Today is another day

I’m grateful I’m not dead, he started writing.

The journal had stars and butterflies and glitter on the cover. Today is another day, it said in big rainbow letters. It cost $1.50 from the local op-shop. Some recalcitrant thing had chewed on a sparkly corner, and Gavin’s thoughts turned to Manny. As a bubba, he would put everything in his mouth. Once even the dog’s shit, and smeared it all over his face laughing before his mother screamed the roof down. That was a while ago.

A long time between drinks. He had to watch the liver these days. Keep it ticking for all the medications they had him on. Blood pressure, eyes, heart, cholesterol, kidneys, sleep. If his liver crashed too he would go to sleep forever. So no more nightcaps.

Dr Tranh was the one who suggested the gratitude journal. Tell you what, he said steepling his chin in his hands and giving Gavin a very direct stare, if you keep it going for a month I’ll write you a script for some more Zopiclone.

He closed the journal with a decisive thump. It was enough to be alive for today.

**

At the Men’s Support Group they wanted to know more about the journal.

Gav had the uncomfortable feeling most of the other men thought he was a bit of a cunt. It had possibly happened after he told Mohamed when he sobbed about his dead dog that wife beaters deserved everything they got. Or maybe it was that time when he said to Butters that maybe he could try identifying as someone who was gainfully employed if he wanted the respect of his family.

It's working fucking great, he said with a big smile on his face. He kept smiling the whole way through the meeting, knowing how disconcerting it appeared to the group. At the end of the session, the group sponsor pulled him aside for a private word.

You alright, mate? He asked. Been having any bad dreams lately? Have you taken anything?

Just high on life, he replied. I’m grateful not to be dead.

**

I’m grateful for rainy days, he wrote a week later.

Sofia used to love storms. She would fling open all the doors and windows and let the wind blow through the house. Jesus fucking christ Sofia, you’ll get everything wet, he’d shouted at her through the whistling and howling of the trees.

All the furniture, curtains and rugs were damp afterwards and he grumbled as he put down towels to soak up as much water as possible. Sofia hummed to herself and waved her hands through the air. Her eyes seemed slightly unfocused.

I’m sorry I raised my voice, luv, he said, contrite.

She smiled and blew him a kiss. Her breath smelled like malt. Lay off the drink for tonight, eh, he said gently, steering her towards the bedroom. She leaned sharply into his ribs as they walked.

The next stormy day, he took her outside and sat her on a chair and locked the front door firmly behind them. She sobbed into her hands as the rain raged around them. Gav put his arm around her shoulders and put his head on her chest, listening to her heart flit nervously like a wild caged bird.

**

At the next meeting the sponsor asked if he’d like to read out some of his journal to the group. I would rather burn this place down, was the response he wanted to give. Instead, to his own surprise he nodded.

I’m grateful for my boy, he cleared his throat, he was a good wee boy and never caused any trouble. He liked bananas and meat pies, and was good at reading and his numbers.

There was a long silence after. Gav kept his eyes on the ground.

Fuck this, he said out loud, still looking at his shoes. Fuck this. Then he got up and left.

**

How’s the journal going? Dr Tranh adjusted his round rimless glasses. He was a tall man without an ounce of fat and broad shoulders and arms. He looked like someone who worked out regularly.

I stopped writing in it, he said, and sat back in his chair, extending his palms flat on the table in front of him.

Why?

I was constipated and ran out of toilet paper, so I needed the pages to wipe my arse.

The silence in the room felt sticky and sickly sweet.

When he looked up Dr Tranh was typing something into his keyboard. I’m going to give you a prescription for some clonazepam, he said, and melatonin. He took his glasses off and put them on the table, rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Being a dick to me and everyone in the world isn’t going to bring him back, Gavin.

**

Sofia.

It was the first time he’d said her name in five years. The silence on the line pebbled.

Gav, is that you?

It wasn’t Sofia’s voice but someone calmer, younger, unslurred.

Anna? He could hear her exhale. What are you doing with Sofia’s phone?

He hadn’t even been sure she’d kept the number. In the background he could hear running, then a little voice boomed right into his ear BEHOLD FOR I AM THE QUEEN OF THE CATS AND MISTRESS OF ALL.

Excuse me. Just one moment.

He thought he could feel the sick making its way through from his throat to his mouth.

I’m grateful for. I’m grateful for. I’m grateful for. His mind was a vast void. He wanted to smash the phone into the ground. But he also wanted to know.

 Gav? Gavin? Anna was back.

Anna? Silence again.

No Gav, it’s me, Sofia.

Oh. You sound different.

That was…she’s my sister’s kid. I’m looking after her for the night.

They both knew she was lying.

What’s up, Gav? Everything ok?

Dr Tranh wanted me to write this gratitude journal and anyway, I couldn’t really think of one thing I was grateful for in my life right now? Can you believe that? Not one thing. So I started thinking about my whole life, my parents, my brothers, school, work, and my damn pets and…the only, the only two things I’ve ever been grateful for in my lousy life was you and Manny.

The phone felt slippery in his hand, he hadn’t realised he was rocking back and forth while talking. His tongue and lips were scorched fields in the rising heat of the sun.

Sofia exhaled, and it felt like the longest breath ever.

It’s ok, Gav, her voice was tender. Remote. It was the voice of a therapist. A mother soothing a tantrum.

I’m….

He dropped the phone and stepped on it before she could finish speaking.

**

He started by burning the journal. Some cooking oil and a lighter and the whole thing went up in flames relatively quickly.

Next he attended the next session of the men’s group with a bottle of wine in a brown paper bag. He said nothing but sat at the back of the room, taking slugs out of the bottle. At the end of the night, the sponsor gently suggested to him that he shouldn’t come back for a while.

I’m not doing great, Doc, he said at his next appointment with Dr Tranh. He prescribed antidepressants this time, and a referral to a psychologist.

Will you forget about me, Dad, Manny had asked one night. He was drowsy, his eyes peeping out of his swollen face. It must have been near the end, because they were home in bed, cuddled up to each other. Sofia snored softly on the other side of him, smelling of gin and bad dreams.

Of course I won’t, kid. He took the puffy little hand, tickled the distended palms. Even in his medicated stupor, Manny managed a giggle. Do you think everyone else will forget about me?

Gav tipped his face close to his son’s, nuzzled their noses together. If only he could hold that moment and Manny’s wet, sour breath forever. As long as I’m alive, he said, there will be someone on this earth who will remember you. The boy seemed satisfied by the answer.

Well then. He yawned, put his head on Gavin’s chest. You’ll have to live for a long, long time.

**

In the morning light through the kitchen window, Gav sipped his tea. He took his pills, one by one. He tightened his shoelaces, turned up the volume on his earbuds.

I’m grateful I’m not dead, he said through clenched teeth. And as the music started playing, Gavin started running.