Chapter 74
Seventy-Four
Ilight up another Marlboro as I drive from work to pick up Remy at his outpatient rehab. Visions of Jax swim in my mind, the familiar weight crushing my chest.
The pain is pervasive, unrelenting, and I fear, permanent. Occasionally, I successfully shut it out.
I’m faking it through life. I doubt anyone truly knows because I became a master at pretending decades ago. That’ll happen when your family’s patriarch, protector, and provider is an abusive asshole behind closed doors.
I’m fine. Or so everyone thinks.
I’m not really fine.
To avoid the black hole where agony lives, I pack every minute with tasks and necessities—anything but idleness. Anything to remind me what I’ve lost. Anything to remind me of her.
She still wiggles her way in. To my dreams. My nightmares.
My rides to work when a song comes on that catapults me straight into a memory.
Sometimes a whiff of her essence or strand of her hair stops me dead in my tracks.
I’ve lost count how many times I’ve woken with a start and a raging hard-on, my mind playing tricks on me when I swear her body is wrapped around mine.
The books she bought me last Christmas about wooden boat design and nautical knots sit untouched on my dresser, a punishing visual reminder.
I can’t bring myself to place them on a bookshelf or read them.
And I buried the story she wrote about us into a box shoved deep into my closet, because that’s a specific torture I can’t revisit.
Every minute I’m not working is filled by Remy, whose needs obliterated my own when I took on managing his health and recovery.
Since the calendar tipped to 1985, he and Sherry have lived at my house, making for a cramped space that was once my refuge.
I don’t wish it, but I guess their presence beats living alone trapped in my bleak thoughts.
Whenever I need a break, I hike down to the beach or go surfing.
I arrive at the care facility, resetting my brain for the night’s schedule. Pick up Remy. Grab a bite. Go to an AA meeting. Head home.
“Good day?” I ask when Remy appears in the lobby.
“If you can call digging into my psyche good,” he answers, wasting no time firing up a cigarette once we’re outside. “How was work?”
“Same ol’, same ol’.”
We climb in the Mustang.
“Chinese?” I prompt. After months without much of an appetite, I’m actually into the idea of pot stickers and Kung Pao chicken.
“Sounds good.” He rolls down the window and exhales a stream of smoke, letting out a satisfied groan. “Man, I needed this. I wish we could fucking smoke in there.”
“It’s against the health code, I’m sure.”
“Whatever. What about my mental health?”
I glance his way with a smirk. “That’s hopeless, brother.”
He feints throwing a punch before he flicks his ash out the window.
“Want to talk about your session?” Normally, guys avoid speaking about this shit, but I’ve been encouraged to act as a sounding board, help him get comfortable opening up about his feelings. Every now and then he does.
“Ehhh. Today’s topic was my overbearing, controlling mother. Good times.”
I hum. Virginia is…a lot of things, and I’m sure Remy could discuss his fucked-up parenting for months or years.
I could probably talk about mine for longer.
Considering all the dysfunctional crap that went down in my house, I can’t fathom what caused him to become an addict and not me.
From what I’ve learned about addiction and alcoholism, it appears to spring from three areas: physical, mental, and spiritual.
Some findings support it’s genetic, while others contend the compulsion comes from environment or experiences.
Maybe I simply dodged a bullet—except I still may as well be dead.
“…whining about everything and I’m tired of hearing that shit. Some guys need to buck the fuck up.”
I nod in agreement, even though I missed ninety percent of what he said.
“I just don’t see the purpose of blaming anyone for my addiction.”
Admitting that is progress. “That sounds like a healthy, productive mindset. AA and NA clearly focus on the addict taking personal responsibility.”
“Right. But the outpatient folks want to psychoanalyze every fucking thing. And what’s the point? I’m here. How I arrived doesn’t matter. I’ve got to deal with it now, regardless.”
“Maybe understanding the past stuff helps you not repeat the same patterns or mistakes.”
Remy flicks his cigarette butt out the window and lights another. “Fuck if I know. Seems like another angle to siphon money from patients. Extend their services—and my agony.”
I cast another glance his way. “But it is working, brother, so suck it up and stay the course.” The twelve-step programs have proven successful, but not for everyone.
Some people can’t stick with it, don’t work the steps, or succumb before they find a strong foothold.
Some people relapse and try again like the program has a revolving door.
I’m vested in Remy getting this, in it working.
“Yes, mother,” he mutters mockingly.
I tell myself again that I’m doing the right thing. For Remy. And for Jax.