Page 23 of The River Is Waiting

“No, I’m okay,” I tell her. “Thanks, though.” It’s weird how polite and careful we’re being with each other. I’m relieved when she goes back inside.

When I see the McNallys’ garage door open and Shawn’s car backing out, I brace myself. What am I supposed to say to him now that my confession and arrest have been in the paper and on TV? What’shegoing to say tome? What happens, though, is that neither of us speaks. He backs into the street, shifts, and drives off, pretending he didn’t see me. Part of me feels shame, another part feels relief.

For the rest of that afternoon and into the evening, I keep hearing Maisie’s question. “Niko?” Where is Niko? Where did Niko go? My mother showed me where she kept her weed if I want any, but I don’t need to get mellow. I need to get hammered. But Mom’s gotten rid of her alcohol; I’ve already checked. By eight o’clock, I’m craving a drink so bad that I start getting the sweats. And not justadrink. A number of them, one after another, enough to make me too drunk to feel the pain that my life has become and the pain I’ve caused everyone else.

Mom went to bed early—to read, she said, but her workday starts at four in the morning so she’s probably asleep already. I crack open her door and sure enough, her breathing is rhythmic and she doesn’t stir. I fight the urge for another half hour or so, then give up, pull on my jacket, and grab my wallet and phone. There’s a liquor store in that strip mall on Sachem Turnpike. If I hustle, I can make it there before closing time. Outside, I break into a jog, each step bringing me closer to relief.

I walked away without a scratch, but the accident brain-damaged Kayla.… Anyways, that was the day when the miracle happened.… You can always drink tomorrow if you need to. Just don’t drink today.

I stop. Stand there shaking and baking until I reach into my back pocket and feel that napkin he gave me. With a shaky finger, I punch in the digits. Listen to it ring once, twice, three times, four. I’m about to hang up when there’s a click.

“Hello?”

“Dale? It’s Corby… guy from the meeting today? You said I could call?”

Ten minutes later, his truck pulls up in front of the Cumberland Farms where I told him I’d be waiting. When he asks me whether I’ve been drinking, I’m able to say no. He asks whether I’m telling him the truth and I say yes. I don’t take offense; drunks know what good liars other drunks can be. But I’m not bullshitting him.

Over coffee and pie at the Pilot truck stop off Exit 93, he fills me in on his story. “My sister Gina was in the middle of a divorce and she and Kayla had moved in with me. Gina worked long hours, so I was pitching in—helping Kayla with her homework, giving her rides, stuff like that. My sister knew I wasn’t the best babysitter—no secret I was a boozer—but at that point, her options were limited. I was on disability from work, so I was around and I had promised her I wouldn’t let Kayla get in the car if I’d been drinking.

“Gina was supposed to get back in time to take her to gymnastics that day, but something came up at work. Attendance at practice was mandatory for some show. At first, I thought I’d call the kid a cab, but then I decided I was feeling no pain but not really drunk. I could get her there and maybe get one of the mothers to drop her off when practice was over. That was fourteen years ago, but to this day, I remember starting the car and watching her run across the lawn toward me in the polka-dot leotard I bought her for her birthday. She had a pretty limited life, thanks to me. In and out of hospitals and Easter Seals. Her walking and talking were compromised and she had all kinds of learning problems. Died from an aneurysm when she was thirteen. She’d be twenty-two now if she had lived.

“The thing is, you never get over it—that hard a loss and the fact that you caused it. There’s always going to be sadness and shame around it. You just have to figure out how to live with yourself without drinking over it. At least that was whatIhad to do.” When I ask him about his sister, he says she moved out to Colorado. Got married again, didn’t have any more kids. “She still won’t have anything to do with me. When I got to my ninthstep, Gina was the first person on my list that I had to make amends to, but she told me she wasn’t having it. Said I could take my amends and shove it. I was pretty bummed out about that, but my sponsor said her not accepting it didn’t matter. I couldn’t control what her reaction was going to be. What mattered was that I hadofferedher my amends.”

Dale and I talk for about an hour. Then he drives me back to my mother’s. As he pulls into the trailer park, he says, “Oh, one more thing. Today, at the end of the meeting, I noticed you weren’t saying the Lord’s Prayer.”

“Yeah, I’m not really big on the higher-power thing,” I say.

“I hear you. I love AA, but I tune out a lot of the God stuff. The closest I get to believing in a higher power is when I look out at the ocean while I’m surf casting. See something that’s much bigger than I am. Something that’s been here a lot longer than me and is going to be here long after I’m gone. What I’m saying is, you don’t need to turn into a Holy Roller in order to get saved. Just keep coming to meetings and don’t drink. My first sponsor was a religious man—a deacon in his church. He used to say to me, ‘Dale, you don’t have to believe as long as you believe thatIbelieve.’?” He stops talking and lets that sink in. Finally, he says, “So. You all right?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

He nods. “And you’re not going to drink tonight. Right? We got a deal?”

I take a deep breath. “Deal,” I say.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

May 9, 2017

Rachel Dixon’s wife, Sandy, a psychiatric social worker, was the one who recommended Emily and I see Dr. Beena Patel, a licensed clinical psychologist who’d done extensive work counseling grieving couples. Emily was skeptical but compliant; I was desperate to try anything that might help us ease the pain.

When we step into Dr. Patel’s office, she holds out her hand to welcome us. Her sari, honeydew green, is draped over a white short-sleeved T-shirt, her hair is salt-and-pepper. “Please sit down,” she says, indicating the gray-and-white-striped love seat opposite her matching armchair. Once we’re seated, I reach over and take Emily’s hand, a gesture she tolerates for about five seconds before she withdraws it. This does not escape our grief counselor’s watchful eye.

“May I first of all offer you both my deepest condolences,” she says. Emily and I nod, mumbling our thanks. “How long ago did the accident happen?”

“Twelve days ago,” Emily says.

From the other side of the room, I hear what sounds like a train whistle. “I put some water to boil just before you came in,” she says. “Tea? I have chamomile and jasmine.” Emily declines. I say either one. “Let’s have jasmine then.” She takes two small cups from a shelf, lifts the kettle off a glowing hot plate, and pours the steaming water into a colorful teapot.“Ah, the aroma of jasmine always carries me back to my childhood in India.”

“India?” I say. “Really? I would have guessed Scandinavia.” Emily looks over at me, disgusted. I apologize, explaining that I make stupid jokes when I’m nervous.

“No apology necessary,” Dr. Patel says. “I like jokes, especially silly ones.” She cocks her head and gives me a benign smile. “And there’s no need to be nervous, Corbin. This is a safe place for you both.”

I nod. Ask whether she could call me Corby.

“Of course. Now, I understand you’ll be appearing before a judge for sentencing in several weeks. Correct?”

“Yeah, although I’ve already been drawn and quartered on Facebook and Twitter, as my mother-in-law has dutifully reported to Emily.”

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