Chapter 12
Twelve
S omething shifts after Remy’s wedding day. A trace of desperation now exists where Mick and I are concerned, as if we’re on borrowed time, the hourglass flipped with the sand running out.
Mick seems to draw inward. He’s quieter, weighed down, like he’s wrestling with unseen demons. I tread lightly but am determined to address whatever this is—and fix it—before we break.
The day after Thanksgiving, Mick and I hike down to the private beach at his cottage.
We’re bundled in sweatshirts and jeans, but blessed with a clear day, the breeze slightly tempered by the towering cliffs surrounding us.
We kick off our shoes by the trail and he takes my hand as we walk through the sand, the top layer barely warmed by the noonday sun.
We stop near the water’s edge—I know better than to dip my toes in the frigid Pacific this time of year.
Mick picks up a flat stone from the assortment scattered ashore.
He sidearms the rock with a flick of his wrist, getting five skips before it disappears into the murky depths.
I join in and we spend companionable minutes seeing how far out in the ocean our stones travel and how many skips we can get.
Mick: seven. Me: five. He has bigger biceps, I rationalize.
I spread our blanket and when we settle on it, our shoulders touch, closing any gap.
Lately, we can’t bear any distance between us.
Gazing into the deep blue expanse, seagulls cascade across the landscape, their harsh cries rising over the waves crashing onshore.
I don’t want to fight or ruin what precious time we have, but questions gnaw at me.
I’ve practiced saying what I need without accusation and with the hope he won’t become defensive.
Mr. Perceptive speaks first. “You’re ruminating.”
I huff out a startled laugh. “Busted.”
“What’s on your mind?”
Did his shoulder just tense? Don’t chicken out. “Can we have what might be a difficult conversation, one that could help clarify a few things?”
Mick taps a couple of cigarettes out of his pack, clamps them in his lips, and cups his hand around the Zippo’s flame to get them lit. He hands me one, his expression unreadable. “Sure, baby.”
I take a fortifying drag. “Remy’s been trying to get clean and sober now for eight months, and he’s still struggling.”
He nods.
I extend my index finger. “This is after going to the Betty Ford Center, arguably the best rehab facility in the nation.” My other fingers keep count.
“He’s been through a couple of spin-dry cycles at local hospitals.
He’s been in a few different outpatient programs. And he’s been to a whole lot of AA and NA meetings. ”
He takes another long drag. “Yup.”
“I guess what I’m wondering is… maybe Remy’s not going to recover, you know? It seems like something he has to want more than he wants to use. ”
“It’s possible he won’t get a handle on it. Between the meetings I’ve gone to with him and reading some of the recovery material, I’ve learned this is a disease. It’s not as simple as wanting to quit. He has a compulsion, something physical he’s battling, and it makes him weak and susceptible.”
I flick my ash, carefully selecting my words. “I guess what I want to know is…do you plan to help him indefinitely? Do you think he has some personal responsibility here? That maybe he needs to stand on his own two feet?”
Mick scrubs his palm over his face. “I don’t have an answer for that. I just know I need to be there for him for as long as it takes.”
“But why? I’m honestly not trying to be an asshole here. I want to understand.” I stub out my cigarette in the sand.
He stares forward, lost in the enormity of the Pacific, his hair undulating in the wind.
“I’ve never really elaborated on how bad things were growing up, but Remy made a fucked-up situation a hell of a lot better.
We became friends in elementary school when he moved across the street.
One of those rare, instant connections. It wasn’t long before I was showing up with regularity to get away from the shit happening in my house—especially after dark.
He’d let me in, ask me if I needed anything, and I’d sleep in his room. His parents didn’t even know at first.”
I rest my hand on his thigh as images of him as a terrified, broken boy flash in my mind.
“Remy never pushed for details, even when I showed up bloody or bruised. Eventually, his parents caught on, and even they didn’t pressure me much. Instead, they opened their house to me, fed me, and once, had some nurse friend of theirs stitch me up.”
“Oh, Mick.”
“The bullshit with my family went on for years,” he mutters.
“The Remingtons gave me a safe place to land, and escape to, all the way through high school. They never asked for anything, aside from wanting to report my father. But people covered that shit up then. Probably still do.” He pauses.
“I’m in their debt. I owe it to Remy to help him, even if it takes time, even if it’s inconvenient. ”
A piercing discomfort builds behind my sternum. “I understand.” And god, do I. But the unknown purgatory of our situation stretches as far as the horizon.
“I know it’s impacting us…and it sucks.”
Tears slide down my cheeks.
“And I don’t want it to. But Jax, I don’t know what else to fucking do. I’m failing everyone.” He shakes out two more cigarettes.
I squeeze his leg. “You’re not. You’re such a good man.”
He lights the smokes, hands mine over, and takes a long pull from his. “My hope is something will take hold, Remy will stay clean, and we’ll all go on living our lives.”
As I exhale a drag, I try to release the held frustration and my selfish desires with it. If only they could evaporate as easily as this smoke dissipating in the air. “But we’re still impacted by Remy and the inability to all be in one place together. That worries me.”
Mick places his hand on mine. “That’s going to sort itself out over time. I’m sure of it.”
I’m less sure. Much less.
We’re quiet, trapped in our own thoughts.
“You know what I dream about?” I ask.
“Hmm?”
“Us going to Florida. You, getting the job you want on the water. Me, working for a magazine. Spending our weekends sailing and surfing.”
“The surfing’s crap in Florida, baby.”
“With all that ocean and the Gulf? What a waste.” I glance at the sets of waves rolling in and wonder what the Atlantic looks like in comparison. “We’ll sail and go to the beach and make love a lot then.”
“That’s a damn fine dream.”
The unspoken what ifs remain. What if Remy never gets clean? What if Mick deigns to help him forever? What if Mick always forsakes himself for everyone else? What if we don’t survive this?