​​​​​Chapter Forty-Five
Natalie

The first time I drank I was sixteen and Rebecca was eleven. Our father had leftover peppermint schnapps in the little cabinet above the fridge. He was never a big drinker but his sister in Chihuahua sent it every year because it was “festive.” “Tequila’s festive, too,” he’d say and shake his head as he’d banish it to the back of the cabinet. He was out one Saturday working, and that cabinet started flapping its doors at me. I drank some. A lot of some and let Rebecca have some, too. I wasn’t like that. Not back then. But maybe that’s wrong. Maybe the demon was there along, and I’ve just lived this life with the habit of feeding it.

Mack was my next drug. When I could no longer take care of Rebecca, I took care of him, and he drank enough for the both of us. I liked something about that, if I’m being honest. This whole idea of someone actively destroying their life and me being the one to sweep up the pieces. The hero. The one who can be counted on. Lord knows, my mother could never live up to that role.

I swallow a gullet full of vodka to punish myself for that last thought. I’m not even out of the parking lot of the liquor store yet, and the neck of the handle I bought is empty now. The woman couldn’t help dying. Lucky her.

The second time I drank was my third week at JCC when the stress of playing manager started to get the best of me. I wasn’t well-versed in it yet, so I bought a heavy cabernet that gave me a dull headache and tasted a little like battery acid (not that I’ve ever tried it). I kept up that charade for a little while. I’d buy a big bottle when grocery shopping, bury it under what little we could afford and avoid Wren’s questioning looks. I felt guilt. Duh. I barely had enough money to buy the kid vegetables, but there I was acting like a Beverly Hills housewife in need of an afternoon pick-me-up. I’d drink late at night when Wren was in bed and pretend Mack was sitting next to me.

I don’t know if I blame myself anymore. I’m too tired. He was a grown man. He left me, but more importantly, he left his daughter. I play pretend a lot now in other ways. I pretend to be Rochelle. What she must think, how she behaves when someone asks if she has any children. Rochelle in her McMansion living it up with Mr. Augustus. But then I take another swig when I remember she doesn’t think at all anymore.

Which is exactly what I try to do, pounding down more of the vodka. I can tell there’s a lady sitting in her car next to me. And even though she’s sitting in a liquor store parking lot in broad daylight just like me, I can tell she’s gone all high and mighty. Like she’s better than me because she won’t be cracking open those cans until nobody’s there to see it. I could do this in the dark, too. But I’m also tired of hiding.

I know this is bad for the baby. No. Fetus. I can’t think in terms like that. Because when I do, I see Wren so small and my husband with his inked up hand holding mine. I think about how easily something like family chips and breaks apart. How everything is a beautiful lie. I look over at the lady and wave at her. Throw her a huge smile. She frowns and backs up her car.

Eventually, it’s just me alone in the parking lot. I’m used to it but also hate the feeling. I can’t even raise the one I got, how am I going to raise a new one? And Jerry isn’t even the father. How’s that going to feel when we’re out and someone congratulates the proud papa? No, this can’t happen. I have to fix it. There’s a pay phone next to the double doors of the liquor store. It has a phone book chained to it. I could find a clinic, make a call. Do they even accept walk-ins? Worth a shot. But when I go to move my legs, I can’t. There’s too much comfort in my car, in the act of being alone smack dab in the middle of the world. And if I’m really honest, there’s a comfort in the flutter of my belly even if it’s too soon for it to roar on its own.

I close my eyes, head against glass and send out a silent plea for someone to come and find me.