(Trigger Warning: Domestic Violence, Alcoholism)
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“Now I can’t even sleep! I’m serious, I’m not sure if I ever actually fall asleep. I’m so terrified, the moment I start to drift off my whole-body jolts. At this point I don’t know what’s worse: the insomnia or the nightmares,” she threw her hands up and shook her head. Pulling her gaze off the floor, she asked the circle, “Were the dreams really that bad? My head hurts, my entire body aches. This sleep deprivation is literally killing me. I…”
Her tongue fell limp. The eyes staring back seemed empty or narrowed and she didn’t know why. Slouching forward, she planted her elbows on her knees and cradled her head.
“Are you saying…” the inquirer had the decency to pause, force a wry smile, and insert her subject’s name, “Sarah.” Then all decency expired and off came the mask. With raised brow, pursed lips, and a glare that seemed to squeeze her eyes up from underneath, the interrogator asked, “Are you saying he only hurts you in your dreams?”
– – –
Blood rushed to the front of Sarah’s face, setting her cheeks ablaze, and for some reason that’s what she felt most. Not the throbbing of her brain bashing itself against the inside of her skull, trying to break free like a parasite trapped within a dying host. Not the freight-train thundering in her ears nor the metallic taste on her tongue. Not even the stabs of pain radiating out from Tom’s callused grasp as his hands crushed her throat.
“Drink it.”
Her fingers prickled but she managed to hold the bottle. Her arms felt as though they were filled with pins and needles, as if submerged in the slushy water below the surface of a frozen lake, but up rose the bottle.
“In the mouth.”
Thanks, Tom. Like she might’ve forgotten.
Her neck muscles jabbed her jaw, squeezing up from below like toothpaste from a tube, but she got the bottle to her lips. Merlot slipped through the gaps in her clenched teeth, blending with blood before trickling back out to drip down her chin. Tom lifted his arms to tilt her head and the wine began to pool in the back of her throat. She tried to swallow but choked.
Uh oh. She didn’t fight it.
Wine erupted from her lips, painting her husband’s face crimson. He staggered away from her. She fell back against the door and gasped for air, but didn’t take her eyes off him. His face was now more flushed than hers. His hands balled into fists. She took another big gulp of air but this time, as she exhaled, she began to snicker.
Surging forward, Tom grabbed her again. This time not to choke – at least not yet. He kept one hand free. The hand on her neck was there to position her, holding her still, the other was there to inflict pain, but before that hand came to exact discipline, Sarah was determined to get out her quip.
“You know I hate red wine.”
In the real world, Tom’s fist slamming into her face would’ve knocked her out cold, but this wasn’t the real world. This was a dream. Instead, the punch jerked her wide awake. Her consciousness had regained control of the steering wheel and yanked her back to reality – where Tom would never hurt her.
– – –
“Yes,” Sarah stated, “My husband would neverhurt me in real life.”
“But the drinking,” a soft-spoken member of the circle chimed in, “the drinking problem, that’s not just in your dreams, is it?”
“I don’t know,” Sarah admitted.
The not-so-soft-spoken group member from before perked back up. “You don’t know?”
“Maya,” The Therapist snapped.
Maya sighed through her teeth, flaring her nostrils as she cocked her head to the side and crossed her arms. The Therapist leered at Maya for a moment longer but then returned her gaze to Sarah.
“He had a drinking problem,” Sarah explained.
“And you’re worried he might’ve relapsed?” the Therapist asked.
Sarah nodded.
“That’s not unreasonable,” the Therapist said slowly. She bore a faint smile, a smile that was only strong enough to assure everyone that she wasn’t frowning. This should’ve comforted Sarah – it worked for most of the others gathered in the circle – but it didn’t work for Sarah. That smile didn’t just say, “I care.” It also said, “I know.” And that’s what bothered Sarah because Sarah was pretty damn sure the Therapist did not know.
The Therapist asked, “Have you asked him?”
“I could…” Sarah stalled with a shaky breath, debating whether or not to provide more context. Her eyes darted over to Maya’s sardonic glare but after scanning the other faces in the circle she gave in, “I’m scared. He’s been gone – for a week now. He drives. He’s a trucker-”
“He’s drinking,” Maya chirped.
“Maya!” The fire that jumped into the Therapist’s eyes was the first comforting thing Sarah had seen from her. “Apologize!”
In a surprisingly effective display of sincerity, Maya shook her head at herself. “I’m sorry, this is not the place…” she met Sarah’s eyes, “that was fucked of me.”
“It’s okay…” Sarah said with a tone that washed some of the shame off Maya’s face, “I know y’all may think I’m crazy. The whole scenario is out there, I mean…” Sarah winked at Maya and clasped her chest, “how am I married to a trucker.”
There were chuckles and both Maya and the Therapist exhaled as the tension – at least, some of it – dissolved. The room began to show signs of thawing nerves.
“He’s a real trucker too,” Sarah continued. “netted cap, wife beaters-”
“No pun intended,” Maya inserted.
Sarah gave Maya a snort for that one but kept on, “-gym shorts and jerseys. Never saw him in a polo. Shit, the closest thing I think he’s worn to a button up was a flannel – ‘cept for when his mom died.” Sarah shook her head and smiled. “When his Mom died, that man went out and bought – not rented – bought a suit that must’ve cost as much as the funeral.”
“Sounds like a good guy,” the Therapist said.
“Yea, but good guys only go so far. I told him he had better rent for our wedding and save the money for the honeymoon,” Sarah laughed at the memory.
“What’d he say?” the Therapist asked.
This time, Sarah actually laughed. Short and quick, but authentic. “Hah! He begged and begged until one day I go, ‘You spend more than $100 on our – on your – wedding suit…’ then I got so flustered I just shouted, ‘Over my dead body!’. Then he goes off smiling at me so I just know some joke is fixing to come out of his smart-ass mouth. So he says – get this,” Sarah leaned forward as if to whisper but if anything she increased her volume, impersonating her best Tom. “‘Cool, so I can get one for your funeral?’”
There was a brief reprieve of laughter before Maya jumped in, “Was this before or after he stopped drinking?”
“Fuck off, Maya,” Sarah shot back with a smirk.
Quiet threatened to settle in for a moment and the Therapist seemed prepared to allow it but of course Maya quickly broke it. Though, she surprised everyone by honing back in. “You really should ask him.”
Sarah looked away, but her eyes landed on another member of the circle and he took her attention to mean she wanted him to weigh in. Shifting in his seat, he spoke through a sympathetic frown. “I know we always say, ‘They have to want it themselves.’ but some people still need a little nudge sometimes. My husband didn’t quit until he knew I wanted him to, maybe-”
“He didn’t quit for me,” Sarah clarified. “I mean, he quit for me, but for himself for me.”
“Oh Lord…” Maya rolled her eyes.
The Therapist gave her a warning glare with all the effectiveness of a “No!” levied at a toddler.
“Can we drink at these?” Maya cut across the circle with a smirk.
“You think you’re funny,” the Therapist retorted.
Maya shrugged, “Why do you think my husband drinks?”
The kind, quiet woman from before saved Maya by resuming the interrogation. “So why’d he quit drinking then?”
– – –
She awoke like a freediver breaking the surface of the sea, bolting upright with a gasp. Her feet were underneath her before her eyes started to see. Her knees buckled – at which point Tom normally would’ve hurdled from his side of the bed and dove to catch her. Instead she crumpled to the floor.
There was a clinking downstairs, a clinking she knew all too well. Three ice cubes splashed into three fingers of vodka. Soon there’d be the quarter-second long trickle, the sound of what hardly qualified as a “splash”. When you’re home, the OJ in the fridge lasts longer than the vodka in the freezer.
The noise normally annoyed her – signifying how the rest of the day was going to go – but that morning it squashed a larger concern: That she’d forgotten what morning it was and Tom had already left off for another long haul. Instead, he was home, just not where she needed him. She needed to see his face. She needed to feel his arms and his tight but gentle squeeze around her waist. She needed to remember that, in the real world, Tom was a dream, not a nightmare.
She hurried out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. He heard her coming and spun to toast her approach. Setting his drink down, he stepped into her embrace. They squeezed their bare bodies together and lingered in silence for a moment.
“Peaches?” he asked, loosening his grip.
Nope, not yet. She grabbed his forearms to re-administer his previous hold. His seriousness succumbed to a chuckle and her body relaxed again. They exhaled in unison. Then – and only then – did she ask in reply, “Mhm?”
“Peaches…I uh…” He fumbled for a bit before finding it. “I got something to say.”
She froze. This was the part when most partners would let go and take a step back to get a good look at the face of the one saying, “I got Something to say.” But somehow Sarah knew this wasn’t that sort of Something. Even though Tom was obviously stressing over said Something, this was a Something that would be good. Difficult – maybe – but good. The fleeting panic drained from her body. Thawed, Sarah melted against him once more.
“Mhm?”
“I think I gotta stop drinking.”
Sarah loosened her grasp and leaned back, letting him bear the weight of her torso so she could take a good look at his face. He smiled down at her then flinched and looked away. He cleared his throat with a nod, then re-met her gaze.
“I can’t remember things,” he said. “You’ll tell me all these stories about our late-night shenanigans and… man, half the time I can’t remember any of it. And…” he sighed. Not a stalling-sigh, but a real sigh. An expression of sadness. “On those long drives, I don’t have much else to do but think about you, Peaches. I mean, I got things I can listen to, folks to call – you to call – but you’re at work all day and…those drives used to be so nice when I could just sit and revel in all the shit we got up to while I was home. I could just dig through my memories and remember things I’d forgot…well, I used to. Now it seems like everything I forgot never happened. Half my new memories I just steal from the stories you tell me – like it wasn’t even really me there, but someone else.”
He paused. Now this was a stalling pause. He was angling for her opinion, more specifically for her approval, hoping his silence would bait her thoughts like a fish. It didn’t. Tom dropped his rod and gave in.
“You’re being awfully quiet there, Peaches.”
“I love you,” Sarah said, pressing her cheek into his chest and smiling up at him, “and I wouldn’t mind you remembering a little more, either.”
“Alright then.” Tom nodded, letting go of Sarah with one arm to grab his drink, raising it for a toast, “That’s it. I’m quitting.”
Sarah scoffed as he took a swig. “That’s it, huh?”
Tom shrugged, letting the ice rattle in his glass. “Well, I gotta finish this one first!”
– – –
“After he quit, the nightmares stopped,” Sarah explained.
“And you never told him he hurt you?” the Therapist asked.
“He didn’t hurt me.”
Sarah blurted the words out but they weren’t even really hers. It was reflexive. Almost mechanical. Even as the words came out of her mouth and entered her ears, she couldn’t stop them. They came out again, but this time they stuck in her throat.
“He didn’t…”
Her vision began to cloud and the voices of those in the circle around her blurred into a hum drum garble of sounds as if her ears were under water.
Sarah was absent for the rest of the meeting. She sat like a ghost, not quite lost in her thoughts, but not quite thinking either. Just hurting. Almost like there was a splinter she refused to remove, waiting instead for her body to push the intruder out – but her body never did. It just kept hurting. Then, just before the scab healed over it, the wound got caught and the scab was ripped off. The universe was giving her another chance. After all this time, now was her chance to remove the splinter she should’ve removed so long ago.
After all, Tom was coming home tonight.
“Call me if you need me,” the Therapist said. “Anytime, I don’t care.”
Outside the community center, they stood on the steps as the others trickled past to their cars. Maya came up behind the Therapist. The Therapist whirled around ready to knock Maya’s smugness right off her face but Maya’s demeanor quelled the Therapist’s protective instinct. An unbridled warmth recolored Maya’s trademark sneer as she strode forward to clasp Sarah on the shoulder and press into her hand a receipt with a phone number scrawled sloppily on the back.
“Babe…” Maya stared hard and Sarah wondered for a moment if she might cry, “if it turns out you’re wrong and he’s still sober,” Maya swallowed before the cool mask she’d worn in the meeting fell back into place, “do ya think he could DD for us? Next time my husband drags me to the bar?”
The Therapist instantly regretted permitting Maya’s final farewell, but Sarah laughed nonetheless. Promising to call both Maya and the Therapist, Sarah made a bit of small talk with the others then hurried off to her car.
She couldn’t help but feel like she was getting into a hearse rather than a Honda.
– – –
She hadn’t spoken with him since the nightmares had started back. They hadn’t exchanged so much as a text. Not even a Like. It was odd. Not so much for Sarah, but for Tom? Very odd.
Typically, Sarah had ten or so unread messages waiting for her when she woke up. Often a few voicemails and a slew of memes too, but now there was nothing. No pictures of sunsets from the road. No political commentary on social media. Nothing. Sure, she had ghosted him, but she hadn’t expected to get the same in return. She couldn’t help but worry that his silence came from a sense of guilt.
She waited by the sink, scrubbing a saucer she’d long since scraped clean. That’s where she always waited. From there, she could see the front door over her shoulder, reflected in the dark glass of the kitchen window. Despite her soapy hands, she was ready.
At first sight of the door opening, she’d whirl around and pounce on him as he stepped inside. She’d force a smile, knowing soon it’d be authentic. She’d lean back and look him in the eyes and before she could even ask – she’d know. His steady gaze would assure her, his cool, clean breath would tickle her neck like a crisp, autumn breeze.
Are you sure? She tried not to entertain the thought but failed. Of course he’s drinking, Why else would the nightmares be back?
Headlights flashed in the window as he pulled into the driveway. Sarah listened as his car door opened and closed. His footsteps sounded heavy as they drew closer. She turned to see his silhouette, striped by the blinds, hesitating in the porch light. She counted the seconds as he fumbled with his keys, straining her ears to assess whether there might be a clue in the jingling clumsiness. Then the knob twisted and she held her breath.
Tom stepped in then staggered back as the door slammed shut behind him. He slid down the door and his hands rushed up to hide his face, stifling sobs.
“Sarah-”
“Tom!” Sarah stepped towards him.
“-I’m sorry.”
She froze. Her body prickled with needles. Shivering, she opened her mouth to say something, but her lungs were empty. So empty she felt the urge to look down – but she couldn’t. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. She couldn’t even blink. Time itself seemed to hinge on Tom’s next words.
“I’m so sorry, Sarah. And I wish I’d said as much in person.” Tom lowered his hands, letting his tears stream down his cheeks uninhibited. His body trembled from some place deep within, as if a fissure was radiating out from his heart.
“I could see the hurt in your eyes every time I poured another drink – every time I came home with another bottle.” He clutched his collar, pulling as if he couldn’t breathe, “I knew it was there. I knew it was there and I waited so long to stop and even though I stopped, I never-”
His body stopped quivering and he lifted his head. He looked forward, looking past her as he said, “I never apologized and now I can’t. You’re gone.”
Sarah stiffened. She took a good long look at him:
His eyes were wild but clear. His face pale, not flushed. His breath was fresh, clean, so clean she could taste it. Pine trees. And he was unusually clean cut. His hair was parted and greased down. There was no stubble on his chin.
This was strange. Had he ever once shaved in the time that she’d known him?
Sure, he had shaved for his mother’s funeral but–
He was wearing a new suit.
“Tom?”
“Peaches.”
He murmured it. It wasn’t to her. It was to the aether.
“Tom!”
She lunged forward with eyes so wide they might never close again. Her face ready to smash into his chest like a cannon ball, arms stretched wide to embrace him on impact, but she jettisoned right through as if he were a ghost. Through Tom and through the door, only to be stopped by a gentle embrace. She felt the warmth before anything else and knew who it was long before she understood why: the Therapist. Her presence shook Sarah to her core. She whirled around ready to run but saw only darkness – such darkness she had to blink to be sure her eyes were open. She fumbled around, reaching and kicking but finding nothing in the void. She turned back and submitted to the Therapist and her steady smile – the smile Sarah had doubted. The smile that was neither condescending nor comforting, merely knowing. Knowing the awful truth it now drove home:
Tom wasn’t the ghost.
“Why?” she asked.
“No good reason,” the Therapist replied.
“How?” she asked.
“Here.”
The Therapist offered Sarah her jacket with a nudge. She accepted it mechanically, slipping it on as if automated while her attention remained fixated on the scene expanding before her. Rain began to fall in the darkness. Each droplet splattered around Sarah’s feet, bringing a little color and form back to the abyss. Dark asphalt unfurled like a rug where the kitchen tile had once been. Sleet slicked the road, causing the street to glitter. Puddles stretched from one side to the other, blotting out the pavement markings like black holes. Clumps of snow melted in the margins, trickling down the hillside to the river below. Ahead extended a bridge. Illuminated only by flickering streetlights and flashing lightning, the bridge seemed to bend with each sideways sheet of pelting rain.
She saw the Honda – her Honda – arching up from the opposite side of the river. The headlights twinkled like two golden stars, blinking as they passed the beams of the bridge.
Sarah flinched.
She remembered now but she wasn’t ready to look away just yet. She refixed her gaze and squinted into the storm. Her Honda was almost over the bridge when the rusted-out Chevy appeared. Hurtling up the slope, the truck weaved back and forth, bouncing between the shoulder and the yellow line. Sarah hadn’t been able to see the pickup from the driver’s seat of the Honda – not until the last moment. The Chevy’s ricocheting headlights appeared to be some mixture of lightning and reflections, not another vehicle. Now, standing beside the Therapist, Sarah could see.
The truck dipped just a bit to the right, just off the shoulder, and plowed into a snow pile. The bump would’ve been harmless to the pickup but it startled the driver. They swerved, launching the truck over a slab of black ice that extended across the mouth of the bridge. Sarah, in the approaching car, slammed on the breaks. For a moment, both vehicles lost traction. The world kept turning underneath them, their wheels spinning to no avail, and then – collision.
Sarah clenched her eyes shut.
“No good reason,” the Therapist sighed.
A long roll of thunder masked the wrenching of metal as the guard rails gave way.
“That’s enough!” Sarah’s voice split through the clamor.
All was quiet once more, except for the sound of Sarah panting. She let the raincoat slide off her shoulders and handed it back to the Therapist.
“I thought we had more time,” Sarah murmured.
The Therapist took the jacket but did not let go of Sarah. Clasping her hands, the Therapist reassured her, “You do.”
Sarah opened her eyes. The storm was gone, so was the icy bridge. She was back in the kitchen – or sort of. Darkness lingered in her peripheral vision, but light illuminated the room before her. Tom was getting up from the floor and she went to him.
“What am I gonna do without you?” Tom whispered.
She reached a hand up to caress his face. She could feel him, though she knew he couldn’t feel her. She wanted to speak to him but why? He couldn’t hear her.
She saw the Therapist standing behind him, a blur in the background. Sarah didn’t turn away from his face, but she asked the Therapist, “Will he be okay?”
“Eventually.”
“He’ll move on, though, right?”
“Move on?” the Therapist scoffed, “I thought you knew this man?”
“But-”
She choked on her tongue as Tom began to stir. His face slid right through her grasp as his body passed through her on his way out of the kitchen.
“He’ll live a full life,” the Therapist said, “because he won’t forget you.”
His stride was long and slow. His shoulders were stooped and yet his chest upright. It looked like he’d been propped up by a skewer, one stuck fast in his heart, and it wouldn’t let him down, no matter how much he wished it would. Wrinkles shot across his forehead like ripples, only to freeze in place as more began to appear. The clean shave was quickly lost. Stubble came and was outgrown in seconds. Dark hair turned gray and curled out to form a beard. As the beard grew, the grayness spread up his sideburns to his scalp.
The Therapist’s voice was a distant echo, “He’ll wear that suit every Sunday and he’ll wait.”
His muscles began to thin and the suit fit him a bit less, except for around the belly. A little pudge pushed out where there had been nothing before, straining the suit’s waistline.
He made it to the stairs. The steps took him a while but he had plenty of time. Holding tight to the railing, he made his way up.
“He’ll eat peaches upon peaches and rack up quite the tab at the dentist, but the bars will have long since forgotten his name.”
As Tom neared the top of the stairs he hesitated. Sarah was in front of him again, one step up on the landing. She could see herself reflected in his eyes. She’d aged as well. Her shoulders were stooped, just like his. Her locks were now silver. Her lips a tad thinner. The edges of her eyes were wrinkled, but she couldn’t tell if it was crow’s feet or if it was the broad smile pushing up her cheeks. As she looked down at him, she could’ve sworn – for the first time since she’d left – that he was looking right at her.
“Peaches?”
“Mhm?”
“I’m sorry.”
Tears budded on the brims of her eyelids and her swelling smile threatened to spill the tears right down her cheeks. She held them in, but this didn’t help. It only served to blur her view.
“I’m sorry,” Tom continued, “I spent that nice honeymoon money on my suit, but I think…”
He looked around, though he couldn’t see much either. While Sarah’s floodgates held, Tom’s had long since given way. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and faced Sarah again with a lopsided grin.
“…I think this place is all-inclusive?”
Sarah flicked her tears away with a half sigh, half chuckle then stepped forward to tend to Tom’s. She cupped his jaw and winked the last bit of tears out of her eyes with a smirk. Finally words came to her.
“You know, I bet you can get away with a drink in this place.”
“Nah, I don’t want a drink,” Tom smiled back, “I don’t even want water.”
His smile was growing and Sarah knew where it was headed. She’d seen that smile many times before. It always started with Tom trying to stop it but the grin would burst free in his eyes and spread across his face until finally he said what he had to say.
“I came here for Peaches.”