Chapter 51
Chapter Fifty-One
Jules
“ M y name is Jules, and I’m an alcoholic.”
I glance around the community hall at the other seven people, surprising myself by looking each of them in the eye. There’s no condemnation on their faces, only understanding and compassion despite the grey walls and even greyer carpet. I take a big breath and reveal the entire sordid truth. “And sometimes I pop pills I shouldn’t.”
I shove my hands into the back pockets of my jeans and rock on my heels. Saying the words should be freeing, but my chest still aches like my ribs are bending under a heavy weight.
My expression must say it all because the facilitator gives me an encouraging smile. “Admitting the problem is the first step, Jules. Be patient. The rest will come when you’re ready.”
The stale breath in my lungs whooshes out, allowing clean oxygen to replace it. I return to my chair and clasp my shaking hands together. This has been the hardest challenge I’ve ever faced. Not even discovering I was alone and pregnant in Egypt compares. Sweat trickles under my armpits and down the inside of my shirt. You’d think they’d at least crank the air conditioning up .
Declarations from the other attendees wash over me. My focus is on controlling my breathing and holding back the tremors that threaten to send me rushing from the room rather than listening to the others. It took many tearful chats with Claire, carbs, and god-awful nonalcoholic beers, together with heartbreaking soul-searching at night to make the call to Alcoholics Anonymous. But I’m glad I did. I can’t allow drugs to continue to define who I am or to dictate my future.
A tall lady, dressed in designer white linen pants and a matching top, stands and addresses us. She catches my attention because she has an air of authority that’s contradicted by her hunched posture and the defeated look in her eyes that I recognise too well. It’s reflected in my mirror every day.
“I’m a doctor.” The woman smooths her short bob and gives us a shaky smile. “I know all about postpartum depression, yet no amount of logic and analysis stopped me from slipping into it. When I started drinking to numb the pain, I thought I could control my impulses. By the time I realised I couldn’t, it was too late.”
Wow. I assumed there must be something seriously wrong with me. That educated people didn’t fall for addiction. It’s a relief to know I’m not alone.
“Our bodies are complicated, and emotions are not logical,” says the facilitator with a tone that exudes the warmth and cosiness of a velour blanket and a roaring fire on a bitter frosty night. Which shouldn’t be comforting when the sun is scorching the pavement outside. And yet it is.
“I know.” The woman licks her lips, her gaze sweeping across our small group. “But I’m trained to spot the signs in others. How did I miss them in myself?”
“Because you’re too close to the issue, and you’re human. Humans make mistakes.”
Inside this small, boring-arsed room, with these other fucked up people, a sense of calm descends. My preoccupation with comparing myself to the shiny glimpses of my old classmates on Instagram and Facebook, and other mothers at the school pick up, has fuelled the bitterness within. Instead of embracing the tiny grenades life threw at me, I’ve let them destroy my confidence piece by piece.
It’s time to gather up those pieces and get on with making myself the best possible person I can be.
“What do you think if I put a new table here?”
My mother crosses her arms and shakes her head. “I still don’t understand what’s wrong with this one.”
She wouldn’t. Mick and I bought the dining suite after we moved into the house. I wanted antique white, and he preferred some hideous cedar monstrosity. The crusty piece of furniture was a perfect fit for his parents’ mansion, but in our home, the dark colour would have been soul-strangling. As a compromise, we chose an insipid rectangular teak setting that was a shade in between, even though we both despised it. That’s one reason neither of us mind Riley’s jigsaws taking up half the space.
The table is a symbol of poor decisions, and I want it gone.
“It’s ugly, Mum. We’ve put up with it for too long.”
“How are you paying for a new one?”
I roll my eyes. “With money.”
“Mick’s money.”
Ouch. I turn away from the knowing look in her eyes. “It’s still ours.” Mick’s been gone for two months, and our joint bank account remains intact, his salary flowing into it and the mortgage and bills going out.
“But he’s not living here. He’s living with his parents.”
“Yeah.” His mother must be in heaven, thinking our marriage is over.
Mick hasn’t offered me my rings back, which is just as well because I’m not ready to accept them yet. But then I worry. What if he can’t sort himself out? And what if I never get my act together?
I wipe sweat from my brow. “Let’s stop for a drink.” The air conditioning is playing up, allowing the heat from outside to worm its way into the house.
Mum’s head bobs. “Good idea.”
While my mother prepares the coffee, I check on Riley. She’s focused on a new jigsaw that we’ve set up in the living room. She conquered the Barbie and Ken puzzle after Mick left. This picture is of outback Australia and contains a vast expanse of red dirt, so the pieces are all similar. But she’s determined to solve it, and her glasses will make it easier on her eyes. Zola’s head lolls in her lap. Too cute. I back away so I don’t disturb them.
When I return to the kitchen, Mum hands me an envelope. “Are you going to open this?”
My heart stalls. It looks official. “Where did you find it?”
“Under the junk mail.”
What if Mick is serving me with a divorce notice? Maybe there’s a reason I hadn’t seen it. Why does my mother have to be so efficient? The paper scrapes my fingers. That’s a university logo on the front. My insides do a stellar impression of scrambled eggs. Is it another rejection?
I rip the envelope open.
A scream launches into the air like a rocket. Zola races into the room and nearly bowls me over. Riley’s close behind. She and mum talk over each other.
“Mummy.”
“What happened?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Are you okay?”
I wave my hand at them and their mouths shut. Clutching the letter, I rub tears from my eyes and then read it again. Yep. The words are clearer, and they’re still the same.
My lips part in the widest, most genuine smile I’ve felt in months. “Sydney University has accepted me into a master’s program.”
“Yay!” squeals Riley.
Mum’s less enthusiastic. “That’s great, honey.” She nods her head at the electricity bill on the counter. “But shouldn’t you be looking for a job?”
Geez. I love her, but she thinks the answer to life’s problems is to work harder. Even if you hate what you do. I don’t want to count down the hours to the weekend each week.
I turn on the espresso machine. Not because I crave a coffee, which is unusual, but because I need to give myself a moment before I respond.
When I turn around, Mum’s still regarding me with a concerned expression. I hand her the letter. “The Master’s in Environmental Archaeology comes with a twenty-five thousand dollar scholarship, and I’ve still got my part-time job at the café.” It’ll be tough, but with Mick’s continued support, it should be achievable. I can’t keep dipping into our joint account for luxuries. And buying a new table definitely falls into that camp. I don’t know why I’m even looking. I guess it’s a distraction from the ugly reality of life right now.
Riley senses the change in energy. “Why aren’t you happy, Grandma?”
Mum ruffles her hair. “I am, honey. I’m just not good at showing it.”
“Is your arthritis playing up again?”
Mum laughs. “No. Why don’t you go back to your jigsaw?”
“Okay.” Riley skips out of the room, Zola hot on her heels.
My mother holds out her arms, and I walk into them. She smells like chillies and coriander. Like home and childhood. Like those early days when it was just us.
“I didn’t mean to be negative, honey. I’m so proud of you. Two months without a drink. And now you’ve won a scholarship. ”
“And no pills.”
Mum pulls away. “What pills?”
Crap. Me and my big mouth. A lie forms on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it down. Time to tell the truth. No more lies. “I’ve been taking your Valium.”
Shutters slam over my mother’s eyes, and her palm presses against her chest. She’s not having a heart attack, is she?
“Mum.” I reach for her, but she bats me away. She’ll forgive me. Won’t she?
“I thought I was losing my mind.” She wipes her eyes where moisture has pooled at the edges. “The bottles seemed to finish awfully fast.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s good.” She waves her hands and gives me a watery smile, but her disappointment is obvious. “I wish you’d said something.”
“I couldn’t. I was too ashamed.”
“Then why do it?”
I hang my head. “I’m an addict.”
“Oh, honey.” Mum wraps me in another hug. A healing embrace.
I hug her back and let myself be a child again, if only for a few minutes. My heart feels lighter after confessing. Whatever happens with my marriage, I’ll be fine. And so will Riley. But life would be better if Mick and I can sort ourselves out. I miss him. A lot.