He paused at the doorway. “Out.” And then he
was gone, leaving me standing there, feeling the sting of
defeat.
Chapter Sixteen
Liam
Alcohol was my only friend. And when the cool
night air did little to soothe my fury, I took a bus downtown and
walked to the nearest liquor store to reacquaint myself with my
insidious friend.
The crude light that fell from the
fluorescent bulbs, the bright laminate floors, and the glare
emanating from the rows of metal shelves—it was already bringing on
a splitting headache.
I
just stood in the aisle for a moment and
closed my eyes, waiting for the throbbing to subside. Then I
grabbed a bottle of JD from the shelves, two bottles of Macallan
scotch, several bottles of Jim Beam Black bourbon and tossed them
into my cart.
That should tie me over
for a couple days
. I had to knock myself
out with alcohol every night because it was the only thing that
helped me fall asleep and stay asleep. And when I was feeling
anxious and wired during the day, a drink or two helped take the
edge off and mellow me out.
When I got to the checkout line, a man clad
in a plaid shirt was talking loudly on his cell phone as if the
whole damn world were his phone booth. And all the while, a little
girl, no more than three, was tugging at the hem of his shirt.
“
Daddy, daddy,” she said
urgently. “I need to go potty
really,
really
bad.”
The fucking moron carried on yammering away
into his phone with his annoying half-alogues:
“
That would
have…”
“
Uh, and…”
“
I don’t
believe…”
“
Yeah, it…”
For a full two minutes, he completely ignored
his daughter. The little girl stood there whining and crying but
Father of the Year refused to even glance her way.
As the line at the register inched forward, I
noticed a puddle on the floor.
“
What the fuck?” the man
yelled when he realized his daughter was pissing her
pants.
In the next moment, he slapped her across the
face so hard she stumbled backward, pinwheeling her arms before she
fell on the floor, soaking in a pool of her own urine.
Then he did the most unimaginable thing. He
kicked her and yelled, “Get the fuck up! Now!”
That’s it.
The last dregs of my patience evaporated into
thin air, and I snapped.
Gripping his right arm, I jerked the limb
behind his back. “If you kick her again, if you so much as lay a
finger on her, I’ll break your fuckin’ leg and shove it up your
ass.” Anger raged inside me and I gave his arm a sharp jerk. “You
should spend less time on your phone and more time taking care of
your kid.”
He craned his neck, turning his liquor-glazed
eyes on me. “Fuck you, asshole. Who the fuck do you think you
are?”
My voice distilled to a
rough whisper. “I’m a lieutenant in the United States Army and I’ve
earned the right.” I gave his arm another jerk, and he swore again.
“I’ve earned the
right
because I’ve bled in the battlefield for scums like
you.”
With my free hand, I reached around his waist
and swiped his wallet out of his pocket. “What the—?” he sputtered.
“Are you trying to rob me?”
“
Nope.” I flicked his
wallet open and got a good look at his driver’s license. “But
I
am
going to
report you to child protection services, Randy J.
Nelson.”
The cashier, who had been silent this whole
time, finally spoke up. “I’ll make that phone call,” she said, with
a cell phone readily in her hand.
“
Thank you.” I slapped the
man’s wallet over the counter and slid it across to the cashier
before relaxing my iron grip and shoving the man aside.
My chest was heaving. I turned my head away
and concentrated on breathing, certain I could flip to rage again
at the slightest provocation.
When I turned back to the cashier, I caught
her studying me, her dark brows drawn together, and I feared she
would see the truth. That I was as much of a lowlife scumbag as the
man who’d just kicked his own daughter.
In fact, I was worse. A monster, a
killer.
A single sob escaped the little girl as I
slowly approached her. “Hey, it’s all right, sweetheart,” I said,
trying to soothe her as best I could. Tears spilled over, tracing a
glistening path down her cheek. “It wasn’t your fault.”
Squirming under my gaze, she clung tightly to
her dad, her tiny fingers grasping at handfuls of plaid.
My heart lodged itself in my throat, but
there was nothing else I could do for her.
“
Get away from her!” the
man snarled. “You’re frightening my poor child!”
With a start, I realized my hands were still
fisted at my sides.
A cold, leaden weight settled in my gut and a
faint trembling spread throughout my limbs, making my hands shake
as I stepped back and paid for my liquor.
I understood the look the cashier was giving
me. I understood the look everyone was giving me. Pity, yes, but
also fear.
By the time I got outside, my entire body
itched with rage, as if it would burst out of my skin. I had a
sudden urge to strike out at something or someone.
I hated it. Hated letting my anger show,
hated that I couldn’t control it.
With trembling hands, I reached instinctively
for a bottle and unscrewed the cap. I took a long pull, barely
flinching as the warm amber whiskey trod fire down the back of my
throat. It helped dull the rage, the pain, the guilt. When the
shaking in my hands had finally stopped, I staggered down the
sidewalk.
The streetlights were burnt out and my eyes
had to repeatedly adjust to the glare from oncoming traffic.
It alternated, walking in near darkness to
being blinded by pools of light.
As I turned a corner, I came upon a frail and
elderly homeless person. He was standing on the pavement and
holding a cardboard sign that read:
Homeless Nam Veteran. Can You Please
Help?
I froze in my tracks. Some of the soldiers
who returned from Vietnam, Korea, Afghanistan, Grenada, Panama—any
war, you name it—they were never the same.
They became the homeless people who
pedestrians whispered about and crossed the streets to avoid.
They became this man. This man who was
standing on a street corner, holding up a cardboard sign and
begging for money.
I didn’t know if he suffered from alcohol
addiction or drug abuse or mental illness, or all three, but I knew
that one out of every six men in our homeless shelters was a
veteran. One out of every six had once worn a uniform to serve our
country.
I’d read about it on the news, heard it on
TV, and it gave me pause.
PTSD and substance abuse seemed to lurk in
the shadows. And as I stood staring at the homeless man, I couldn’t
help but reflect on my own failures.
Will that actually be me someday?
Is this a glimpse into my very own
future?
Chapter Seventeen
Vivian
The night air closed around me, cloying and
humid. Though I was wearing nothing but a thin cotton T-shirt, my
skin felt hot, and I kept tossing and turning.
What was the point? I let out an exasperated
sigh.
There was no way I could sleep, not when Liam
was out and I had no idea where he was. Snapping the sheets aside,
I slipped out of bed and padded into the kitchen in search of
food.
A midnight snack. Yes, that’s exactly what I
needed right now.
I binged whenever I was feeling down. When I
was dating my ex, I was so messed up inside that I put on a full
fifteen pounds. Tonight, I was feeling ravenous, which said a whole
lot about my current emotional state.
As I stood staring at the
contents of my fridge, I pondered,
What to
eat? What to eat?
Finally, I decided on an omelet.
I could easily whip one up in no time, and I
enjoyed breakfast anytime of the day.
Pleased with my decision, I began grabbing
things, filling my arms with a carton of eggs, a carton of milk, a
Vidalia onion, some spinach, peppers, tomatoes, and a hunk of feta
cheese.
Using the side of a large bowl, I carefully
cracked the eggshells, added a little milk, and began beating the
daylights out of the eggs, furiously whisking at them as tears of
frustration pricked my eyes.
Is it normal for me to
feel this way?
I tried to be patient with
Liam, but I didn’t know what to do when he withdrew into himself. I
felt like I was the only one trying to hold our relationship
together.
Perhaps “happily ever after” was a simplistic
notion best saved for Hallmark greeting cards.
Happiness and a united relationship took hard
work in the best of circumstances. And with his TBI, his PTSD, and
his excessive drinking, I wasn’t sure how to keep it together
anymore. I wasn’t sure how to help him anymore.
Words that had once spilled from my own lips
came back to taunt me.
I love you Liam,
I’d told him.
I love the
man you are now, the man you were before, and the man you’ll
become. No matter how much the war changes you, my feelings for
you… they’ll never change.
A tear streaked down my face and dripped into
the batter.
I felt like a fraud. An imposter.
I tasted the vinegar in my very own soul.
Yes, I still loved Liam. Loved him so much it
ached, but sometimes it was hard to love him when he was sullen and
angry.
It was hard to love a man who was at times
incapable of feeling anything.
It was hard to care for him when he didn’t
want my help, and when I tried to help him, it was often a
thankless task.
The faint scrape of the back door pulled me
away from my thoughts and my pulse quickened as Liam staggered into
the kitchen.
The smell of alcohol clung to him like an
invisible mist.
I gave my nose a vicious swipe with my
sleeve, refusing to give into the emotions that threatened to
overpower me.
Without looking up, I moved over to the
chopping block and began dicing up the onions. “You’ve been
drinking again.” A statement, not a question.
“
So?” he
grunted.
I lifted my chin and looked him right in the
eye. “Where have you been all night?”
In answer, he simply held up a plastic bag
brimming with liquor bottles.
Exhaling a slow breath, I hung my head and
resumed dicing away at the onions.
The tears that had been threatening to
overflow finally did, coursing down my cheeks.
An
addict
. I sniffed.
That’s what he is
.
The origin of the word “addict” came from the
Latin word for “surrender.” And as painful as it was, I had to come
to terms with the fact that Liam had surrendered his will to
alcohol.
Face it,
I told myself.
You’re in
love with an addict.
Dread pooled in my stomach and a lick of
anger chased it up my spine. “Shit!” I hissed as the blade sliced
through my skin. Dropping the knife, I quickly ran my hand under
the faucet, letting the blood slip through the deep cut.
Liam was by my side in an instant. He grasped
me firmly by the elbow and spun me around to face him. “Let me
see.”
“
It’s nothing,” I said,
keeping my gaze averted. “Just a small cut.”
Gently, he lifted my chin so I had no choice
but to meet his eyes. “Why are you crying?”
“
It’s the onions.” I wiped
roughly at my eyes with the back of my hand. “They always burn my
eyes.”
“
Let me see the cut.” He
reached for my wrist, but I jerked it away from him.
Pressing a hand to my mouth, I stifled a sob
that tore from my throat. “I told you I’m fine.”
He stepped forward and framed my face in his
hands. “Stop saying you’re fine when it’s clear that you’re
not.”
I almost laughed at the irony as the smell of
whiskey assaulted my senses.
And suddenly I was furious.
Furious that he was doing this to
himself.
Furious that he didn’t even care.
“
Damn you, Liam! I’m not
the one who’s in denial here. You are!” I shoved at his chest with
both hands. “Why do you keep doing this to yourself? Why?” I cried
painfully. “Why? Why don’t you care anymore? Why don’t you care
about me anymore? Why don’t you care about us anymore? Why won’t
you get help?” Shoving at his chest with all my might, I snarled.
“I will
not
stand
around and watch you do to yourself what those Iraqis insurgents
couldn’t.”
Liam stood, shocked and immobilized, and for
a moment I wondered if I’d gone too far.
Another sob shuddered through my body.
Whirling around, I stalked toward the counter, yanked a bottle of
bourbon out of the plastic bag, and poured the contents into the
sink.
“
Don’t.” He loomed over
me, but his strength and bulk did not intimidate me.
I batted his hand away and he caught it,
gripping my wrist like a vise.
With his free hand, he took the bottle away
from me and slammed it down on the counter.
“
Let go!” I struggled
against his hold.
“
Enough, Viv.” He relaxed
his grip but didn’t let go. “Enough.”