Finding Libbie (28 page)

She knew her thoughts were irrational. Jack had never once even looked at another woman. But Alicia wasn’t just any woman—she was beautiful and available, and right next door. Libbie’s heart pounded and her hands began to shake. She didn’t want to think about Jack and Alicia. She had to stop her thoughts. She wanted a drink.

Libbie set Spence down and headed into the kitchen. The cookies forgotten, she rummaged through every cupboard in the kitchen for a hidden bottle of wine.
Where did I put them? I know I hid some around here so Jack wouldn’t find them.
But maybe Jack had searched for hidden wine bottles while she was away and disposed of them.

I need a drink. I can’t do this without a drink.

Frantically, she started pulling everything out of the cupboards and onto the kitchen floor. As she searched, she smelled something burning and remembered the cookies still in the oven. She pulled out the tray of burnt cookies and just dropped it on top of the stove, then returned to her hunting.
I need a drink now!

There were no hidden bottles in the kitchen.

She sat on the floor with the mess all around her and closed her eyes.
Jack and Alicia. Jack and Alicia.
She had to get that image out of her head.

Then she remembered another spot where she’d hidden some wine.

Libbie got up and ran to the laundry room. In the back of the closet, behind a pile of blankets, she found a bottle of red wine. The feel of the long, sleek glass neck felt good in her hand. She pulled the bottle from its hiding place and looked at it longingly. Libbie sighed.

Jack walked into the house at five fifteen and immediately smelled burnt food.

“Libbie? Is everything okay?” he called out into the silent house. Slipping off his boots, he walked toward the kitchen. “Libbie?” When he walked through the kitchen door, he stopped and stared at what lay before him. Pots and pans, cookbooks, and baking dishes were strewn across the floor. A cookie sheet with burnt cookies stuck to it lay on the top of the stove, and unwashed dishes and bowls sat on the counters. The garbage was tipped over and Spence was eating something out of it.

Jack scooped up Spence and righted the garbage can. Panic spread through Jack. The kitchen looked like someone had been rummaging through it. Why? “Libbie,” he said under his breath, before turning to search for her.

“What!”

Jack jumped and dropped Spence. The cat ran out the door, right past Libbie, who was standing unsteadily, staring at Jack.

“Geez, Libs. You scared me to death. What happened in here? I was afraid you were hurt.”

Libbie wobbled over to him. He looked at her closely. Her hair was mussed and mascara ran in trails down her cheeks. Her eyes were bloodshot, but not from crying, he realized. She’d definitely been drinking.

“What’s going on between you and Alicia?” Libbie said, coming closer to him.

Jack sighed heavily.
Not this again.
“What do you mean? I barely even see Alicia around, let alone have anything going on with her.”

Libbie walked right up to him and slapped him across the face. “Don’t lie to me, Jack! I know that she was over here while I was at the center. Why would you let that piece of trash in our house? Is that why you sent me away? So you could have her instead?”

Jack stood there, stunned. He raised his hand to his face, shocked that Libbie had hit him. He took a deep breath to steady the anger rising inside him. “You’re drunk, Libbie. I’m not going to have this conversation with you.” Jack strode past her to the dining room but barely got two steps away when he felt a hand on the back of his shirt.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me! The whole neighborhood knows you’re cheating on me with that woman. How could you do that? You said you loved me! Me! Yet you had her here—alone.”

Jack pulled away from Libbie’s grasp and spun around to face her. She lost her balance and fell toward him, into his arms. Jack held her until she found her balance, but then she pushed him away and started stumbling toward the living room.

“I’m leaving. I can’t stand looking at you!” she yelled, heading toward the door.

“Libbie, don’t. Just go to bed and sleep it off. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“No. I hate you! You don’t love me anymore.” Just as she made it into the entryway, Spence ran across her path, and Libbie tripped trying to miss the cat. Jack ran to her to stop her from falling, but she fell face-first onto the hard floor before he could catch her.

“Libs. Libs! Are you all right?” Jack dropped to the floor and rolled her over. There was blood on her forehead where she’d hit the hardest.

Libbie started sobbing. “Why would you do this to me, Jack? Why would you cheat on me? I love you so much.”

“I didn’t cheat on you,” Jack insisted. “I don’t know who is telling you these lies, but I didn’t invite Alicia into the house.”

“Then why would they say you did?”

Jack gently lifted her into his arms and carried her to the sofa, setting her down carefully. “Stay here. I’m going to get something to put on your forehead.” He ran to the bathroom, wet a washcloth, and brought it out, placing it over the spot that was bleeding.

Libbie angrily grabbed it from him and held it to her head herself.

“Libs. The only time Alicia was over here was one night after I came home from work. I’d just stepped out of my truck, and she caught up with me on the sidewalk. She asked if she could borrow some milk because she was all out and she needed it for her coffee in the morning. So I came inside to get her some, and she followed me in. I swear she wasn’t in here for more than a few minutes.”

Libbie sat there silently, looking like she was trying to comprehend what Jack had said. Her eyes were glassy, and she was pale.

Jack reached up for the washcloth and pulled it away. The gash was still bleeding heavily.

“Libs, we have to take you to the hospital. You’re bleeding pretty badly.”

Libbie pulled away, tears still falling down her cheeks. “No. I don’t want to go to the hospital. They’ll just send me away again. I don’t want to go away, or else I’ll lose you forever.” Her voice was small and pitiful.

“I’m not leaving you, Libs. How can I get that through to you? I love you! No one else. Now, please, let me take you to the hospital.”

Jack watched as Libbie’s eyelids became heavy and she looked like she was going to fall asleep. He was sure she hadn’t heard a word he’d said. He gently laid her down on the sofa and ran to get another washcloth, exchanging it for the bloody one. “Don’t move,” he whispered in her ear and then kissed her cheek. “I’ll be right back.” Jack went over to slip on his boots and then back to pick Libbie up. By now, she was sleeping soundly and couldn’t fight him. He carried her out to the truck and drove her to emergency.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Libbie ended up with five stitches in her forehead and stayed the night for observation to rule out a concussion. Jack didn’t stay at the hospital that night. He went home and cleaned up the mess in the kitchen before falling into bed.

The night’s events kept running through Jack’s mind, and he cringed over what had happened. Libbie’s eyes had appeared more than just drunk—they’d looked wild, almost manic. And when she’d hit him, he’d been completely stunned. She hadn’t been his Libbie that night. She’d been a woman out of control, whether from the alcohol or something else. What if she acted this way again? What if it was directed toward someone other than him? That thought frightened him.

And then there was the drinking. The fact that she had turned to drinking the minute something upset her proved to him that she wasn’t well yet. He understood that alcoholism was something that just didn’t go away, like the flu or a broken bone. It couldn’t be healed entirely and could rear its ugly head at any time. But he’d hoped that Libbie could control it with his love and support—yet he’d been wrong. This was something she would be fighting her entire life. He knew she needed help again, but did he dare suggest she go for treatment? Would she react as violently as she had tonight?

In the end, he was relieved that he didn’t have to make that decision alone. The next day, Libbie’s regular doctor visited with her and persuaded her to go to another treatment facility where they could work on her sobriety and calm her stress. She agreed, but not without plenty of tears.

When Jack arrived at the hospital that morning, Libbie apologized profusely to him for her behavior and for drinking again. “I don’t know what comes over me,” she told him in a small voice. “I can’t stop my mind from racing when I hear upsetting things. I just can’t control it anymore.”

“I understand, Libs,” he told her gently. The doctor had already consulted with him about a different treatment center, and Mr. Wilkens had agreed to pay. “Let’s do whatever is necessary to get you well again.”

Libbie went for four weeks of treatment, relapsed again, and by the end of the year had been placed in another facility for six weeks. By the time 1975 rolled around, Jack and Libbie were walking on eggshells around each other, trying to figure out how to live a normal life together, because nothing was normal for them any longer.

That January, Libbie came home from the treatment center feeling lost in her own life. It was a brand-new year, and she hardly remembered anything from the year before. It was as if 1974 had never existed for her. She’d spent most of it either in a facility trying to dry out or at home, drunk and trying to hide it. It had been an endless cycle of drinking, arguing, drying out, and drinking again. Now, as she walked through the door of her home with Jack carrying her bags behind her, she didn’t even feel like she belonged there. She felt like a stranger in her own home.

“Do you want to rest?” Jack said courteously, as he carried her bags into the bedroom. This time, she’d stayed in a facility just outside of Minneapolis, and they’d had a long drive home. Every mile had been excruciating for Libbie because of the stilted conversation between them. It made her sad that her own husband no longer knew what to say to her.

“I’m not sure,” Libbie said, looking around the house. Spence was lying in the window seat, soaking up what little January sun he could get. Libbie walked over and sat down next to him, brushing his soft fur with her hand. “I missed you, boy,” she said softly.

“He missed you, too, Libs,” Jack said, coming up close to them. “He’ll be happy to have you home.”

Libbie nodded, although she doubted if Spence really missed her anymore. She’d been gone too much the past year—either drunk out of her mind or away from home. If anything, Spence probably only tolerated her now.

Jack drew nearer and ran his hand through her hair. “I missed you too, Libs. So very much.” He kissed the top of her head.

Libbie tried not to flinch or back away. She just sat as still as a statue, until Jack stepped back. It wasn’t that she was afraid of Jack—she loved him dearly—but every time she came home from a treatment center, she felt as if she were getting to know him all over again. It unnerved her, knowing how close they had been yet feeling so far apart now.

“My mom made some dinners we could freeze and heat up as needed,” Jack said. “And there’s a fresh pan of her lasagna waiting to be heated up for dinner. Why don’t you settle in and relax and I’ll heat up dinner?” He turned and left the room.

Libbie kicked off her shoes and curled up on the window seat next to Spence. Once again, everyone would treat her like an invalid, now that she’d returned. Bev would make dinners for them and stop by often to “visit,” when Libbie knew it was really to check on her. Her father would drop by occasionally, too, and he’d have Sandra come by and clean and do laundry for her for the first few weeks. Libbie loved Bev to pieces, and she appreciated Sandra’s help, but it all made her feel so useless. It was like she was a guest in her own home. She should be cooking dinner and cleaning and doing the laundry. But at this point, even she didn’t think she could handle the most mundane chores.

This time, at the center, the doctors had given her new prescriptions and more advice on how to maintain her sobriety. “Don’t overwork yourself, don’t stress about little things, exercise every day to clear your head, and take one day at a time,” one doctor had said. Of course, the new antidepressant would make sure to dull her emotions, and the Valium would calm the stress. Between the two, she didn’t know how she was going to have the energy to do much of anything, let alone exercise. None of what they said made her feel confident that she could beat this problem.

Nothing had ever helped her mother stop drinking or taking pills. How could Libbie expect her life to be any different? And did she care?

Jack was tired. He tried to work as few hours as possible while still being able to pay their bills. But after four years of constantly working and almost as long worrying about Libbie, he was exhausted.

Also, his relationship with Libbie was strained. He felt like he was walking a tightrope every time he was home. They were polite to each other and went through the motions of “normal.” But as a couple, they were anything but. Whenever he touched Libbie, just to hold her hand or brush a stray hair from her face—something he did as naturally as breathing—she’d tense or pull away. He tried to understand. He knew she was trying her best just to get through each day and stay sober. But he missed kissing her good-bye in the mornings, curling up next to her at night, and making love to her. Despite everything, he still loved her more than anything in the world, so it was hard for him not to be able to show affection to her.

Over the past year, Larry had taken another construction job—this one full-time—and had rented a small apartment. While Libbie was gone, Jack had spent a lot of time with Larry, either at his apartment or at Larry’s favorite bar. Jack wasn’t much of a drinker, but he and Larry played pool or darts or just watched football on the small television in the corner of the room. Larry never judged Libbie, always asked about her, and never gave Jack advice. He would listen without judgement, and Jack appreciated that very much. Even though he could talk to his mother and father about anything, he felt that Larry understood better. It had helped Jack get through the times Libbie was gone, because without Larry’s friendship, he really believed he’d have gone crazy.

By now, all the neighbors suspected that there was something wrong with Libbie. Jack never told any of them where she went, or why, not even June and Natalie who had both asked him outright where Libbie was. But rumors spread, and he was sure they all knew, or at least thought they did. He wanted desperately to protect Libbie from their gossip. She deserved that.

One evening after they’d eaten dinner, Jack and Libbie sat on the sofa with Spence between them, watching a variety show on television. Jack glanced at Libbie, noticing how pale and worn she looked. She slept a lot—he figured it was because of her medications. But now that she’d been home a few weeks, she was doing all the cooking, cleaning, and laundry again. He helped when he could, but he knew it wasn’t enough. Libbie was still tired. At that moment, he wished they could go back in time to the day they were married and do everything all over again. He would have watched more closely for signs of her drinking, he wouldn’t have accepted the house, and then he could have spent more time with Libbie instead of always working. Jack reached across the cat and gently took Libbie’s hand in his. She turned her head and their eyes met, but she didn’t say a word.

“Libs. Let’s sell this house and start over. We’ll buy a place we can actually afford so I can be home every night and we can be together more—like when we were first married. I want us to go back to being that couple again. I know we can do it. I love you. I want us to be happy again.”

Libbie stared at him, expressionless. At first, Jack didn’t think she’d heard him, but then she finally answered.

“We can’t go back to that, Jack,” she said, her voice a monotone. “We can’t wipe away what’s happened. I want to stay in this house. It’s familiar. I feel safe here.”

Jack sighed. He lifted her hand and kissed it softly. “Whatever you want, Libs. I just want you to be happy.”

He hoped they would be—someday.

That spring, Libbie stopped taking her antidepressant. She was tired of being emotionless. She wanted to feel happy and excited. She wanted to remember what love felt like, but most of all, what being loved felt like. It was worth the risk of feeling depressed again. Even feeling depressed would be better than feeling dull and lifeless. She told herself she could manage without the pills. Libbie hadn’t drunk any alcohol since she’d come home from the center in January. She only took her Valium as prescribed. She could do this. She desperately wanted her life back.

That’s when the arguing began.

Libbie’s emotions returned with a vengeance. She angered easily, felt sad and sometimes even paranoid. She complained to Jack that he was never home. She had trouble focusing on any one project and never seemed to complete anything she started. Laundry would sit damp in the dryer, forgotten. Dirty dishes sat on the counter, not making it into the dishwasher. Dinner would burn. Libbie felt overwhelmed, and it turned into frustration and anger. Jack never complained to her, but she thought she saw resentment in his eyes over work left undone and she’d start yelling. Then the crying would start, the apologies, and she’d do it all over again.

Libbie hated herself for the way she acted. That only fueled her rage more. No matter how hard she tried, she didn’t have control over her behavior, and that frustrated her more. Unfortunately, Jack bore the brunt of her frustration.

Jack asked her if she was taking her medication, and she flew off the handle. “I can’t take that stuff anymore!” she yelled at him one night. “I might as well be dead than take it because it makes me feel dead inside.”

“Libs, please. Take the medicine. You do so much better on it. We can’t keep doing this.
I
can’t keep doing this. Please. Take your meds,” Jack begged, but Libbie wouldn’t listen to him. She believed what she’d said. She’d rather be dead than take the meds.