Memoir

    Before I’m able to assess my current situation, my body registers pain and fear and I want to cry. I find myself sitting crossed-legged, leaning against a building. I feel bruises developing on my biceps and hips. Perhaps I fell to the ground, landing on something sharp? I begin peppering myself with questions—the first, who am I? Where am I? I know where I am, what town anyway, but not the specific spot. I have a hazy memory of Rolling Rock beer. I feel nostalgic when I purchase it. Stuart and I drank it often, on the boat and beach when we’re dating. Did I drink the entire six pack?  Did I drink anything beyond beer? I won’t know until I’ve made it home. The idea of home causes my stomach to churn, fueling my anxiety. I vomit. Frantic, I search my surroundings for my keys, phone, and cigarettes. The sky is darker than I ever remember. A faint glow comes from the top of the white building where I lean for support. The light seems decorative, offering just enough illumination to the ground below. By process of elimination and the visible steeple, I determine the building is the Congregational Church. The church Stuart and I were married in twenty-nine years ago. Now I cry.

     I ask myself, “Who is this woman in her early fifties who has lost her way in town, but also her way in life?” I’m stitched together in the shape of sorrow, a constant interior ache plagues me. Adrenaline runs through every crevice of my body. Disgusted with myself for bad decisions which led to self-destruction. I’m despondent, drunk and cold. I wander down the hill in the direction of my parents’ house. My feet are sore. I look down and see I’m shoeless. I scream, “Someone help me! Mom, Dad, I’m here. Please come find me and bring me home. I’m scared and I’m sorry.” 

     No one comes to my rescue. The town is desolate. My parents must be worried— angry too I imagine. Maybe my mother is crying, but my hope is they’re both sleeping. I can handle concern, but anger, disappointing them, is unbearable. I walk along the edge of the road and count my steps, it helps me balance. Tonight, the way I feel, isn’t the result of a beer buzz. My head hurts. I place my hands in my hair, feeling around for signs of blood and any cuts. Nothing there, most likely it’s my hangover starting early. My next ten steps open my range of vision. I see lights on the outdoor restaurant, PIZZA, and that’s when I spot my car. My pace picks up. I reach the driver’s side door, pull hard and fall into the seat with an enormous sigh of relief. Where are the keys? I feel around at my feet; I often toss my  keys onto the mat. Bingo, I’ve found them. In the passenger seat is a partially eaten pizza that I don’t remember ordering or picking up. But I know I ate several slices since they’re missing from the box. I run my tongue across my teeth and feel pizza residue along with vomit. I take a moment to recognize the seriousness of my situation. Underneath the pizza box are my phone and cigarettes. Unlocking my phone I have seven missed calls: four from my parents, two from Stuart, and one from Liza. Three voicemail messages. I’m scared to play them. I don’t dare look at my text messages. Concerned voices mixed with sadness and anger will deepen my shame and regret. I light a cigarette and check the time. Two- fifteen. What have I been doing for so many hours? I reach under the seat, pat my hand on the carpet, searching for the familiar shape and size of a vodka  nips I may have purchased, hiding them for a time just like this. I locate four, they’re empty. I open the glove compartment and discover two that are unopened. Tossing my cigarette butt out the window, I light another, unscrew the top, take a gulp, and prepare to listen to my messages.