I can’t help blinking a few times before I realize August is gawking at me, demanding an answer.
I hold my hand up in the form of an apology. “I—I ah was watching for the guy to step out of the bathroom so I can take a leak. Is that okay with you?”
August cups her hand over her mouth. She has long, slender fingers, and wearing too many rings, but not one of them is a wedding band. I guess I can scratch off the assumption of a cheating husband from the list of possibilities. “I’m so sorry. Chance, is it? I apologize.”
“No worries, hun. Sorry for interrupting you.”
August twists around in her seat and takes a handful of trail mix while fixing her eyes on the TV above the shelves of liquor bottles.
There’s a surprising trait. She accepts being wrong ... even though she isn’t.
When the bathroom empties, I fulfill my fib by walking past her as if I didn’t know she was still sitting a few seats down from me. If I glance at the bar mirror, I might see her looking at me, but I won’t risk our eyes making contact.
I take my time in the men’s room, but not too much time. When I step out, I watch August polish off the rest of her whiskey, slap the glass down on the bar, and strut off toward the door as if she knows something about the world I might die to discover.
Chapter Two
August
One Week Ago
I’ve seen horrible things,like a doped-up mother dropping her unsuspecting child off at a shelter for homeless children. I’ve seen the aftermath of an abused child, a child who doesn’t know when or if they’ll see their parents again. I know what to expect when I go to work each day; a house full of children will be excited to see me for my shift, but I won’t be able to hug them or let them hug me because it’s against the rules. I won’t be able to console them when they’re missing a parent and I can’t tell them their life will be okay. Yet, someone needs to take care of these poor children, and that person is me.
After leaving the group home yesterday, my only plan was to go back to my place, hit the pavement for a two-mile run, cook up an easy tuna casserole for dinner, and binge watch whatever shows pop up on the trending feed of Netflix.
When I approached the main entrance to my apartment, I reached into my pocket for the keys, scraping my fingertips along the ridged edge of the pointed teeth. A pain dug into my stomach, unexplained, without warning. I wondered if my lunch was bad, but I had a turkey sandwich each day this week, and I had been fine the days before. I swung open the glass door, skipped by the mailboxes, promising to return to my bills later, and jogged up the three flights of stairs. I broke more than a few sweats on the way, but mostly because of the nagging pain in my stomach which is getting worse by the minute.
I figured Keegan was home, since he only works until four most days. In fact, I don’t recall a time he wasn’t home when I got out of work, so I twisted the doorknob and gave it a shove, but there was no give. I took my keys back out of my pocket and struggled to find the right one before another round of pain rolled through my stomach. I unlocked the door and rushed inside, dropping my bags by the coat hook next to our entryway closet. “Keegan?” I called out. Our apartment isn’t large, but we opted for the studio plus a bedroom layout, so he couldn’t be out of hearing range. I figured he could be in the bathroom or taking a nap. “Babe?”
The bathroom was first on my list, but the door was closed, which it never is, even when we’re both here. I knock first, but there’s no answer, so I twisted the knob, pushing my way inside.
Something was resting against the back of the door, blocking me from stepping in without using force.
The bathmat sometimes gets stuck, a towel falls off the rack from the back of the door, or the man I had devoted myself to for thirteen years chose to end his life in our bathroom, behind the door.
I don’t know anyone who might stop and think about what they’d do in a similar situation, or how they may react.
We’ve been together just less than half my life. We became friends sophomore year in high school, then turned into high school sweethearts, and recklessly followed each other to college. He dropped out; I stayed in school. He got a job, supported us while I got my degree, and we’ve been cohabiting ever since.
As I sat Indian style in front of Keegan’s body, I ran my fingers through the loose caramel curls that framed his face so perfectly, making him look like a hybrid of a young Keanu Reeves and Adrian Grenier.
It was a long minute before a sharp pain plunged through the core of my body. My muscles tightened and my lungs felt flat—air was not flowing the way it should. I rocked back and forth gently, cradling the man I was supposed to have forever. A shriek spilled from my aching lungs and a heavy sob, rooted from the bottom of my stomach quaked through my body until I was completely numb and breathless. “Why?” I cried out. “Why would you do this?” I pressed my cheek against his, feeling the lifeless chill of his skin. “We could have had a life together. You only had to do one thing. Fix yourself. Dying wasn’t the answer, Keegan.”
I used the side of my hand and a gentle sweeping motion to close his eyelids, hiding his lifeless hazel eyes. I reached up to the counter for one of the empty pill bottles and replaced the extra contents he didn’t use. With slow, ghostly movements, I pushed myself up to my feet and made my way back toward the front door to retrieve my phone. It’s as if my steps were rehearsed and practiced many times before. With my phone in hand, I realized the pain in my stomach subsided. I moved into the kitchen where I like to take my calls. I pulled a stool up to the counter between the fridge and the stove, but I couldn’t place my elbows down because of the mess Keegan left behind; three empty whiskey bottles that weren’t in the apartment yesterday morning. Three empty whiskey bottles that weren’t enough to do the trick.
Next to the bottles was Keegan’s red chip with the number six embossed on white paint. It was the longest span of time he went without drinking, but in less than a week’s time, the chip lost its meaning.
I was tired of helping.
I blame him, but I still don’t understand.
For so many years, I asked Keegan which he loved more … whiskey, or me. He always answered correctly and would say, “Of course, I love you more, baby. What kind of question is that?” I knew the real answer. I didn’t hurt him like whiskey did, but whiskey gave him more than I could. Whiskey was stronger than both of us.
The numbness was still working its way through the nerves of my body, following the slow beat in my heart. I spun around with my phone, ready to call 9-1-1, but then I spotted a note on the kitchen table, a note that wasn’t there when I left for work this morning.
Dried watermarks stained the yellow note paper.
Tears.
