After hours of sitting by her bed, her eyes open, squinting at the light. “No, no, no,” she says, her voice raspy, rough, and filled with anguish. “Not again. No.”
“Shhh. Baby, hey, it’s okay.” I stand, and when her eyes meet mine, they’re unfocused and dull, filling with tears. When she begins to sob, one of the machines starts to beep louder, and a nurse comes into the room.
“Alice? You’re all right. If you move too much, you might hurt your ribs or your neck, so I need you to try to calm down, okay?” She takes Alice’s other hand, but Alice’s eyes don’t leave mine as she continues to cry.
Seconds later, the nurse is fidgeting with something, and I turn away, knowing Alice can see me doing so, knowing the nurse is giving her something to calm her down.
THIRTY-SIX
like a feather floating down, only to land like an atomic bomb
Alice
Everything hurts. I want to look and find out the source of the pain, but I can’t seem to convince my eyes to comply. There’s an annoying beeping sound coming from close by.
I want it to stop.
I know I’m in a hospital. Every time I’ve opened my eyes, I’ve been greeted with bright lights, nurses, and doctors, all telling me to stay still. Just like when I was little.
The memory causes panic to rise inside me, but I try to keep calm this time, reminding myself I’m not a child who’s going to wake up scared and alone in a hospital room. Arthur was here. He at least came to see me. And even though the last thing I remember is him turning away from me, he was here.
He came.
I shift, trying to gauge the extent of the pain. My head. My neck. My chest. Fortunately, the brace around my neck is soft, yet it grates my skin simply because I know what it is and what it’s for.
When I wiggle my fingers, trying to feel something other than unbearable ache, my right hand catches on something soft, and when I move it, there’s a roughness that reminds me of Arthur’s cheeks when he doesn’t shave for a few days.
Reaching my fingers toward the softness again, I squeeze my eyes, keeping them shut, imagining it’s Arthur’s hair and I’m back in his bed. That we’re happy together.
I tighten my grip, and the meds I’m on must be strong, because I swear I feel movement, hear his voice, smell his shampoo.
“Alice, baby, are you awake?” I’d know that deep, gentle tone anywhere, but is it real?
I pry my eyes open, prepared to wince at the lights, but they’re dimmed. My hands are no longer tangled in hair, so I must have imagined it. As I scan the room, there are flowers on the windowsill, a stuffed pickle propped against one of the vases, and a stack of books. As I continue, I note the balloons swaying in the corner and the cards propped up on the table with a cookie tin next to them. Finally, I meet a set of deep brown eyes I wasn’t sure I’d see ever again, eyes filled with unshed tears, looking weary and tired.
The relief that he’s here, that he stayed, washes over me like a wave on the beach, clearing away all of the markings left behind on the sand.
“I’m so sorry,” Arthur whispers, sniffling. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”
And then that relief is gone, replaced with the knowledge, the memory of being alone. Of having called him, and my calls going unanswered. That hurt might be worse than the physical pain my body is in.
“Why?” I whisper, my voice hoarse. The dryness in my throat becomes impossible to ignore, and I wince when Iswallow. Arthur sighs, his face tense and hard, so I prepare myself for the worst.
He reaches for something, and then there’s a straw at my lips. “Here.” He holds the cup as I drink, not meeting my eyes.
When I stop, he puts the cup back where he got it from. “I was with Beau. I needed an emergency meeting with him because I was having a hard time. He’s my NA sponsor.”
The words settle slowly, like a feather floating down, only to land like an atomic bomb. The damage is instantaneous.
He has a sponsor.
He’s an addict.
I fell in love with an addict.
“I’ve been sober for over three years. I go to weekly meetings on Wednesdays and meet with Beau at least every other week. Being an addict is why I don’t drink. I didn’t want to replace one substance with another.” He reaches for me, likely to wipe the tears streaming down my face, but he pulls his hand back at the last moment. “I’m so sorry, Alice. I was always going to tell you. I wanted to tell you as soon as you told me about your mom, but the more time passed, the more scared I got that you’d hate me, that you’d leave.” He sniffles, but I can’t bring myself to look at him again.
I thought I was tired before, when there was nothing but the physical pain and knowledge that I was officially all alone in this world, but now the exhaustion is quickly taking me under.
