Before I Let You Go(81)

Do you know what impact I’ve had on her career? Not only did I nearly get her fired from her job at the clinic two years ago, but so much of the energy she should have been devoting to others has been wasted entirely on me.

So whenever you say to me “let’s get Lexie in for family therapy” or “let’s ask Lexie to write you an impact letter,” it pisses me off—because you seem to fail to understand that I already know how much I’ve hurt her. I’m not oblivious to it—I’ve seen it firsthand. It’s not that I don’t care about how much pain I’ve caused my sister; I do. I’d give anything to undo what I’ve done to her. She is everything to me.

Sometimes I get high purely to escape the guilt of how much I’ve hurt her . . . and of course, I hurt her by using, so then I feel even worse, and I use again, and it just goes on and on. Now do you see why I told you that you didn’t need to explain guilt spirals? I’ve been in one for seven fucking years.

I have been constantly shocked by the depths I’ve tumbled to—right from that morning after Lexie learned of my addiction, when the miserable look on her face was momentarily the most motivating factor on earth. But the impact of that moment would fade, just like every other “come to Jesus moment” I’ve skipped past over the years. Every time I decide to get clean, I seem to have the strength to decide it only once.

And you and I both know that sobriety is deciding to be clean—again, and again, and again—making a momentous, exhausting decision every second for the rest of your life. As I’m writing this, I’ve been here in the clinic for well over a month. The shit should be well and truly gone from my system, but every cell in my body still craves a fix. I have to ask myself a dozen times a minute if it’s all worth it—can I even stand to stay here in this clinic for one more minute? Do I even have the strength to face one more minute of asking myself if I want to stay?

Because at the deepest levels of my soul, I don’t want to stay here, Luke. I don’t want to stay sober. I hate feeling like this—I hate how close I am to my pain. I hate how vivid the shame is. I need something between me and the rage, something to blur down its razor-sharp edges so I can stand to look at it.

But now there’s Daisy and I want to see her and I don’t want the edges of her world to be blurred to me. I want to know her. I want to be enough for her. And I just don’t know how I can do it—with or without the smack.





33


LEXIE


When I get home, I lift Daisy’s car seat out of the car, and I carry it carefully up the front steps to my front door.

I rest the seat on the ground, unlock the door, and then I pause. I turn around and stare at my front yard and into the street. I suddenly wish I’d let Sam take the day off to be here to welcome her. It doesn’t feel right that I’m here alone for this moment.

This remarkable little girl, who at six weeks old has already been through something so difficult that most adults who attempt it fail, well—she deserves a whole community to embrace her and to celebrate her. Daisy Vidler is a triumph. She is a living, breathing miracle.

I look out across my street. Across the road, Mrs. Winters is tending her garden, and she sees me standing there staring out, and offers me a vaguely disinterested wave. A delivery truck rumbles past. In the distance a dog is barking. The world does not stop to celebrate this—the world doesn’t even stop to contemplate it. I bend down and slip the car seat handle up onto my arm, and I see that she is awake. She has the pacifier in her mouth, but she is looking around, a gradually sharpening curiosity in her eyes.

“Come on, sweetheart,” I say gently. “Come and see your home—your home for now, anyway.”

So I take Daisy into our house, and I gently lift her from the car seat to keep her close as I walk around showing her each room. “This will be your room. This one is mine and Sam’s. Here is a kitchen. Here is the backyard.”

I feel like an idiot speaking to a baby, but I know that it needs to be done—how often have I told mothers and newborns that they should speak to their child to help their language development? I watched the nurses do this very thing all day at the hospital, and I have always felt too self-conscious to attempt it myself. But now she has only me. I could become overwhelmed again by the very thought of this, but I refuse to go there. And so I chat with Daisy. I chat as I set up her diapers and the new formula from the hospital pharmacy. And then, oddly, I keep chatting even after she is sleeping in her cot for the very first time.

When Sam comes home, I greet him with surprising enthusiasm. My mood has lifted. Some strange optimism has risen in me again now that Daisy is safe and well in our house.

“Well.” Sam looks at me in surprise when I pull back from our kiss. “So, your first few hours alone with her are going well, then?”

I grin at him, then kiss him again. His skin is rough with stubble, and I rub my palm against his cheek.

“Takeout and beers tonight, to celebrate Daisy’s release?” I murmur against his lips.

Sam smiles at me, but says gently, “Let’s go easy on the beers. She is going to wake up for a feed every few hours.”

I grimace, and then giggle, “What was that about you saying you are going to help me out with her?”

The landline rings, and I skip away from Sam to lift it to my ear.