62. It Sucks to Date an Alcoholic

 “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me” I said quickly.  

“Michael?” Becky asked. “What’s wrong?”

It was three days after we had the big talk about her and  Ray. I rearranged myself on the bed and tried to think of a lie to tell her. One did not come to me: I hated lying to my sister. “Nothing.”

          “You’re lying,” she said, “Spill it. Is it Mom? What’d she do?”

          “No, no, it’s not Mom.” I said, tight-lipped. I did not want to have to tell her what I was about to tell her. My faced burned with shame, but I had to talk to someone about this, and I knew she wouldn’t be cruel.    

          “Is she on an eating binge again?” Becky asked. “You know every time she comes back from the Dietician and he tells her she can’t eat nuts because of her diverticulitis, she just gorges herself on peanuts and pecans and then can’t stop going to the bathroom for the next three days…”

          “No, it’s not Mom…” and my voice caught.

          “Oh Lord,” she said. “What’d Thad do now?”  

          “Is it that easy to tell?” I laughed softly.

“Yes, after all these years.”

Rolling back over, I took a deep breath. It was early in the evening, but lying on my bed just seemed like the best place to be, as it took the least effort. In the last two days everything Thad and I had - everything - had gone to hell in a hand basket.

“Look, I just need to talk to you,” I said. “But you can’t…”

“I won’t tell Mom.”

“Or anyone else,” I cautioned.

“Or anyone else,” She repeated. “Witches’ honor.”

I started, then stopped, then started again, “He’s had a drinking incident again.”

“Oh, no!” She gasped, and I heard her stand. “I’m so sorry. How long has it been?”

“Fifteen months.”

“That’s terrible. How did you find out?”

Fighting away the nausea I said, “Look, I’ll tell you but you can’t hold it against me, because if you told me something like this, I would hold it against you…”

“Yeah, yeah, well, that’s you…”

“Because you know Thad and I will probably stay together,” I continued. “And that just reflects so poorly on me. And I can’t have you treating me differently or looking at him weird at Thanksgiving.”

“No, don’t worry,” she grunted. “How did you find out?”

“He called from jail.”

“Good God no!” I heard her knock something over “Dammit! There went my Pepsi! I have to get a towel…hold on…”    

As she banged around, grunting and huffing, I looked up at the ceiling and just hated Thad for putting me through this. Hated him. Hated him for what he did and hated him more for embarrassing me now in front of my sister. Surely Becky wouldn’t tell Mom; Becky was trustworthy. But I had to talk to someone, to start the release of the poison inside me.

“Okay, sorry.” Becky said coming back to the phone. “So he called you from jail? And what happened? When was this?”

“Three days ago, Sunday night, the last time we talked. Later that afternoon he went home and he said he had just decided to go get some beer that night…”

“After fifteen months of straight sobriety?”

“Well, fifteen months of straight sobriety that I know of. I’ve been suspicious of him this whole time. He called me once in Puerto Rico and I swear he was drunk, and that’s happened on and off over the last year, but nothing I could prove. So maybe I was paranoid, or maybe not. But this is what I have been afraid of, that he would just fall back off the wagon.”

“Is it off the wagon or on the wagon?”

“Not sure, not important. But he said he went to get some beer and then he drank it and then drove up to the gay bars in Oklahoma City.”

“No! He drank and drove?”

“Yup.”

“Does he go up there often?”

“Never.”

“Then why did he go?” she asked quietly.

This is the part that hurt the most; the rawness of the reality was still red.

“I don’t know. He said to dance, drink, whatever…” I trailed off, knowing what the gay bars were good for when you were drunk and alone.  “And you know he’s done this before, to bad result….”

“When you broke up last time?”

“Yup.” I grimaced, dredging it all up again. “Back when we were dating and living together last time, in 95-96, he did the same thing-got drunk, drove up to the gay bars but he cheated on me then, so we broke up for the next decade and then some, rat bastard. And I’ve hardly trusted him since. And you know that’s been our biggest obstacle since we got back together four years ago: I just don’t trust him and it all goes back to when he cheated on me. And to make it worse, of course he didn’t tell me outright. I had to pry it out of him after a few weeks, and then he didn’t even tell me the whole truth until he got really loaded again and when he finally told me, then I just broke up with him. I mean I had suspected all along, but the reality of it - the cheating - was horrible.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Me too.” I stood to pace. “And he says nothing like that happened this time.  I mean, he said he just went up to the bars to dance and talk to some people but I just don’t know if I can believe him. He lies. He’s a liar. But no matter what, when he was driving back he was pulled over by the Oklahoma City Cops and arrested for DUI.”

“Oh no.”

“I know. It’s his third or fourth. I‘ll be surprised if he still has a license after this.”

“And he called you that night?” she asked.

“No, the next morning. He spent the night in the drunk tank.” I chuckled. “Serves him right. And I wouldn’t go get him.”

“You’re kidding?” she gasped.  “You wouldn’t?”

“No. Hell with him. It was Monday morning and I had a departmental meeting and he was all the way in the City. So I called his Mom and made her go do it.” The thought of that punishment offered me some solace besides the pain I had been wallowing in.  

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“And she went and got him out?”

“Yup. Like she always does…”

We were silent for a moment. I stopped to sit, crushed, knowing she though less of me now; that I was unworthy as I loved someone as base as Thad, and that here - at this moment -she was realizing what a failure I was as an older brother.  

“You know,” she began, “I had been thinking about how paranoid you’ve been about him, about his drinking. I mean, how you’ve still been talking about it and worrying about it. And I really thought it was all just a lot of wasted effort, that it was in your head, and that he was better and all. But I guess he isn’t.”

“It sucks dating an alcoholic.”  I had never uttered a more painful phrase.

“How’s he doing?”

“The rat bastard?” I chortled.

“Yes.”

“He’s fine, I guess. I don’t care. We’ve fought every day since. I just hate him right now. I am ashamed and mortified and don’t even know what to feel. He betrayed my trust by drinking, put himself and others in danger drinking and driving, and then - did he cheat on me again? How am I to know because all I can do is trust him, and of course I don’t trust him! Oh, and he went to jail. Classy, that is.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“Has he drunk again since?” she asked.

“I don’t think so, I mean he said he hasn’t, but who really knows since he lies. He’s a lying drunk.” I laughed to myself. “ The last few months have been great. I mean, I was paranoid and kind of a mess through them-especially when he moved out- but that was nothing compared to what I’m dealing with now-I mean real troubles. But I had even started to trust him some. I mean, I was so sad to leave him when I went to Puerto Rico. And now he’s a lying drunk again, with all those fifteen months, gone. Pouf! We’re back at the beginning.”

“That’s too bad. But at least he’s okay.”

“Yeah, I guess. Have you heard the old joke, ‘How can you tell if an alcoholic is lying?’” 

“No. How?”

“’His lips are moving,’”

She snickered, but in a sad way. “Why do you think he did it, I mean drink after such a long time?”

I lay back down. “I thought about that, and all I could think was that he has been real sad over Ma’am.”

“Did he ever tell you what happened during his last visit?”

“Yesterday he said something about it. Apparent she didn’t recognize him at all and then made fun of his hair in a really mean way, and he had cried all the way back from the City. He said he knew it was just the Alzheimer’s making her crazy, but he wasn’t expecting her to be mean. He seemed so hurt by it.”

 “And you think that did it? That set him off?”

“I guess. I don’t know. He wouldn’t really talk about it, but he never wants to talk about anything serious. He just clams up and sulks.”

“But you two are talking?” she asked, “I mean, have you talked about it?”

“Oh yeah. Twice. The first time Monday night after his Mom sprang him, for me to get the facts of the story straight and the second time, yesterday, to cover my points of disappointment in him. I had a list.”

“Of course you did.”

“Of course I did! And he made fun of me too for having one too, saying, ‘Can’t you even speak from the heart?’ and I just hissed, “I think you’re a fucking whore. That’s what’s in my heart. Do you want to hear anymore that’s in there?’ and he didn’t say anything else about the list after that.”

“Oh my.”

“Yeah. So we’re talking, but hardly. And I haven’t even talked to him all day today. And I don’t know what to do. I’m just really sad, and I just wish things were back to the way they were, back to normal. But that can’t be. And I am just so disappointed in him, and I keep feeling like I’m falling. Like falling and falling and I have nothing to stop me, and everything is hollow around me and I can’t even hardly breathe.” I stopped. “I hate that so much of me is him, especially when he is so terrible.”

“I’m sorry, honey.”

“I know. Thank you,” and for the first time I teared-up. “That’s why I wanted to call you. I was just so sad and didn’t know what to do-if I should call him or not-and I just wanted to just to hear your voice, and I knew you would make me feel better.”

“It’ll be okay.”

“But I don’t know that it will,” I sobbed into the phone.

We talked for two more hours, quietly, this time she calming me.