“That’s the number of the man who saved my life. He’s still my sponsor today.”
She turns to me with parted lips.
“Christmas Eve, 2010, I sat on this bridge and teetered between life and death.”
Turning to face Desiree, I continue telling her the rest of the story of the night that changed my life.
“My parents hadn’t spoken to me in a year. Neither had my sister or close friends that I’d grown up with. The party was over. Hell, the party hadbeenover, but I couldn’t stop drinking. Even when I wanted to. Even when I knew it was fucking killing me. Alone and living in a dump the size of a shoebox, the only place I had to go on Christmas Eve was to the liquor store. I only had about two bucks, so I resorted to panhandling.”
I pause, looking between the bottle and Desiree to see if she’s following me.
“I asked a guy coming out of a grocery store if he had any change. He must’ve noticed my gaze shifting between him and the liquor store at the other end of the parking lot. I swore he would tell me to fuck off when he realized why I was begging for money. Instead, he walked me to the store himself and told me to get whatever I wanted, and he’d pay.”
“Why would he do that?” she asks, appalled.
“Because he knew my secret.”
“What was the secret?”
“That at that moment, no speech about the perils of drinking would’ve sufficed. Instead, he bought me that very bottle in your hands. Then he took the receipt and wrote down his number on it. Told me his name, and once we left the store, he said if I ever wanted to stop drinking to give him a call, day or night.”
I shook my head, blinking away the wetness in them. That memory always makes me teary-eyed, no matter how many times I tell it.
“That was when you stopped?”
“Almost. I didn’t give him much thought, even though he did sound sincere. Instead, I hopped in my car with the gas tank nearly on E and drove out here. I sat in this same spot as I untwisted that cap.” I dip my head toward the bottle. “And took my first swig with the thought that once I finished the bottle, I’d jump off this bridge.”
“It got that bad?”
I nodded. “I didn’t see a point in living. I was only living to drink, and it was killing me. The very thing I felt like I needed to survive was ultimately going to be the death of me. Better I take my own life than let the bottle take me.”
“What happened? What stopped you from jumping?”
Shaking my head, I push out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know exactly. But, I was only able to get a quarter of the way through the bottle before finally saying, ‘Screw it, I’m doing this.’ I stood, took a deep breath, and just as I started, I remembered his words.”
“If you ever want to stop drinking, give me a call. Day or night.”
“They were so genuine. So real. He didn’t lecture me or try to cart me off to rehab. Something told me he understood, and because he was the first person, in years, I didn’t feel judged by, I stepped off this bridge, got in my car, and called him from my cell. He talked to me for two hours. And the next morning—Christmas, 2010–he picked me up at seven a.m. to attend a meeting. I haven’t had a drink since.”
Desiree remains silent as she looks between the Smirnoff bottle and my eyes. I can see she’s still searching for an explanation of something.
“This is the last bottle you ever took a drink out of?”
I nod. “I keep it for two reasons. One, a reminder of sorts. Of how low my life can get if I drink again.”
“And two?”
“You’ve seen me leave out at night when I get a call for help. It’s the same thing with that.” I nod toward the bottle. “Coming off of years of drinking isn’t an easy thing for the body. I got lucky and was able to do it cold turkey, but I was young at twenty-five. Others have been drinking for twenty, thirty, or even forty years. They might need a drink or five to even out the rough spots of their detox, or else their body could go into shock, killing them.”
Finally, I take the bottle from her hands and look at it, grateful that the liquid inside of it no longer has a hold over me.
“I keep it in case I ever need to give a shot or two to someone who’s trying to sober up. Sounds counterintuitive, but—”
“No, it makes sense,” she says. “I remember once when I tried to help Deirdre detox at my apartment.” She shakes her head. “It was brutal. That time she only lasted a few weeks without getting high again.”
I frown, placing the bottle down, and taking her hand into mine.
With her free hand, Desiree cups her face and moans. “I’m so fucking stupid,” she murmurs as her shoulders shake.
