100 Proof
It
had happened 21 years ago last week. In
a tragedy that would never allow Richard to heal in any positive way, his
youngest daughter, Emily, had been killed in a car accident at the young age of
five. It was a dark and freezing night
and the ice patches on the road were not easily visible. He was driving, he was tired, his eyelids
were heavy, but he keeps telling himself he did NOT fall he asleep. He did NOT.
The entire family was asleep already in the car, but no one else had
been hurt when his car spun into the tree at 60 miles per hour, physically,
that is. The tree just had to hit right
where her tiny head was resting on her door.
Why her? Why not him? She still had her life ahead of her. He had lived a good part of his. Parents are not supposed to bury their
children!
Her
death had haunted him nightly, and when he would finally fall asleep he always
had vivid nightmares of flashing images of her lifeless little body at the
scene of the accident. As her father, he
had been given the grueling task of later having to identify her little mangled
and bloody body at the morgue.
Over
the years he had found a drink or two every night helped him go to sleep and
kept the nightmarish images at bay. He
would eventually fall into a dreamless sleep, most nights. Over the years it just happened to require
more and more alcohol to help him get to this seemingly peaceful sleep. While
he had convinced himself this solution was just a way to easily self-medicate,
he forced himself to be oblivious to the toll it took not only on his body, but
also the many ways it destroyed his life.
Over
the last two decades, he had consistently ignored the pleas of his wife, his
son, and his daughter to stop drinking.
After years of fighting over his alcohol-related problems, his wife had
divorced him. She had told him she could
no longer be the breadwinner and refused to continue to make excuses for his
behavior. The night he was found by
neighbors in his own vomit in the backyard was evidently the final straw for
her. After the repeated ritual of
dragging him in the house, bathing him, and allowing him to sleep it off, she
had packed her bags and left a note on his “hidden” vodka bottle.
His
relationship with his son had begun to deteriorate when he would show up at his
little league games after work. Richard
knew he could not handle the pressure of the crowd, the yelling of the parents
to have Little Johnny play a certain position, and the nagging of his wife when
she smelled the alcohol on him. All of
this was even more reason to stop at the liquor store on the way. Unfortunately for him, whereas he thought he
should be given credit for even showing up, his son would later tell him he was
a social embarrassment and he wished he had never been born with him as his
father. He had spoken these words as he
left his father’s home a few years ago and had never returned since.
Then
there was his beloved and only surviving daughter, Dianna. She hung on the longest. After her mother left him, her brother walked
out on him, she would still return to his home from time to time to check on
him and see if there was anything he needed.
Her mother had no more commitment to the man. Her brother had his own life to live,
fighting his own battles and demons. But
Dianna, she was his oldest daughter, his first born, his only daughter left. He had always felt that if anyone would be
there for him, it would be her. Yet, the
time came when she, too, would have to withdraw from being sucked into his downward
spiral of a life he was living. He
recalls waking up to a note from his daughter, describing his behavior from the
night before at her engagement party, asking that he never come near her or
attempt to contact her again. It
explained how important the night was to her, how it happens only once in a
lifetime, and how he had ruined it for her.
The next few days were a blur for him.
He was now truly alone.
The
alarm going off could only mean one thing - the start of another long day had
begun. Richard sat up and slowly rolled
out of his bed, staggering to the bathroom mirror. Staring back at him, his red and faded blue
eyes, now yellowed by jaundice, needed some Visine. He shaved the remaining few stubbles of hair
that still managed to grow on his head and wore it bald. He had worn a goatee for many years, and for
some reason today he had taken notice that it had gone completely grey. He poured some Old Spice into his hands and
patted his paunchy cheeks lightly with the scent. His six-foot frame looked somewhat shorter
due to his protruding belly that now strained against the buttons of his blue
oxford button-down shirt.
He
walked towards the kitchen as the anxious thoughts raced through his mind. He would never make it through the morning selling
life insurance to people who couldn’t afford it if he didn’t have at least a
swig of vodka before heading to the office.
He took the bottle off the counter and drank it straight. Just two swigs would get him through to
lunch. At one time he definitely preferred bourbon but had changed to vodka as
he had heard somewhere vodka was harder to smell or detect on a person’s
breath. At lunch, he would have to
repeat this process to make it until 5:00.
His
thoughts today were at battle with themselves, though, for this was going to be
a special day. He could not overdo
it. He had to be lucid, be on top of his
game, be the man a daughter would be proud of.
A few days prior, Dianne had finally made contact with him, eventually
saying she wanted to see him, even let him meet the granddaughter he had never
met before. She had asked a lot of
questions about how he was doing, how work was, and then THE question. Of course he had promised her that he had
quit drinking. That was, after all, the
only way she had agreed to this meeting.
Richard
could not believe what had just happened to him. The kid at the liquor store
had just refused to sell him a bottle of vodka because he had said that he
smelled like he was already intoxicated.
Intoxicated! He had not gotten
too close to the punk kid, and wasn’t the mint gum he was chewing supposed to hide
his breath? Besides, why was he drinking
vodka instead of his beloved bourbon if someone could smell it anyway? He decided he would just drive on to another
store, where they obviously needed the business. How dare they deny a grown man the sale of alcohol? Who was that kid, anyway?
Richard
made it through the day after his morning snafu. Dianne had agreed to meet him at the park
down by the river where there is a playground so his granddaughter could play
while they talked. He had decided to
arrive before them and be seated so Dianne would not see how unstable his gait
had become. They were supposed to meet
at noon so he was sure to leave the office before 11:30 to avoid any traffic
issues. Before telling his secretary he
was leaving early, he pulled her aside and blew his breath into her face. He asked if he smelled as if he had been
drinking. As usual, she said no. This time she added his breath smelled “medicinal.” Medicinal was good, right? That meant the new mint gum was working.
He
took the elevator to the ground floor and walked through the lobby of the building
directly to his car in the parking garage.
He turned on the engine and the car immediately started blowing cold air
full blast. In one fluid movement like
muscle memory took over, he reached under the seat and pulled out a flask of
vodka, taking a swig just to calm his nerves.
His mind was racing with too many issues to sort out at the moment.
The
phone call he had received right that morning had rattled his already frayed
nerves. Didn’t that damn doctor know he
did not care about the latest results of his lab work? And why did he keep asking him to come into
his office to have a “serious talk” about treatment? From the eyes staring back at him each
morning, he subconsciously knew it was too far gone, but denial was his best
friend these days. He decided right then
and there that he was not going to go to that doctor again. In fact, he was not going to go to any more
doctors because he was not sick. He “felt”
fine. Besides, what could they really
do for him? He knew what they would say,
and to him it was just a waste of time.
As
he drove through downtown, he remembered when he used to take Dianne to the
very same waterfront park. She would
look out of her window and always shriek at how tall the buildings were. It did not matter how many times she saw
them, her reaction was the same. He
remembered pushing her on the swing with her blonde pigtails blowing in the
wind. He could vividly recall her loud
giggle, followed by, “Higher, Daddy.
Higher!” For a fleeting moment,
his mind turned towards the same memories with Emily. He grew furious at this for a moment, shaking
his head, but then realized how fuzzy his memories had become. No matter how hard he then tried, squinting
his eyes to see if that helped, he could not see her in clear focus. Why had she become such a blur? Was it due to his constant resistance to her
memory? This caused him to take yet
another sip, and another. He hoped the
extra gum he brought would work…
Turning
right onto Main Street ,
he arrived at the park. He parked his
car and walked a short distance to the entrance. Walking along the shaded sidewalk, he sees
several other mothers with their children playing here and there. He finds a shaded picnic table that is near
the playground and sits down on the concrete bench to wait for their
arrival.
Watching
the entrance to the park, he spies Dianne and a tiny figure walking towards
him. He can see Dianne bend her head
down and whisper something to the little girl, and to his surprise, she heads
off to the playground. Dianne, alone,
continues to walk towards him. The
shadows from the tree branches make it impossible for him to gauge her
mood. She seems much taller and thinner
than he remembers. God, how she is
beautiful, he thought. She is the
spitting image of her mother, whom he fell in love with at right about the same
age. He wonders what Emily would look
like as an adult had she lived. Would
she look like Dianne? Would she look
more like him? He glances over at his
granddaughter, who is the same age Emily was when she died. He is captivated by her innocence, yet in
fear at the same time of what could happen to someone so young and
vulnerable. For a moment, he finds
himself unable to breathe watching her play.
Dianne
sits down on the concrete bench next to her father where she can watch her
daughter. Neither of them say anything
for a very long moment. They sit in
silence, together, watching the tiny child play on a tire swing. She glances at her mother from time to time,
testing her presence. She waves at her mother and Richard notices
her looking at him wonderingly, yet with the innocent eyes of a child. He remembers how young children have no
concept of consequences, impending doom, approaching danger, etc. He wonders if Emily knew what was happening
the night she died.
Dianne
turns and faces her father and stares at him for a long time, while he sits
seemingly mesmerized watching the child.
Her eyes search his face, looking at his wrinkles, the yellowness of his
skin, the yellowness of his eyes, the baldness of his head. A single tear slips down the left side of
Dianne’s cheek. “How long do you have,
daddy?” In what he thought was an
awkwardly long period of time before she spoke to him, he is at once relieved
at what Dianne has just asked. “I am
taking the rest of the day off. Work is
not as important as seeing my two best girls.
She is beautiful, Dianne, just like you.
She has your blonde hair.”
Dianne
reaches over and picks up her father’s hand and clasps it with her own. “No, daddy, how much longer do you have to
live?” Shocked with what Dianne has just
said, he struggles with what to say. He
swallows hard and he realizes she knows.
The lump in his throat continued to grow and bound his vocal chords from
making any movement at all. He was
speechless. His mind was turning and
nothing was coming out. He could
envision little men running around in an office throwing papers at each other
trying to come up with the headline before the deadline, all of this occurring
inside of his head, but nothing would come out of his mouth.
Dianne
broke the silence. “Don’t say anything,
daddy. Just watch her play, because when
I stand up from here and go get her, you will never see either one of us
again.” Once again, they sat in silence, as the words
stung every brain cell they pierced. He
was determined to try to make sense of what she had just spoken, but his denial
kept getting in the way. He did as was
instructed and watched her playing, laughing, giggling, and waving at the two
of them from the tire swing. He waved
back and smiled.
Dianne
slowly let go of her father’s hand, stood up, and proceeded to walk slowly
across the park to get the granddaughter he had seen for the first and last
time. As he watched them walk away, he did not try to stop Dianne from leaving,
nor was he surprised that his daughter never even looked back. It was at that moment that many things became
evident. No longer did he care what the
doctors said or didn’t say. No longer
was there meaning to anything. What did
he have to live for? What kind of life
did he have? When people get up in the
morning and look forward to their day because of all of the great things that
are going to happen, what did he have?
Selling life insurance all day that people would pay into their whole
lives so when they die, their family can afford the overpriced costs of their
funeral? Then coming home at night to no
one? What a life. What a hellish life he had made for himself.
He
sat silent and frozen on the bench until he saw her SUV pull away. Then he stood up and stumbled the short
distance back to his car. He sat down, started
the engine, and leaned the seat back. He
turned on the radio to his favorite country music channel. Thank God for Willie Nelson. He reached under the seat and grabbed the
flask of vodka. Speaking to the flask as
if it were a living being he said, “I guess it’s just going to be the two of us,
isn’t it, old friend? After all, I did
take the rest of the day off.” With that
said, Richard twisted off the cap and savored the flavor as it slid down his
throat with a slow, burning familiarity and sense of final soothing.
-Adasha Knight, Jennifer Scarborough
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