I need to thank Adam Phillips,
author of Crosscurrents (http://archerland.disbelieve.org/adam.htm)
for his help with this chapter. Thank you also to Bill for his editing
help. Finally, as
always, thank you to my partner. I love you more than words can ever
express.
Chapter
17
Erica went into labor two weeks early. I was worried; with all the
things that
had gone on since we found out she was pregnant, we hadn't managed to
get to
any birthing classes, and I didn't have a clue what to do. She was in
labor for
36 hours.
She was such a trooper. She refused to take any painkillers. It was
awful to
see her struggling and not be able to do anything to help. The most I
could do
was hold her hand and try to say supportive things, but I don't think
squashing
my fingers made her feel any better. Somehow, though, we all made it
through,
and finally, a new life--a life that we'd created--took his place in the
world.
As the
doctor delivered my son, I
couldn't take my eyes off him. Watching him cry his newborn little
lungs
out...seeing those perfect hands, those perfect fingers...did something
to me,
something that was, and is still, impossible to put into words.
Deep into my own incomprehensible thoughts and feelings, I heard a
voice
calling to me as if it came from far away. "Sam." I looked up at the
doctor. He said, "Do you want to cut the umbilical cord?"
A rebirth of my own occurred that moment as the reality of this new
life struck
me full-force. The nurse handed me the proper instrument, I performed
the
procedure, and then they handed him to me.
It's impossible for me to describe the feelings that gripped me when I
first
held him in my arms. With everything that had been happening, there
hadn't been
time for me to come to grips with the fact that we were about to be
parents.
And then, suddenly, he was here. He was here, and I was holding
him, and
it was the single happiest moment of my life.
As he began to settle down and take in his new surroundings, I stared
into his
big blue eyes. It seemed as though he was staring into mine. It was
almost as
if we were asking each other, "What's next?" And I realized that,
whatever the answer was, it wasn't like anything that had gone before.
The
world had just become new for me. The pain of the past seemed for the
time
being to lose its power; even its relevance; all because
of the arrival of this new, perfect, little
person.
"Mr. Passerello, we need
to weigh him and clean him up a bit."
I looked up at the nurse who'd spoken to me. Somewhere in the back of
my mind
the words had registered, but in the front of my mind I was still
incoherent,
blown away with love and astonishment. I stared blankly into her face.
"Yes. I...what?"
She smiled; she'd seen stupefied fathers before, I guess. "I need to
weigh
your son; what's his name?"
"Christopher," Erica said weakly from the table. I looked over at her
and smiled; she smiled back.
"What a great name," the nurse said. "I need to get little
Christopher cleaned up and into his new clothes," she said, reaching
for
him.
"Oh. Okay," I said. But my arms weren't complying. I stood
there, holding my son close to me. Finally, the nurse walked right up
to me and
put her hands on Chris. "Just let me take him for a couple of
minutes," she said soothingly. "You'll have the rest of your life
with him." She practically had to pry him out of my arms.
As she took care of Chris, I noticed how totally, completely aware I
had become
over the last few minutes. In those moments it became clear to me,
because of
the contrast, just how numbed most of my waking hours had been. With
one look
at Chris, though, he managed to blast through all the walls and knock
me out of
that numb state. I was also aware that the reservoir of unhappiness
that I had
been carrying around with me had somehow receded in an instant, so for
the
first time in what seemed like forever, it didn't hurt not to be numb,
or at
least it didn’t only hurt. The pain was
still there, but it was being overwhelmed by the love and joy my son
had
brought with him.
The nurse handed him back to me. The doctor was finishing up with
Erica, who
seemed exhausted. I wanted to let her hold Chris but it didn't know if
she was
capable. Part of me felt I should be paying her some attention, but my
heart
and mind had been so totally captivated by Chris I couldn't tear my
eyes from
him. The awareness and curiosity radiating from his eyes as he stared
at me
engaged my deepest instincts and my most profound love.
It was a religious experience for me; I thought about my place, and
his, in the
grand scheme of things. I thought about what my life had come to, where
I'd
come from, where life had brought me. As
I looked into his eyes, I whispered, "I love you so much, Christopher.
I
promise I'll be there for you forever. I'll get myself completely
together for
you, so that you can always count on me. I swear to you I'll never
repeat my
parents' mistakes...and every day of your life, I'll show you how much
I love
you." When I looked up, I saw the nurse smiling at me again. It was
time
for us to move into the maternity ward, but I wouldn't let the nurse
take him
back. I held him and walked with him as we went to Erica's room.
* * * * * * * * *
Erica and Christopher spent a few days in the hospital, and finally we
all got
to go home and begin our new life together. On the surface, Erica
seemed okay,
for the most part, at
least compared to previous months.
After Christina had died, she'd spiraled into a depression that was so
intense
that she was just short of catatonic. I'd been worried to death about
it during
those months, but she was unwilling to get any help. I really never
knew if she
would still be alive when I came home every night. I half expected her
to wish
herself to death.
She'd seemed to come out of it right before Chris was born. She still
hadn't
been quite herself, but she would at least get out of bed and shower on
her
own. There were ups and downs, but she was at least functioning
again.
In the days and weeks following the birth of our son, though, things
seemed to
go wrong again. Not wrong like they'd been before, but not good. She
never
seemed to want to hold Christopher. She wouldn't nurse him either. At
first she
said she was too tired; she talked about how his birth had seemed to
knock the
energy out of her. I couldn't really argue the point: She weighed less
when we
left the hospital than she had when she'd gotten pregnant. She also
developed a
major infection within a day of coming home, and had to fight that off,
so
there was definitely some fatigue involved. She never really got
better,
though, and her malaise wasn't merely physical.
She slept a lot. It seemed as though she was always asleep when I was
home. In
hindsight, I can say that I should have paid more attention. At the
time,
though, I was doing my best just to keep my own sense of stability.
During
those first days and weeks back home, I was so over-the-moon
happy about being a father that I didn't see how incredibly unhappy
Erica
was. She had been on a road toward a new and better place in
life; we both
had. Then her sister had been killed. Grief and guilt and
depression had
been festering away inside her, and becoming a mother had not resolved
any of
that. Something in her snapped her out of depression as it became time
for
Christopher to be born, but it seemed to me that almost the moment he
entered
the world, her demons returned.
I was attributing her low spirits to fatigue caused by the delivery,
and then
to her infection. I did all the baby care at night; since he was being
bottle-fed, it was the easiest option, and I can't deny that I loved
those
quiet times alone with him in the small hours of the morning. To be
honest, I
didn’t want to share him at those times.
There was something so profoundly calming about holding his tiny
body
and watching him fall asleep cuddled against my chest.
The feel of the soft peach fuzz that was his
hair against my cheek, the smell of baby, his tiny hands clutching my
shirt,
the weight of his warm little body in my arms while I rocked him to
sleep--that
brought me such peace.
During the
day, I left Chris with
Erica when I went to work. That worked okay for awhile, and I assumed
Erica was
fine with it. Chris hadn't been home for
a full week before she asked me one morning to take Christopher with me
to
work.
I studied her; she looked miserable, but I wasn't sure that this would
work
out. "I don't know, Erica, I..."
"Please, Sammy...please," she said, her eyes begging
me. "He's never trouble during the day. You know that. It'll be
fine. I just need..." She looked away for a moment, then turned to me
and
said, "I just need a break today."
I frowned. I didn't know if it would be the best thing for Christopher
to be
lugging him around with me all day. But as I looked into Erica's eyes,
a number
of things that had been going on lately came together in my head, and I
realized that things weren't okay here. I knew then that I had to take
Chris
with me, at least for that day.
I discovered when I got to work that it wasn't all that hard. Chris was
a happy
baby and seemed to enjoy being carted around all over the place. The
day went
so well that I realized I could do this on a semi-regular basis.
As things developed, I began taking him to the office more often than
not.
There were days, though, when I couldn't take him with me, days when
I
had meetings or had to be out of the office most of the time. At first
it
seemed as though Erica was handling those days okay. But as time went
by I
discovered that on the days I couldn't take him, Erica would try to get
friends
of hers to look after him.
My boss, Beth, was one of those friends. She was in the office on
alternating
days from me; she knew Erica, and she loved kids. She agreed to watch
Chris for
us from time to time when she was at home and Erica needed a break. I
was okay
with this initially; because I wanted to do everything I could to help
Erica
become her old self again. I figured Erica could arrange with Beth for
some
time by herself a few days a week, and with a schedule worked out
between them,
she'd start to feel better about being able to take care of him. Beth
was happy
to help. It seemed like a great arrangement and I loved Beth for her
willingness to take care of Chris from time to time.
One day, however, when I had Chris at work with me, Beth came to me and
said,
"I'd like to talk to you in the conference room for a second,
okay?"
We went into the room; she shut the door, and we sat down at the large
table.
"Sam," she began, "I love Chris, and I love you and Erica, and
I'm happy to help out with him as much as I possibly can. I just want
you to be
real clear on that, okay?"
"Okay," I said nervously. "What's up?"
"Well," she said, pausing for a moment as if to select her words
carefully, "did you know that whenever you don't bring Chris to work
Erica
brings him over?"
I began to feel heavy in the pit of my stomach. "No," I said.
"I'm sorry. That wasn't what I thought was going on. She's scheduling
you
for too much time with him."
"Well, I love the little guy," Beth said, "And really, it's not
so much the hours, Sam, as the fact that she's not scheduling.
She's
just...." She looked into my face with concern. "She's just dumping
him on me, without giving me any notice."
"What do you mean?"
She looked into my eyes nervously and said, "I don't want to cause any
trouble...but it seems like almost as soon as you leave the house she
drives
over with Chris. A lot of times we haven't even made any arrangements
ahead of
time. She always picks him up just before you are suppose to be home.
It's fine
with me, Sam, and I love your little boy; I'm just
concerned that if she
doesn't give me any advance notice I may have something come up and
won't be
able to take him, and that will leave her in a tight spot."
Anger rose up in me. "A tight spot? But she doesn't have anything else
she
has to do..." Then I reminded myself of how down she was, and reminded
myself again of the fact that I hadn't done a very good job of noticing
her and
her plight.
"Sam," she said gently, "I think...I think she's in some
trouble."
It wasn't as if part of me hadn't been thinking the same kinds of
things. But
hearing it from my supervisor felt like a blow to my stomach.
I tried to sound neutral as I asked, "What do you mean?"
She looked at me silently for such a long time that my anxiety level
rocketed
up. Finally she sighed, and said, "Sam...I don't want to accuse anybody
of
anything...but I just want to tell you about these feelings I
get."
Before I had a chance to ask what she meant, she said, "I find myself
wondering what she does when she's by herself. I know that the
pregnancy was
hard on her...but the fact that she's up and about, bringing Chris over
as
regularly as she does tells me she's not spending all that time lying
in bed.
And why hasn't she told you that she's bringing Chris over so much?
There's
something that seems...I don't know, sneaky about it. Deceptive."
I knew exactly where this was going. For reasons I didn't even
understand, I
got defensive. "I appreciate your concern, Beth, but I'm sure she's
just
recovering from being pregnant. There's no mystery."
She looked at me like you'd look at some clueless guy whose spouse is
cheating
on him. She shrugged her shoulders and said, "Maybe. But that's not
all,
Sam. Have you really looked at her lately?"
I felt my face flush. I honestly hadn't. Things were too busy; I'd had
more on
my plate than I could handle.
"Look," she continued. "My husband Stan has been through
hell and back with meth addiction. When I see Erica...well, there are
things in
the back of my mind that just raise all kinds of red flags. Nothing I
can
prove, Sam, but...I'm worried."
I
looked away from her; as the words
made their way into my brain, a number of things I'd overlooked began
to click
into place.
"I came here today," she said, "because when she left him yesterday
I realized I needed to talk to you. She seemed really strung out; she
looked
for all the world like Stan used to look when he'd come off a bad high.
It made
me shiver, Sam, it seemed so familiar to me."
I stared blankly into her face.
"You've talked to me about Erica's past...Sam, I think you need to
consider the possibility that she's using again."
"That's not possible, Beth," I said, too quickly. "The past year
is just catching up with her. She needs my support, not my accusations."
"Sometimes support requires us to do some accusing, Sam. It's
not
fun, but especially when someone has a history of addiction, you have
to always
be on the lookout."
"You're
wrong, Beth," I
said. "I know my wife. That's not what it is."
I don't know why I said that. At the very instant I threw out that
denial,
another part of my brain was acknowledging that it made sense.
Erica
wasn't just withdrawn these days; she was obviously secretive too. I'd
seen
signs of that myself, but I'd just interpreted it as depression and
uncommunicativeness. And she stayed so thin...but again, I had blamed
her
health and hadn’t even
considered that she was having problems with meth again. Although
I'd had
subconscious concerns, it had never explicitly occurred to me that she
was
using again. I hadn't known her when she was using and I didn't have
much
experience with meth addicts. She'd been irritable, but like everything
else
I'd seen from her, I chalked that up to depression.
But there was more. I began replaying scenes from the last several
weeks.
She could be so sweet--maybe, I now considered, she was being
deliberately
manipulative during those times--and then from time to time she'd become
irritable and nasty, seemingly out of nowhere. Then she'd cycle back
again. That didn't seem like depression; it seemed like something
else.
When she was just depressed, as she was in the wake of Christina's
death, she
just seemed lost most of the time. These days, she often seemed more
like a
caged cat: pent-up; anxious.
But I said none of that to Beth. What I said was, "I appreciate your
concern, Beth, and I'll talk with her. But we're fine, really."
She frowned for a moment. "Just think about it, Sam," she said. She
put a hand on my shoulder, got up, and walked out of the room.
When she left, guilt attacked me. I felt guilty that we'd imposed on
Beth, but
mainly I felt guilty because I hadn't picked up on the increasingly
visible
warning signs at home. I should have known that Erica was dumping Chris
whenever she could. But I wanted to believe things were getting better.
It was
more convenient to believe things were getting better. Since I was the
one
getting up with him multiple times at night, I was so tired that I
don't know
that I had the energy to own up to what was going on.
I talked to Erica that night, trying to be indirect, never accusing her
of
anything, trying to give her every opportunity to open up to me. She
denied
that anything was wrong, aside from being tired. So
I took Chris with me whenever possible and
tried to let Erica know I was there for her, that I loved her; and I
hoped and prayed
that somehow I was wrong and somehow everything would be fine.
One day when Chris was three months old, I came home from work early to
find
extra cars parked outside my house.
As I got out of my car, I could hear music coming from the house.
When I
stepped through the door, I saw Erica dancing, a beer in each hand,
with some
guy I'd never met.
When she saw me, her bloodshot eyes went wide. Before I had a chance to
say
anything, she said belligerently, "What the hell are you doing home
early?"
The look in her eyes, the contempt written on her face, her brash and
abusive
tone, all these things were completely alien to me. She was drunk
enough to
have lost her usual grace, but not to the point of stumbling. Still, it
clearly
wasn't alcohol that was fueling this. She had something else in her
system;
something that turned her into a stranger.
The woman I knew, the woman I had fallen in love with and married, was
soft-spoken, gentle. Although she wasn't weak in any way, she was but
utterly
feminine, always put together, always polite even when telling you off.
The
woman in front of me was the polar opposite.
I looked around the room. I didn't recognize anybody else there. I
realized
that my wife had a whole circle of friends and acquaintances I knew
nothing
about. Who knew how often she'd done this at my house before this day.
As I
turned back to look at her, she and the man she had been dancing with
walked
over to me. The guy was standing in front of me with his arm around my
wife as
if he owned her.
She got in my face and said, "Fuck you, Sam. Don't you fuckin'
look at me like that, I can't stand being caged up in this goddam
house and I'm gonna have a
little fun. If your tight ass can't deal with it you
can just fuck yourself."
An odd thought passed through my head; I thought of stories of people
who'd
become possessed. This wasn't my wife; this was someone else. Something
else.
All of a sudden, concern for my son flared up in my mind.
I grabbed her shoulders and said, "Where's Chris?"
She rolled her eyes. "He's takin' a nap.
He wouldn't shut up."
I ran into his room; I didn't know what I'd find, and I was scared to
death.
When I looked in his crib, I couldn't see or hear him at first. There
was just
a heap of blankets, and for a few horrifying moments I thought Erica
had lost
our son. Then I heard muffled cries from under the blankets over the
noise of
the music in the other room.
I pulled the blankets off Chris; he was absolutely hysterical. He was
bright
red, overheated from being under all of those blankets. He hadn't been
strong
enough to move them off by himself, and he'd been screaming for so long
he was
hoarse. His face was twisted into a mask of fear; I know it seems hard
to
believe that you can see fear on an infant's face, but it was plain as
day to
me.
I picked him up and held him in my arms. He screamed bloody murder for
a minute
or so, but once he was in my arms he began to calm down. That helped me
calm
down too; I was terrified until I began to see that he was okay.
After a few minutes, his screams had been replaced by the little
gasping
hiccups that babies have when they're recovering from having been
crying
especially hard. His diaper was soaking wet; it was clear he'd been in
it all
day. I cleaned him up and put a new one on him. When he had settled
down, and
my own terror had subsided, I was in a white-hot rage like nothing I
had ever
experienced before.
She could have killed him. That's all I could think.
I went back out to the party and found her.
"What were you thinking?" I demanded. Part of me was hoping
that there would be some explanation--maybe she had put him down for a
nap and
someone else had done that.
"I got sick of his screaming. He was bringing everybody down and making
all that goddam noise."
She faltered for a moment, then looked at me
defiantly and said, "I covered him up like that because he wouldn't
stop
that damn screaming."
"You didn't change him all day, did you?" I asked.
"No," she said. "So
what?"
"When's the
last time you fed him?"
"Yesterday, maybe," she said.
I grabbed her shoulders again and shouted, "You could have killed
him!"
She just shrugged.
I went back to his room, packed his things, put him in fresh clothes
and got
him a bottle I went to the phone and I called the police: I told them
about the
party and the drugs. I gave them the location of our house. Then I took
Christopher and left.
The police arrested and jailed everyone at our house, including Erica.
I didn't
bail her out, and I gave notice on the lease and moved out while she
was still
in jail.
* * * * * * * * *
After my anger and fear had subsided, and I'd gotten Chris out of
harm's way, I
began feeling incredibly guilty for not getting Erica out of jail, for
having
let her sink to such a level without realizing what was happening, for
not
having been there for her. I realized that if she wasn't able to own up
to how
far she'd fallen, there'd be no hope that she'd ever climb out of this,
though;
and in any case, I didn't have the money to bail her out; we were
barely making
ends meet as it was.
I wanted her back so desperately. I told myself that when she got out
we'd be
able to pick up the shattered pieces and start again.
I had to believe that was possible. Failing
her, failing my son that way was
simply not an option in my mind.
I'd like to say that the experience was a wake-up call for Erica. I
can't,
though. Her first stop after she got out of jail was her drug
connection. That
was apparent when she stormed over to my new place.
After she knocked and I opened the door, she stood there, staring
daggers
through me. Her first words were, "You son of a bitch."
I stared at her; her words ripped my heart out. I kept looking for the
woman I
loved in the angry, bitter person standing in front of me. I wasn't
angry with
her anymore. And I wanted us all to heal and move on together. I
realized then
that wanting it and getting it weren't the same thing.
I said, gently, "Erica, are you high?"
"Fuck you, Sam," she said. "Yeah, wonder why, maybe 'cause my
husband got me put in jail," she screamed.
"I want you to be okay, Erica, I want us to be a family again," I
said. "But it's gotten bad, don't you realize that? I couldn't risk you
hurting Chris again; I just couldn't. You scared me. It seemed like it
was
going to get worse unless you had a wake-up call."
"You let me just sit there in jail," she said, wounded.
"I didn't have the money," I said. And in an instant, the reason we
were always so short of money was suddenly clear.
I paid all of the bills directly, but our grocery bills had gone
through the
roof. She did the shopping, and she'd kept telling me how
expensive the
diapers and formula were. I should have seen what was happening then;
but now,
in bitter hindsight, I saw all too well.
I looked into her eyes and said, "Please, Erica...get some help. I
don't
care what it costs, I'll figure it out. We'll make it through this
together." I'd have sold my soul to get her into a treatment place.
She looked me in the eye and said, "I'm clean, Sam. You don't know what
you're talking about."
It was pathetic; any toddler could have looked in her eyes and known
she was
lying; she had just told me as much.
"Please, Erica," I said again. "Do it for me, if you won't do it
for yourself. Do it for Chris, do it for your sister's memory."
She looked as if she'd been electrocuted. She took a deep breath, and
scowled
at me and said, "Some husband you are. You won't even believe me when I
tell you I'm clean."
"I love you, Erica," I said, "but you need help. I know it's not
your fault, but you have to do something. You're a danger to our son.
He might
have died if I hadn't come home when I did." I paused for a moment, then
said, "We have to make things different. Please, go
get
yourself clean. I'll stand by you and love you every
step of the way. I need you in my life, in our lives.
I love you.”
"Or we get divorced and I take sole custody of Chris."
Standing there, my mind raced through the rubble of the past. When we
got
married, I finally felt I was doing something right. Seeing all of that
crumble
was brutal. It hurt as much as anything ever had. And I felt lower than
pond
scum. I'd failed her spectacularly. How could I not have seen it?
We
went a couple of rounds like
this, for several minutes. Eventually I realized that it was pointless
to try
to have a rational discussion with her when she was high. I sighed and
said,
"You need to leave, Erica. Come back when you're clean and we'll make
plans." Saying those words--asking my wife to leave, turning her away--each word
felt like a red hot dagger to my chest. It
was the hardest thing I have ever done and only the knowledge that she
truly
was a danger to Chris allowed me to say those words.
She had to
know that because she
looked shocked at my words, which just reinforced how far gone she was.
"No way," she said. "I'm not leaving without Chris."
"You're not going near Chris while you're high," I said firmly but
gently. You can see him when you're sober, but no way when you're high."
"You think you're gonna beat me,
Sam? Screw you, buddy. You try to divorce me and
get custody of Chris, and I'll take him from you. You're the
one who's
fuckin' high if
you think any judge is gonna
leave him with the likes of you."
With the
likes
of me.
It was obvious what she meant. The cruel words cut me like a knife. In
all our
time together, Erica had never displayed anything but acceptance of my
sexuality. It had never even come up before.
Before I had a chance to recover, she added, "Ever since that little
brat
was born, you turned all your attention to him. I know you love him
more than
me. I'd take him from you just so you can see what it's like to
hurt."
I flashed
back over my tumultuous
history: my public outing in high school and eviction from my own home;
my
regular bouts of post-traumatic-stress disorder; my brutal relationship
with a
psycho who was still stalking me from time to time. It seemed to me
that she
might be able to make good on that threat. Of course, once the state
was
involved, when they realized my son's mother was as messed up as I was,
they
might just take him away from both of us.
I had to hang tough.
"Say what you want to about me," I told her. "You're not
in shape to take care of Chris, and you know it."
She said nothing in response; she just stared at me, accusing me with
her eyes.
I kept hoping to see the woman I loved in her face; kept hoping some
spark of
recognition would show in her eyes. Finally
I said, "Will you get some help?
Please. Please just let me help."
"Fuck that," she said. "Just give me some money and I'm outta
here."
"I'm sorry, Erica," I
said, "but I know just where that money
will go. I won't help you kill yourself."
She slapped me in the face, hard, and turned and walked away.
I walked into Christopher's new, tiny bedroom and watched him sleeping
for a
few minutes. Then I lay down on my bed and cried. I
longed to hold her--to hit rewind and go
back to the time before her sister died, back to when she could still
smile, back
to when she was still whole, back before I had failed her.
I had never felt so alone or like such a failure. I
needed to not be alone and the only person
I could conceive of calling was Brian.
He was the only person I could imagine not turning me away in
disgust
after this latest mess.
I needed Brian.
I picked up the phone and called him.
He picked up on the fourth ring. "S'Brian."
My voice froze up on me at the sound of his. My chest heaved a couple
of times.
I got myself under control after ten seconds or so.
"Brian...it's Sam," I said, quietly, ignoring the odd way his voice
sounded.
"Heeeeeeey, Sammmmmmmy," he
said, "Whatchew know,
pal?"
I realized immediately that he was drunk.
"Heeey, buddy,
haven't seen you in such a loooong time, I
miss the hell outta you," he
said. "You always been my main
man, Sammy. Friends
forever, riiiight?" He
laughed a little. It was clear he was feeling no pain.
I felt sucker-punched.
"Great," I said, totally defeated. "You're wasted
too."
I felt my chest heave again, and I wrestled for control again, but lost
out, and
broke out crying as I held the phone to my ear.
I should have pulled my face away from the phone; somehow the sound
must have
broken through at least some of his intoxicated haze. "S'wrong, Sammy?"
He slurred. "You okay?"
Typical of the recent ironies in my life, I thought. The one person I
needed to
talk to about my wife's drug problems, and he's like this.
I needed him to be serious, and he wasn't. I needed him to be sober
and
clear-headed, and he wasn't. I couldn't tell him--while he was
drunk--that
I'd just ended my marriage because my wife was an addict.
Beyond all that, it struck me that I'd failed to care for Brian just as
I'd
failed with Erica. I'd known he was hitting the sauce pretty heavily
for some
time. After everything he and I had come to mean to each other, what
kind of
friend had I been to abandon him, to limit our contact to practically
nothing?
It wasn't the first time he'd been drunk when I called him. In fact,
I'd called
him just a couple of weeks ago, midweek in the early evening, and he
was
already so drunk he was almost incoherent.
But just as
I'd done with
Erica, I hadn't wanted to
see how bad it was. I hadn't wanted to think about it. And now, when I
needed
him desperately, he wasn't available as a friend who could support me;
he was
even more broken than I was. It was just
another reminder of how I'd failed all the people I loved. I felt
I'd
failed them both: My best friend was hurting and drinking himself into
oblivion, and my wife was hurting and drugging herself into oblivion.
Some friend I was; hell, some social worker I was.
Grief flooded through me. "Brian, I...I can't talk. Not when you're
like
this."
"Wait, Sam," he said, "I'm sorry I..."
I never got to hear the rest. I hung up the receiver while he was in
mid-sentence.
I covered my my face with my hands and stood there by the phone,
reliving the
nightmare of the past two weeks, and capping it off with a mental
replay of the
phone call I'd just made. As I felt waves of despair gather and prepare
to
crash in on me, a small, authoritative voice inside said, go look
in on your
son.
I went into his room and watched his even, peaceful breathing. His eyes
were
closed, his face relaxed and angelic. Calm washed over me, and the love
I felt
for him momentarily drove out all the hurt and pain. I got myself
collected,
then stripped down and took my shower. Afterwards I put on a pair of
boxers and
climbed into bed. The last thought that passed through my mind before I
fell
asleep was It's a hard world, and I swear I'll be there for him;
and nothing's
going to stop me, not even if I have to do it totally alone.
As the weeks went by, I concentrated my attention on my job, my son,
and my
future. I had been planning on applying to medical school when we found
out
that Erica was pregnant. When I realized I was going to be a father, I
decided
that I'd need to make other plans. And now that things were completely
different from the way I'd envisioned them, an alternate plan seemed
even more
important. I'd be raising Chris alone until Erica finally decided to
get her
life put back together; so whatever I did, I'd need to be around Chris
a lot
more than medical school would allow. A plan had shaped itself in my
head over
the last years, a plan that started with additional degrees--both
undergraduate
and graduate--in biology. I began to put the plan into action.
Brian must have been sober enough the night I called to remember the
essentials
of our conversation. He tried to call me several times over the course
of the
next several days. Occasionally I'd answer. He apologized again and
again for
being drunk that night, he expressed the right amount of sympathy over
what
happened with Erica. But things just weren’t right.
I couldn’t ignore how much he was obviously
hurting and I couldn’t be there for him--I didn’t have the reserves to
face
someone else with an addiction. And as for what I'd done to him
that
night when I hung up on him, I couldn’t face that either.
I wasn't sure what all his demons were, but I knew I figured in there
at least
a little. And I was ashamed to tell him how horribly I'd failed with
Erica. It
hadn't been that long since he'd learned about my humiliation with
Neal. It
seemed to me that Brian was probably more able than anyone to see just
what a
series of failures my life had been, and I couldn't bear that. I'd
failed my
parents, failed Mary, failed him, and now I'd failed my marriage. It
had been
hard to face him after Neal. The shame had been oppressive. After I
failed with
Erica, it became even harder to face him. I didn't see how anyone could
possibly forgive me after those kinds of failures--Brian
especially. I'd not
only caused him more pain than I was worth and
utterly failed to be there for him; I'd also demonstrated that I
brought pain
to everyone who loved me.
Still, there was no way I could totally write him out of my life.
Memories of
what he'd done and been for me wouldn't leave me alone. And I knew
that,
whatever his current problems were, there was something so good and
decent and
kind and loving about Brian, I wanted my son to have a chance to be
touched by
that love. I know that seems odd, given my refusal to let Chris have
any
contact with his drugged-out mom, but Brian wasn't his mother, and I
knew that
Brian wasn't always drunk. I think somewhere a part of me wanted some
kind of
three-way connection with Brian,
myself, and my son. I had
some dimly-intuited sense
that maybe it could be a life-enhancing experience for all three of us.
I called him up one Saturday afternoon. He grabbed the phone before it
rang
twice.
"Hello?"
"Brian," I began. "It's Sam."
He didn't answer initially. After a few seconds, he said quietly, "Hey,
Sam. Are you doing okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," I said. I tried to think how to shape the
conversation, but it was difficult. He always made me feel
so...strongly, I
guess. Whether good or bad, I was always overwhelmed with feelings when
I
encountered Brian, and it made conversation hard.
After too long a pause, I said, "I'm fine. Are you doing
okay?"
"I'm gettin' by," he
said. He didn't elaborate, and silence rang
out between us as the conversation hit its third snag inside a minute.
I took a deep breath. "Chris is getting baptized in three Sundays,
counting tomorrow," I said.
"Oh," he said, neutrally. Blankly.
"Do you think...do you think your mom and dad could come?"
His voice was warm, caring,
when he answered. "Of course," he said.
"Of course they will, they'll be so happy to."
The tenderness in his voice caught me up short. Another snag in the
conversation followed. It was as though we'd both forgotten how to
speak
English. Finally I said, "And you..."
"I'll be there too, Sam," he said.
"No," I said. "I mean...of course, I want you there but that's
not what I wanted to say."
Three seconds went by. Then he asked, "What did you want to say?"
"Brian..."
My eyes flooded with tears. No, no, NO, dammit, I told
them. I took a deep and quiet breath and tried to
continue.
"Brian..."
I couldn't regain my composure with my ear to the phone. "Just a
minute," I said.
I put down the phone and walked out into the hall. I took several deep
breaths
and tried to steady myself.
I went back to the phone and said, "Brian, would you be Christopher's
godfather?"
I didn't hear anything from the other end for a full thirty
seconds. When
Brian finally answered, his voice was hoarse and his words were
punctuated by
ragged, audible breaths. "Sam...I know you don't believe this,
but
I'd fuckin try to
jump across the Grand Canyon blindfolded if you
asked me to." I swallowed hard and waited for him to continue. Finally
he
said, in a voice full of regret and barely audible, "But why would you
want me to be Christopher's godfather? After everything...I mean, a
godfather has to be a good example, right? Some good example I'd be."
"You're wrong" I said. "You've been through some stuff. We both
have. I want you to be my son's godfather."
The line grew silent again, although I could hear Brian crying,
quietly, and
trying to compose himself, as I had earlier.
"Okay, Sammy," he finally said. "I'll do this. I wish I felt
like I deserved the honor of it, but I'll do it. And you have to know
I'll
always love your little boy, because I..." He stopped in mid-sentence,
and
silence filled the line. Again. After
about ten seconds he said, "You and I have been
through so much," he said. "Especially
you.
Maybe in a way this can be like the beginning of something new for all
of
us."
I wish I could say I was filled with warm
feelings
for my friend. But, truth be known, I was protecting myself from him. I
guess I
also felt that I needed to protect him from me. I'd already caused him
enough
grief, and hadn't even been a good enough friend to support him. He
clearly
needed it. And there were other things there, things I couldn't
sort out,
and couldn't resolve; things I wanted from him--needed from him,
if I let
myself--but could never have; things I'd always have to be on my guard
against--things
that would always
require me to keep an arm's length between us if I weren't going to
destroy
completely whatever friendship we still had.
It was all too complicated and threatening for me to give in to a
deep rush of emotion.
But even as I was keeping my emotions in check here, I knew that
somehow, in a
way I couldn't even explain rationally, Brian was a part of my life
that I
couldn't dismiss. I saw something in him--maybe it's better to say I felt
something
in him--that needed for him to be my son's godfather,
that
would make me proud for him to be my son's godfather. And a
part of me
knew that nothing would change that.
All these thoughts raced through my head as I considered what he'd
said.
"Thank you," I replied, quietly. "I...gotta
go. I'll get you the details, though. We'll talk soon."
* * * * * * * * *
He and his family came down for the baptism; it was a good day and a
good
experience. But for all the good feelings of the day, it was
uncomfortable: Uncomfortable
to look him in the
eye, uncomfortable
to talk to him.
My mind and heart were caught up in all kinds of conflicting thoughts
and
feelings about him, about me, about everything. Things were awkward
between us,
and we never were able to have a significant conversation while he was
there. I
wasn't sorry to see him and the rest of his family go.
Over the next several weeks, he called often, at least once a week. It
was
obvious he was trying, it was
obvious he wanted us to find a way back into each
other's lives. I just couldn't, though. It was too much for me to deal
with. I
didn't return his calls half the time.
My world narrowed to work and Christopher. That was all I focused on. I
worked
to support Chris. I lived to raise him. Period.
Erica never showed any signs of getting better, or even of wanting to.
She sent
me bills for her rent, which I paid. But she just couldn't shake the
drugs off,
or maybe she just didn't want to. I saw her only three times before
Christopher's first birthday.
I'm not sure I can explain what leaving Erica was like. I had always
believed
that marriage was forever. I took those vows very seriously.
Because of
my own messed-up childhood, I had vowed with all my heart and soul that
if I
ever became a parent, I would put my child first, and I would make his
well-being my top priority. When the days got long and my psyche
threatened to
torment me over my failed marriage, my thoughts would go back to those
first
minutes after my son's birth. That moment in the delivery room where
I'd made
those promises to him burned itself into my memory. And I'd remember
the next
night at the hospital too, looking out the window of Erica's hospital
room at
the lights of the city below while she slept, repeating my promise to
Chris
that I would always put him first.
I had never envisioned that someday my vows to Erica would be at direct
odds
with my vows to my child.
When my anger at her subsided, all I felt was torn. My marriage was
sacred to
me, and if not for my concern for Chris, I would have never left her
for any
reason. My vow to Chris was more important, but it didn't make leaving
Erica
sit well. I loved her. I wasn't just losing her, I was losing the life
we
planned, my entire vision of my future and my child's future. Leaving
her also
altered how I viewed myself: My marriage had failed. I had
failed. It
was a bigger failure than anything I'd ever failed at thus far--bigger
than my
failure with my parents, bigger than my failure with Brian--and it ate
at me.
But
I had my son to think about. I
would not fail with him. So my plans for the future went on.
Just before
his first birthday, I started back to school. Since I
had minored in biology for
my first degree, finishing out the rest of a bio major didn't take
long. I
finished that following spring. That felt good, but in the back of my
mind,
sorrow and regret over my failed marriage were chronic.
I had offered to pay for Erica to get treatment, and I paid her rent
for the
first year. I would have done just about anything to put things back
together--anything but endanger Chris. I held on to the hope that she
would get
clean, that this would just be a separation until she came to her
senses. She
never did, though. She disappeared right before Christopher's
first
birthday. I got a call from her saying she was headed for Chicago with
another
man. I never heard from her again.
I didn't actually file for divorce until after Christopher's third
birthday,
and the divorce wasn't final until just before his fourth birthday. The
divorce
took so long to finalize because I couldn't find her to serve her the
papers. I
was filled with regret; I'd failed her utterly. I had been so broken
and
overwhelmed myself during our marriage that I'm not sure what I could
have
done, but I failed in my vows to her in a rather spectacular manner,
and it is
one of the greatest regrets of my life. She had been there for me when
Neal had
almost killed me--truly "for better or for worse, in sickness and in
health." But when the tables were turned, I wasn't there for her.
If it weren't for Christopher, I'm not sure I would have ever recovered
from
that failure. His birth had thrown me completely out of my habitual
numbness,
and that response didn't seem to be available for me anymore when I
hurt. I was
facing a period of life where everything I hadn't dealt with before,
plus all
the pain of failing at my marriage, was beginning to make its presence
felt
like a physical weight on my chest.
I couldn't be unhappy when I was with Christopher, though. I felt an
overwhelming, all-encompassing love for him. From the very beginning,
he was a
happy child. It was an amazing contrast with my own past, and was such
a sign
of promise for a hopeful future that loving him and
caring for him was easy. He
always woke up insanely early, and I would put him next to me in bed.
He would
jabber away at me and cuddle close. It was perfect. In the
evening, I
would hold him and read him a bedtime story. He fell asleep on my chest
almost
every night. Holding him and watching him sleep was the most
soothing
thing in the world to me. I couldn't be angry when I was with him. I
couldn't
be sad. The pain was there, but it wasn't the focus, and it wasn't
overwhelming.
I could feel something good, with no overtones of anything bad, and I
was
hell-bent on doing this right. I wasn't going to let him down.
And somewhere, in and through those vows to be there for my son, my own
healing
began.