been here before. Many times, in fact. I’m a repeat offender; never did learn my lesson. But this time, there’s a twist. My liver is pooched, worn out, put out to pasture, whatever you want to call it. What started out as cirrhosis, progressed into cancer. Terminal. Strange word, very final.  

A man walks up to us pushing a wheelchair, and for a brief moment, I feel sorry for whoever the wheelchair is for, failing to realize that I am that person. Age sneaks up on you like a jaguar in the Amazon. You don’t know what happened, and then boom, you’re seventy.

The wind has picked up, shaking the trees violently. I can feel the cold seething into my skin. I gently pat my daughter’s hand and sigh.

“Well, my dear, I promise I’ll change.” I smile wistfully. My daughter just stares at me, her face unreadable, except for her eyes. Her emotions always swirled around those light brown rings. In them, I see sadness, but I mostly see relief. She’s relieved because she no longer has to watch me fail, over and over again—twenty-two times—to be exact. You could stick me in the world records book for that one. I glance up and look just above her right eye and see the scar that my addiction left on her—the only visible one. I can’t even think back to that day, I refuse. Too painful and I never was the sentimental type.

 I lean over and wince as the seatbelt digs into my abdomen. I kiss her lightly on the cheek, an awkward gesture for both of us, but I feel it is the motherly thing to do in this situation. My lips are dry and cracked, and I’m sure she can smell the wine on my breath. Chardonnay pairs well with farewells.

“Good luck, Mom,” she says quietly, popping the trunk open so the man can grab my things.  I open the car door, surprised by how much effort such a simple thing requires these days, and step out into the cold. My thin hair blows across my face; the corners of my mouth freeze into one of those frowns. I limp over to the sidewalk and carefully lower myself into the wheelchair, not bothering to dust off the layer of snow that’s already covering the seat. As the man grabs the wheelchair’s handles and slowly starts to spin me around, I take one last look at her. She shakes her head back and forth, heaving a sigh of relief so intense, her entire body shudder; tears of joy stream down her face before she drives away to her happily ever after.

As we enter the lobby, I am grateful for the warmth. The man pushes me over to the front desk and the receptionist hands me a stack of intake forms. My hand shakes as I begin to print my name and I feel a steady stream of negative emotions begin to invade. I’m sobering up. I can feel sweat accumulating under my arms; my heart is beating faster.

Man, I could use a dry martini—dryer than this place, anyways. And hey, throw in extra olive for good measure, okay?

___

 Well, baby girl, I promised this was the last time, and it looks like I’ll be keeping it. I lie alone in a small hospital bed, squinting at the bright lights impaling my corneas. I feel like I’m having one of the worst hangovers of my life, despite the good drugs that are pumping through my carcass. The dark place is coming for me. It swallows the corridor of the palliative ward and looms outside my door. I curl into a ball, pulling the soft blanket up to my chin, accidentally pulling the IV a little too hard, but I can’t feel it. I close my eyes and wait. The dark place seeps under the doorway; it bleeds through the walls. My eyelids are so heavy, like concrete blocks; my body feels light and airy like a balloon floating through the air. I feel no pain. I see my baby girl, finally smiling, finally free. . The dark place absorbs me, and I am gone. This time, I’m not coming back.