A Coping Mechanism

It has been ten years since that fatal New Year’s Eve. There have been nine New Year’s Days since then, and I have made the same resolution as every year: that I quit drinking. Maybe this year, I will succeed. But a tenth anniversary is not easy, and I already crave the sweet haze alcohol casts on my brain. Maybe I should try Antabuse. Or at least Alcoholics Anonymous. But I feel exhausted. As I open up my laptop, my hands feel like lead, my mouth is dry, and all I want is to sleep forever and drink a glass of whisky. Or six. Not necessarily in that order. It’s all my fault. If I only did not get behind the wheel that night, my daughter would still be here. So would my husband. I sigh as I walk across my tiny apartment to the kitchen counter, take off the lid of a bottle of cheap whisky and inhale its scent. God, how much I would give just to be able to experience the booze-induced oblivion that I so yearn for. But for once, I need to be strong. In a rush of determination, I put the bottle down, reach for my keys and storm out of my apartment. Maybe some fresh air will help distract me.

As I step out of the building, chilly air envelopes me. The harsh winter wind gently caresses my cheeks. I still really, really want to drink, but at least I am not as sleepy as before. I aimlessly wander around my neighborhood until I notice a playground. There are at least twenty kids running around screaming, crying, laughing, and fighting over whose turn it is to use the swings. The parents are sitting on the benches, shivering and talking about something in a hushed voice. I’m convinced they are gossiping. Good for them. I miss having friends to gossip with. Looking at this idyllic picture brings tears to my eyes. If that accident didn’t happen, maybe Thomas and I would also be sitting on those benches watching Leslie run around with the other kids. Maybe she would have a little brother or sister sitting in a stroller. It’s stupid, I know. If Thomas and Leslie were still here, we would probably be living in a nicer neighborhood. Maybe in the suburbs, not in my little studio apartment. A loud honking and car tires screeching end my daydreaming.

Suddenly the world shifts, and I’m sitting back in the driver’s seat ten years ago. Thomas is sitting next to me. It’s 3 AM, and we just got out of my best friend’s New Year’s Eve house party. The car is cold, and thanks to Thomas, it smells like rum and coke. He’s half asleep, resting his head against the passenger seat window. The full moon and the streetlights illuminate his strong yet peaceful facial features. I look at him, smile, and shake my head. I feel the baby kicking. I smile as I put one of my hands on my stomach. It’s only one month until little Leslie will be here with us. Thomas is so excited. We went shopping for furniture for the nursery yesterday. We also bought yellow paint. Not pink because Thomas said we don’t want to reinforce gender stereotypes in our daughter. I smile at this exchange. It’s so Thomas to say something like that. He is a sociology professor, after all. A sudden, blinding pain shoots into my stomach that breaks me away from my thoughts. It’s so intense my eyes flutter shut, and I instinctively put my hands over my belly. It can’t be. I cannot be in labor yet. Not for another month. The next thing I hear is a long honk, breaks screeching, and then the world goes black.

“Are you okay, lady?” I hear a little boy’s voice. I open my eyes, and I’m back at the cold playground. Everyone’s staring at me. A bunch of parents grabbed their kids and now trying to push them behind their bodies as if they are trying to shield them from me.

“You were screaming.” Said a parent in a judgy, weirded-out voice.

“Sorry,” I mutter, wiping away my tears with the sleeves of my coat, and hurry away. I get back to my apartment. The bottle of whisky is still sitting on the counter, cap unscrewed, inviting me. “No!” I exclaim to stop myself. I don’t even bother turning on the lights or taking off my coat; I just sit on the floor, resting my back on the kitchen counter. I close my eyes and try to take a deep breath. So many anniversaries this time of year. Exactly ten years ago today, Leslie was born, and Thomas died. Exactly nine years ago tomorrow, CPS took Leslie away from me. The memory of the day comes flooding back. I still remember it so clearly, as if it happened yesterday. It was 11 AM, and I already drank half a bottle of scotch. Leslie was sitting on the floor, preoccupied with sucking on her rattle. I was stumbling all over the place, singing along to the song that just came on the radio. Leslie started crying.

“Why are you crying now?” I said, irritation dripping from my voice. To deal with the annoyance and the painful memories, I took another swing of my drink. I was hanging on by a thread, and that thread was about to snap. But the alcohol had an instant calming effect on me, like a pacifier to a baby. Someone knocked at the door, and I stumbled across the apartment to open the door. A smileless, gray-haired woman stood there.

 “Child Protective Services. I am here to evaluate your living situation because we received a complaint of suspected neglect.” My eyes widened. Neglect? Who the hell reported me? The woman stepped into my apartment. Her eyes traveled from the half-empty scotch bottle on the counter to the sharp pair of scissors lying on the floor not too far from Leslie and then onto little Leslie’s crying face. “Ma’am, are you drunk?” This was the point I knew I had just lost my daughter. Since then, I promise myself every year that I will stop drinking. I have been doing quite well today.

Suddenly, I hear sirens in the distance, and once again, I am transported back to ten years ago. I slowly wake up in my car. I see the front smashed in, and the scent of burnt tires fills my nose. My head is pounding, and I still feel a periodic sharp pain indicating that I’m still in labor. I glance at the passenger seat. Thomas is sitting perfectly still, eyes open wide, blood dripping from his head. I reach out to shake him while calling out his name, but he doesn’t respond.

“No! You can’t be dead. Please don’t leave me. I need you.” I cry out to my empty apartment. The grief is just too much. I stand up, reach for the bottle of whisky, and take a swing.