34. Sweetheart, Have You Been Drinking?
Chapter 34
Sweetheart, Have You Been Drinking?
T he sky opened up and poured on me while I sat in the yard, but I barely noticed. The moon appears now, full and bright. At some point, Sage arrived and made me drink water. She hasn’t said a word, though, at least not one I’ve heard.
Eventually, the tears run out and the fear creeps in. I hear rustling in the corn stalks a couple feet away and there could be anything waiting to jump out and attack. It won’t be Otie this time, I know that now. So I finally stand, brush myself off, and walk toward the porch. Sage follows.
“You can go home now. I’ll be fine.”
“Oh, really? You’ve barely responded to my presence, you’re drenched both from rain and tears, but you’re fine?”
“Yes. I’m fine. The water helped. And I need to eat.”
“There’s no food here, but I can go pick up something from the gas station. I think it’s still open.”
She turns me by my shoulder to look closely into my eyes. “Are you going to be okay for a few minutes?”
“I’ll be fine. Go.” I push on her arms and walk up the steps to the porch swing.
Nothing is stopping me from staying out here all night, just me and the entrancement of the sky. The stars are many and vibrant in the clear country with no other light to dull their sparkle, now that the clouds are gone. Maybe that’s what I need, I think to myself as if I need any more convincing—to get away from all those voices that speak over my own and cloud my judgment. To learn how to recognize what my own voice even sounds like.
The stars twinkle as if someone is winking. Like Grandpa used to wink at us when he’d play a prank on Grandma or Dad.
Maybe it’s him now, telling me I’m thinking in the right direction. Maybe he’s telling me I can still find peace here, even without them. Maybe I can find it in the strong, cool breeze that caresses my skin. Or in the hum of the cicadas or soft sway of the trees. Maybe in the view of the expansive stretch of land so far out I almost believe I can see the curves of the Earth. It’s this humbling view that reminds me how small I am and how minuscule and unimportant my problems truly are.
Those minuscule and unimportant problems become raging wildfires because I continuously breathe life into the flames. Simultaneously, I brush off the things I shouldn’t and carry loads that only weigh me down. It’s those comments from Sam or my parents, about my weight or my job, that aren’t worth my time thinking about. Instead, I could use the energy I spend trying to be better—according to their definition—and use it to fight for the things that truly matter. Like setting boundaries or trusting my instincts.
Hailey had said, “I can’t sit back and watch you hate yourself while you continue to let him treat you like shit. I’m done.”
And Nick. “Then, can I have my sweatshirt back?”
I know it’s a strong word and a slight exaggeration, but they were right to abandon me. Because even I had abandoned myself. I saw myself as a lost cause, not worth fighting for. But there’s a responsibility in living whether you ask to be born or not. Not just to breathe, but to live.
I come back to myself here under these stars and make a promise to seek therapy, to fight for myself, and to never abandon myself again. I’ve found comfort in the sadness and the anxiety. Safely confined in the cage. For so long, I’ve been blind, unable to understand the point of anything. I swim and swim, exhausting myself trying to stay afloat, and for what? But I have that answer now—me.
* * *
A couple of days pass. Sage stayed the first night but went home the next morning with the promise of keeping Mom and Dad away for a while. Other than a trip to the store, I’ve spent most of my time on the porch swing admiring the view of nothing but green fields. Occasionally, a tractor will slowly drive by, a cow will moo in the distance, a bird will sing. Sometimes it’s a short staccato, other times a graceful melody. Otherwise, there’s nothing but the wind and soft rustle of the leaves as the trees sway.
There was an incident with a snake while I hung laundry on the line, but I managed it with a good scream as I ran back to the porch.
The land is healing; I’ve always thought so. The moment I set foot on the ground, it’s as if the soil recognizes me, like a ley line. The blood, sweat, and tears, dissolved into the Earth throughout the years while Grandpa worked the fields, recharges my soul. And there’s a whisper on the wind, as it blows the loose tendrils of my hair back and drifts across my skin, that says, “You belong.” There’s nothing but peace to be found here. Now that I’ve eaten and gotten some distance, that is.
The house is mostly empty, no beds, towels, or dishes remain. Tools and paintbrushes, random pieces of wood, and a few broken items litter the space, but if I find myself bored and itching to do something, I clean. I’ve slept in a pile of blankets I bought at the store and used mostly disposable dishes, but an idea pops into my head. What would Mom and Dad say if I offered to fix the place up in exchange for free, or at least, discounted rent?
Now that I think about it, they’ll probably decline. Dad, the man who didn’t trust me to do a job I’d already proved I could do, would only ask, “What do you know about remodeling?” And that’s if we were on good terms.
As I watch the clothes on the line swing on a breeze rolling through, Mom and Dad’s car pulls up the driveway. I try slinking back into the shadows on the porch, sidling up against the wall toward the door, hoping I can hide before they spot me. My car is out front, but maybe they’ll think I’m out exploring the back pastures.
However, Mom hops out of the car before I can get inside. “Cori Lorraine, we saw you already!”
Damn.
“I was just going to make coffee,” I lie. Except, I forgot. I haven’t had a drop of coffee since I arrived because there’s no coffee maker. I’ve destroyed my stomach lining with the amount of ibuprofen consumed just to keep the caffeine headache manageable.
I lean against the column supporting the roof so that it may support me as well. Mom and Dad approach, expressions of impatience upon their faces, and cross their arms in unison.
I swallow the lump in my throat.
“Sage said to give you a few days. Well? It’s been a few days.”
I shrug a shoulder. “What exactly is your question?”
Mom jumps in. “She said you and Sam got in a fight.”
“Sort of. I haven’t spoken to him, but I found out he’s cheating on me.” It takes Mom a moment to understand the shocking news clashing with my calm demeanor. When the light bulb goes off, her shoulders slump inwards and her arms fall to her side.
“Oh, no.” She walks up the steps to me with open arms and I fall into her embrace, letting the tears fall, not because of what I said, but because it was nice to have her react the way I had hoped. She strokes my hair and kisses my head, and I want to stay there in her arms forever. Until she pulls back and asks, “Why?”
I swipe at my wet face and ask, “Why does it matter?” It shouldn’t matter why; he strayed. And I may always be at war with myself, I may always equally blame both him and me, but my mother shouldn’t.
“Well, were you attentive? Were you supportive? There must have been a reason, he wouldn’t be searching for something else if he was getting everything he needed at home.”
I scoff. “You’re right. I wasn’t good to him. I told him his ideas were dumb and everything that he worked for was a waste of time. I told him that his job was worthless and that he wouldn’t get anywhere in the world because he wasn’t smart enough. I constantly made him insecure about his body. I worked late all the time so that he was left alone with dinner that he made growing cold on the stove, then bitched when the apartment was a mess. I also lied to him, because I’d forget to tell him something, but make him believe he was the crazy one that just forgot what I’d told him. Oh, and I invited people along with us when we went to the beach house without telling him.”
They blink at me, then look at each other.
Dad says, “Some of that doesn’t make any sense. Why would you make comments about his job or his body? Why would he be making dinner or cleaning?”
“Because those are all things he did to me !”
He shakes his head and starts pacing. “I don’t believe it. If that’s how he treated you, if it was that bad, you would have left a long time ago.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t think it was that bad. I still don’t, really, because that’s how I’ve been treated my entire life. By you guys.”
Mom laughs. “Sweetheart, have you been drinking?”
“Don’t you see it, Mom? You talked me into dating him, then you talked me into moving in with him, all because I make awful decisions on my own and wouldn’t be able to do any better than him. You made me feel as if I was nothing without him. And he made me feel the same.” I jab my finger towards Dad. “Don’t you see it, Dad? The way you laughed at my ideas for the diner? Then changed your mind, but hired someone else to make those changes with my ideas? Mike tried to take all the recipes I had and the login information, and I did all of that work for what?”
“That’s completely different, and you know it.”
“Is it, though? You don’t support me. You don’t have confidence in me. So why should I have any in myself? Why should I expect more for myself when you only expect less from me?”
He takes a step forward, voice raised to a scary volume. “I expected a lot from you, Cori. You were the one with good grades, the level head. You were the one who was supposed to go places. But you did the bare minimum in college, wasted my money on an associate's degree, and didn’t even try for a bachelor’s-”
“ Your money? You didn’t pay for my school. You told me you were on your own the minute you turned eighteen, and you expected the same from me.”
His face straightens as he realizes I’m right, but he doesn’t say anything else. That’s not the point anyway.
“Regardless, we may have talked you into those decisions, but you still made the final choice yourself. You don’t get to blame us, and you can’t just run away to Grandma’s house and ignore your problems. How many times did we call you? And you didn’t answer once,” Mom says.
Because not a word I’ve said makes any difference to them. One reason I don’t talk much, besides the fact that I’m shy, is because there’s never been any point. My house was always filled with noise, everyone’s voices talking over each other. It was just a waste of energy to get mine heard. But even when I managed to sneak a word in during the rare moments of silence, no one cared what I had to say. Their own feelings or opinions mattered above all else.
I storm inside and quickly gather my things, shoving them messily into my bag. When I’m done, I stomp across the porch and down the stairs, leaving the clothes on the line behind.
“Then I’ll go somewhere else.” At this point, I have no idea if I’m over or underreacting. But I’m tired of being reasonable all the time. It’s my turn to be crazy.
“Cori-”
I slam my car door, cutting her off, but there’s one more thing I need to know. Stepping back into the blinding sun, I ask, “Is there a reason my name doesn’t start with S like everyone else in the family? Or did the disconnect start before I was even born?”
“The disconnect? Stop being dramatic,” Mom answers. “You’ve heard the story before.”
“I haven’t.”
She rubs her forehead and continues. “We already had an S name for a girl or boy, but when we found out it was two girls, we couldn’t find another girl name we liked. So your grandmother told us to stop being ridiculous, that the name didn’t have to start with S. She recommended Corianne, the name she had picked out for your dad if he was a girl. But we didn’t like the -anne part, so we dropped it.”
Having expected a completely different answer, I swallow. “Oh.” I like my name, but it’s always bugged me that it doesn't match everyone else’s. I figured Mom and Dad closed their eyes and pointed to a random name in the book instead of giving serious thought as they did with my siblings.
However, my favorite person in the world inspired, not only my middle name, but my first too.
Dad steps forward. “Cori, we love you. You do know that, don’t you?”
Before the tears spill over, I choke out, “Yes. But I don’t think we understand each other very well.” I slide back into my car. Maybe I am dramatic, maybe my imagination is too active, but maybe rejecting my feelings too often has made me this way.
I leave them standing in the yard and set out for the next place. Which happens to be a gas station because I don’t actually have a destination in mind. I fill up my tank and get some water for the drive, then get out my phone.
“Hey, how are you doing? We’ve all been worried.”
“I’m fine. Umm…” I fail at keeping the emotion out of my voice. “Can I come over?”
“Of course you can. My home is your home whenever you need it to be.”