The feeling is enough to chill me to the bone long before the rain begins to fall, turning the road to a slick black ribbon as I drive toward Auckland.
Chapter Seventeen
Danny
“I am ashes where once
I was fire.”
-Lord Byron
* * *
I wake up in the prison of my rancid body and roll over, lying on my side as the room spins. I have time to scan the room and see that I’m alone, the fire is out, and there’s a wine stain on the wall and a broken bottle on the carpet before my stomach heaves.
I barely make it to the bathroom and I’m in there for a good thirty minutes, being so violently ill it’s like my digestive system is trying to turn itself inside out. But never in that time do I make any suffering noises. I hold it all in.
I don’t deserve even the small relief of moaning and groaning as I lose my soul into the toilet bowl.
I don’t remember exactly what I said to Sam, but I remember fighting and her looking up at me with tears in her eyes. I remember trying so hard to reach her and failing and getting so frustrated I wanted to hit something. I remember my fingers on her wrist, and feeling like a monster when she pulled away and the skin above her hand was bright red.
God, what if I hurt her?
What if I knocked her around the way my dad used to do when he was drunk?
I squeeze my eyes shut and dig my fists into my aching eye sockets, hating myself.
Back when I was a kid and Dad would come stumbling into the house wasted and looking for a reason to throw a punch, I’d back talk on purpose, determined to be the one to take the cuff to the head or the shove into the wall. I knew I was tougher than my sisters and brothers. I could take it and come back swinging.
The one time Dad hit Ray, my brother slunk around like a whipped dog for a week, and I knew what kind of damage Chuck could do if he hit one of the little ones. Emmie already had developmental delays and speech problems. The poor kid didn’t need to be a shaken baby on top of it.
Besides, taking a beating made me feel like a hero, like I was tougher than Dad. He might be bigger and stronger and able to knock me flat, but I had the coordination and control. I didn’t lumber around the house slurring words and slamming my fists into shit. I was tight, toned, fast—not weak like him. I was going to grow up and show my dad what a man could do with his body when he treated it right. I was never going to throw my health and life away for a beer belly and a bar tab down at the local dive.
That’s why I quit cold turkey when I was eighteen.
Every time I drank, I drank too much. And I didn’t drink to enjoy the taste or loosen up; I drank to get unconscious. No matter how many times I woke up feeling like shit, I couldn’t get a handle on how much to have the next time. I couldn’t control it, so I quit.
I told my real friends I was on the wagon and let my beer weather friends drift away.
But from my first vodka soda at a Croatian bar when I was sixteen, to my last beer with Bjorn when I was eighteen, I never let Sam see me that way. I never imagined I’d hurt her, but I couldn’t stand for her to see me out of control. The second time I’d gotten wasted, I’d pissed myself sitting in a chair on my friend’s porch. I couldn’t handle the thought of doing something like that in front of Sam. I only wanted her to see the best me, the person I saw reflected in her eyes, the man who could take on the world because one girl believed he could.
And now I might have hurt her.
It doesn’t matter that she let me down. It doesn’t matter that I was hurt and a childish part of me wanted to show her what happens when people stop trying to be the heroes of their own lives. I should never have picked up a bottle. I only made things worse. I put her in danger and I fucking hate myself for it.
I stand on unsteady legs and shuffle to the sink. I brush my teeth and wash my face and think about shaving, but decide I can’t spare the time. I need to get some bread and water in my stomach and get out and look for Sam. It doesn’t matter that I can barely stand upright. I can drag myself down to the main lodge and get some toast. Maybe I’ll get lucky and Sam will be down there having breakfast, waiting for my sorry ass to sober up and come apologize.
I just hope I don’t have anything worse than what I remember doing to apologize for. If there are any bruises on her, and I know I’m the one who put them there…
The thought is enough to send me back to the toilet again.
Finally, I manage to get my stomach to stop revolting long enough to down a glass of water and a few Tums. I brush my teeth again, pull on a fresh shirt, and am on my way out the door to start looking for Sam when I see the paper lying beside the door with my name on it.
I recognize her handwriting and crouch down, praying it’s just a short note telling me where she went and what time she’ll be back. But then I open the folded paper and begin to read—
* * *
Dear Danny,
* * *
Very first of all, I want you to know that I forgive you. I wasn’t there for you, and you reached for the wrong kind of comfort. I know that’s as much my fault as yours, and I know you’re going to wake up and get back on track to the kind of life you want to live. I also want to say I’m sorry for how selfish I’ve been sometimes. You’re right, I only thought about my own pain, especially the first year after the divorce, and that was wrong. My only defense is that you made loving me seem so easy. I never realized how much work went into that seemingly effortless love.
I’m sorry for that too.
* * *
“Fuck,” I curse, fighting the stinging sensation pushing at the backs of my eyes.
I have no idea what I said to her, but it must have been ugly.
And a lie.
I don’t really think Sam is selfish. Until a few months ago, she was always there when I needed to talk, even if it was three in the morning her time. Surely she has to realize that was the alcohol and the hurt talking last night, not what I really think or feel.
I turn back to the letter, hoping the second half of it will offer some hope.
* * *
After tonight, I realize you’re right. I’m choosing the wrong road, and if I stayed here, I would be ruining two lives. I refuse to do that to you. I truly love you more than anything else in the world, and to prove it, I’m going back to L.A. to do the right thing.
All I ask is that you don’t follow me. This is something I should do alone. It’s going to be hard enough without you there in the courtroom watching. I know you’re going to find out what happened sooner or later, but I’d rather you not have to see me testify.
Know that I love you and that I hope this isn’t the end for us. I want us to find our way back to each other, but it isn’t fair to ask you to pull me out of this dark place. I have to find my way out on my own.
I’ve booked your flight back to Maui for three days from now. If you want to leave sooner, just catch the bus to the airport and talk to the booking agent. Once again, I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me.
All my love forever,
Sam
* * *