Before I Let You Go(61)

The next time he asked me out, I agreed to have dinner with him, and before I knew it I was falling into something like love. Todd was an IT student in his sophomore year, and in the first few weeks we were together, we spent a ridiculous amount of time walking hand in hand and sharing increasingly intense make-out sessions in my dorm room while my roommate was out.

I was scared of intimacy with Todd, but not so scared that I wanted to avoid it. I told him only that it would be my first time, and he was sensitive and patient. When I finally decided I was ready, I downed a few bottles of beer and the whole thing went pretty well, considering. I called Lexie to tell her about Todd, since my relationship with him suddenly seemed more serious and adult, and ironically Lexie and I sat up late on the phone giggling about it like we were thirteen-year-olds.

Todd introduced me to his friends, and my world began to expand, little by little. No one in Chicago knew about my history with the sect, not even Todd, and so to everyone I knew there, I was just a normal—if somewhat antisocial—freshman adjusting to my new life at the university.

But soon I was thrust into uncomfortable social situations with Todd. He’d encourage me to go to parties, although I hated them with a passion. Sometimes, I’d be standing talking to people and for no reason at all, I’d feel panic bubbling up—a wheel racing in my chest, a wave of sweat over my skin, sweeping moments of pure dizziness and adrenaline that would dissipate only when I left.

I was more content alone in my comfort zone—plugging away on my own schedule and avoiding other people’s expectations of me. But I was happier with Todd, and I wanted to be with him although I could never understand what he thought he saw in me. I assumed he thought I was someone I wasn’t—someone good and clever and worthy of his attention.

I didn’t want Todd to see who I was really was, and I really didn’t want him to think I was a freak, so I learned quickly to play along. I developed coping techniques—I’d arrive a bit late, so that I could slip into a party only once it was really loud and busy, and no one would pay attention to me. I’d greet Todd, tell him I needed to talk to someone I’d seen on my way in, then I’d find the quietest corner and I’d try to hide.

Those things helped—but the biggest key to becoming more comfortable was a few medicinal beers before I left my dorm. It was amazing what alcohol did to my anxiety—those few drinks at the start of the night were the difference between spending the whole night feeling like I was going to suffocate, or me mingling with ease and sometimes even making new friends.

You are a filthy little girl, Anne.

This is all that you’re good for, you know.

It was my regular mental soundtrack when I was sober—the voice of impending doom that repelled any possibility of happiness. It was amazing how the thoughts were always right there just below the surface, waiting to rise up to the front of my mind. But alcohol silenced the voices, and let a more confident and calm version of myself break free.

And at first, I thought that maybe I liked Drunken Annie better anyway.





25


LEXIE


Just as I promised Annie I would, I spend most of the first week at the hospital.

It’s hard to find the words to describe the agony of watching a newborn baby suffer like that for hours and days on end. I study Daisy closely and I learn to read the signs, but it’s easy to tell when the morphine is wearing off. First, the muscles of her legs and her arms go rigid, then her little lips tremble, and sometimes the rash sweeps over her skin like a tide coming in. Eventually, jerky squirms progress until she’s writhing and screaming inconsolably.

Sometimes, she cries so hard that her tears all dry up, and that’s often when I cry, too. It is as if she gets fatigued from the endless suffering—just as I grow fatigued from watching her suffer. Sometimes, I’m almost crippled by the pain of watching this baby’s pain and it leaves me quite weak—as if all I can find the strength to do is hold her and cry. Then, in a heartbeat, I’m furious—I grow livid, and anger burns in me so hot and bright that I feel like it might make me explode. I’m angry with the entire system. It has failed this baby. It has failed my sister.

And then, although I know it is pointless, I let myself be angry with Annie. This is all Annie’s fault. I’m off work—I’m trapped in this gray hospital room, I’m watching her daughter go through something horrendous—all because of the choices she has made. I’m angry that Annie has made this endless series of terrible decisions that have led us all to this point . . . angry that she could be so careless as to fall pregnant while in the throes of a very serious, very heavy heroin addiction.

Annie is better than that.

And smarter than that.

Annie is stronger than that.

And even as I think these things, I know they are ridiculous—because addiction has nothing to do with being better, or stronger or smarter. I know this in my mind, but my heart is still angry. My mind understands that Daisy will probably be okay, in spite of these difficult few weeks—but my heart thinks if I hear that high-pitched, warbling cry one more time, I might just break into a million pieces, and then it will be my turn to be too broken to ever be put back together. I know that we will taper her morphine dosage down over the coming weeks once she stabilizes, but during these gray, endless days, I feel like this will go on forever.

I stay from early in the morning until late at night each day, just as I promised Annie I would. I see Sam on his lunch break when we meet in the cafeteria, or on the really bad days, he brings food to me in the NICU. Sometimes, when I finally get home, I crawl into bed beside him and he wraps his arms around me and I’m too tired and drained to even cry.