4. Chapter Four #5
I bake chocolate chip cookies and a loaf of banana bread in an attempt to feel better.
I’ve just finished washing the dishes when the timer for the banana bread goes off.
I pull it out of the oven and set it on the cooling rack on the counter.
It smells divine, but I frown at it anyway.
I don’t feel the relief that usually comes with baking.
This is the first time that baking hasn’t helped. I tell myself that I just need to bake more; eventually it will take the pain away. I just need to fold my grief in more tightly, to whisk it into oblivion.
I go back to the fridge and open it, staring at its contents.
There’s not much to work with, we need to get groceries again.
I’m staring at the food inside, running recipes over in my mind when my eyes land on a bottle of vodka at the back of the top shelf.
I reach for it, hands shaking as I grasp it and pull it forward.
I think of Penny’s words yesterday. “We’re all legal here.” How nonchalant she was about it and how no one seemed to bat an eye at my age.
I unscrew the cap and take a whiff. I recoil in disgust, unsure how anyone could drink this stuff. I glance over my shoulder to make sure I’m alone and then I take a gulp.
It burns all the way down. A fiery warmth lands in the pit of my stomach and I gag at the after taste.
And yet…I don’t stop.
I take another mouthful and swallow it down, washing my sadness away with it. The liquid warmth starts to spread through my entire body, melting the ice from my veins.
I look back in the fridge for something to chase it with. I spot a lone bottle of Gatorade and grab it, twisting the cap off and taking a sip.
There. That’s better.
I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but I’m hurting and baking isn’t enough to numb the pain today.
Beth would be livid if she knew, that much is certain. I just can’t help myself. I keep drinking gulp after gulp until the bottle is empty and the pain is temporarily gone.
Now you’ve done it, I think to myself. I can’t just toss the bottle away, Beth would surely notice that.
I can’t go out and purchase a new one for her, either.
My best option is to run it full of tap water and pray she doesn’t reach for it often.
I messily gauge how full the bottle was when I started and run it under the tap.
My head is starting to spin and I don’t know whether it’s from the vodka or my thoughts.
I leave the bottle on the counter and pull my phone out of my back pocket before I sink down to the floor. Tears start spilling out of my eyes as I lean against the cabinets.
Shakily, I scroll through my contacts until I reach the one number that hasn’t been answered for months. I press on it and bring the phone to my ear, listening as it rings.
“Hello, you’ve reached Dr. Caroline Calloway. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number, I'll return your call as soon as I can.”
The tears are falling faster now as I listen to my mother’s voice.
I end the call and toss my phone aside, letting my shoulders shake as sobs rack my body.
I press a hand to my mouth to stifle my weeping, not wanting to be heard, though I’m alone in the house.
I can feel snot running out of my nose and I wipe at it with my sleeve before I pick up my phone again.
I redial the number and listen as it goes to voicemail again.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, my voice shaking. I sniffle.
“I miss you. It’s your birthday and I just want to be able to hug you.
To tell you I love you. For you to be here with me and Aunt Beth.
She misses you, too, by the way, but she’s stronger about it than I am.
” I pause and take another trembling breath.
“I really, really miss you. I’m sorry I drug you out of the house that day.
Maybe you’d still be here if it weren’t for me. ”
I sit there, clutching my phone in one hand, sobbing on the kitchen floor. I lean over onto my side and curl into the fetal position, thinking about the wreck.
“I’ve been baking,” I whisper into the phone, “but it doesn’t help. Nothing helps. It hurts all of the time and I don’t think it will ever stop. I wish you were here to tell me what to do. You always knew what to do and I-”
The voicemail clicks off and the call disconnects, shutting me up. It makes me cry even harder; just another instance of my mom being taken from me. There wasn’t enough time on the voicemail; there’s never enough time.
I’m not sure how long I lay on the tile floor, but it feels cool against my flushed, tear-stained cheeks.
Somewhere in the back of my brain, something tells me to get up.
That it would break Beth to walk in on me like this.
She’s been so strong since Mom died and I know she worries about me.
My brain repeatedly tells me to get up, but it takes me a while before I actually am able to push myself up off the floor.
My head still spins as I sit up and close my eyes as I take a deep breath.
I stand up and wipe at my face, grabbing a napkin off the counter to blow my nose with while staring at the vodka bottle on the counter.
I replace the bottle in the fridge and shut the door.
I just want to bury myself in my bed and go to sleep, because when I sleep, I don’t have to feel this pain.
Turning off the kitchen light, that’s exactly what I go to do.