Today began the first day of Sheri’s detox.

Claudine picked up the kids before I left for work and begged me to let them stay with her overnight. She promised she’d take them to daycare the next morning, right after breakfast. I assumed it was because she wanted to scope the place out, which made me feel less worried. A second opinion, that’s what I needed.

No, what I needed was for their mother to be healthy enough to help me make decisions I didn’t want to make alone. I didn’t like that I was getting used to it—being the only one who did any of the important stuff—I wanted someone to share the responsibilities with, along with all its ups and downs.

All day at work, I snapped at everyone because I was feeling bitter and uncomfortable about everything. By the end of the shift, each person I lashed out at offered me their own asinine advice about my situation.

“You need to get laid,” Frank said, winking and gyrating his hips wildly.

Lena smirked. “You got any life insurance on her?”

“You need to get laid really good,” Frank explained again, this time using other pornographic movements that weren’t so pornographic when he demonstrated them.

“Don't let her use that junk they put right in their veins. That'll make all her hair fall out, and she's got beautiful hair," Vinny said gravely.

Frank talked about me getting laid a dozen more times. The last piece of guidance he bestowed on me was, “Hey, I know. Why don’t you have the hot cop arrest the wife and then have a threesome?”

I sometimes really wondered if this family did a ton of inbreeding at one time down its genetic line.

Miraculously, they let me end my shift at four o’clock so I could head straight to the rehabilitation center for a spousal interview. I felt sick the entire drive there. What would they ask me? What if all of this was my fault somehow? What if this didn’t help? What if it did? What if it did help and we still both felt miserable in this god-awful relationship? What if I was still unhappy?

* * *

Recovery, The Center for Alcohol and Drug Rehabilitation.

The place was pristine. Whiter than any building should be. My eyes hurt from standing in the front lobby, waiting for someone to call me in. People walked through the waiting area calmly, serenely speaking in awkwardly happy tones. Callie would get a kick out of this. Those were my first thoughts: how white the place was, and what Callie would think. Great.

"Mr. Sanborn?" The receptionist wiggled her fingers toward me as if she was asking to hold my hand. "Please follow me. It's just this way."

I was appalled when her icy fingers grasped solidly onto mine—not in a handshake—she was honest to God holding my hand, like she was my middle school girlfriend. Then she started to swing our arms.

“Okay, that’s enough,” I growled, yanking my hand back before she started making me compose a campfire song with a kazoo. “I’m sorry, but I’m here for Sheri Sanborn. She’s supposed to be in her first full day of detox—” The crazy woman went for my hand again. “And if you hold my hand again, I might flip the fuck out. Seriously.”

“Right.” She smiled tightly. “Mr. Sanborn, this is all a part of the atmosphere of this facility.”

"Look, I have two young children at home who need at least one of their parents there tonight." I lied. I didn't care. The crazy woman wasn't touching me again. "As far as I have seen, this place is a trash compactor for my money. I don't need any new age bullshit. I need you to help my wife. That's it. I don’t need my hand held. I'm all right."

She cleared her throat and bustled off ahead of me. “Right this way, Mr. Sanborn.”

She led me into a large cream-colored office. The walls were covered with soft pastel paintings of landscapes and gave off a tranquil feel. I instantly needed a drink.

“Mr. Sanborn, welcome.” Behind the desk stood a gangly man with a soft smile and shiny bald head. "I'm so glad we could have the chance to meet you tonight. Sheri is currently responding well to her first day."

"I'm sorry, I didn't get your name," I said, reaching out and offering him a firm handshake.

“Matthew. I’m the head counselor here.” He gestured to a seat in front of his desk. “Why don’t you have a seat, and we could get you up to speed on Sheri’s treatment plan. I know you have two small children to get back to.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. They must have cameras in the hallway. I looked around for evidence of listening devices or video monitors. I found none.

“So,” he began, clasping his hands together, “Sheri is a heroin addict.”

“Yes,” I said slowly, suddenly feeling a hot flash of guilt.

Matthew cleared his throat and smiled. “Okay. Sheri’s detoxification process will be determined by her unique body composition and metabolism, her choice of drugs, the duration of her drug use, and any other addictions that may apply to her.”

I nodded, realizing: this is the third time in four years I've heard this kind of speech. The difference with this speech was the way Matthew looked down his nose at me as he relayed it.

“I didn’t…I didn’t know she was using the whole time. I put her in rehab twice in the last four years—when I saw what was happening—when it was blatant she was using. I thought she was clean. I mean, I guessed she might be using again, but—”

“I understand completely,” he said, placing both his palms softly on the top of his desk. Did he, though? Did he understand?

"When someone abuses a drug regularly, the body becomes accustomed to having certain levels of the substance in it." He tilted his head and smiled. I nodded like a fool. I knew this already, but I waited for him to continue. "And once this substance, in the case of Sheri, heroin, crack, and crystal meth—”

“Wait, what?” I leaned forward, holding my stomach for fear I would vomit. “Crack and crystal meth? What the fuck?”

"Yes. That's what Sheri was carrying in her purse when her mother brought her in."

“She brought it? Here?”

“Fortunately, we took it from her. She wasn’t pleased. Anywho, once all the substances are removed from her system, she'll be experiencing some withdrawal symptoms. Hopefully, they will only last twenty-four hours or so."

I took a deep breath and shook my head. My stomach felt heavier than before, twisting and curdling. I was fucking disgusted.

How could she do this to herself? To her kids? To us?

“After detox, Sheri agreed to a mix of outpatient and inpatient rehabilitation, which will consist of behavioral therapy—a combination of group and individual therapy." He leaned back in his chair and paused for a moment before saying the next thing. "Pharmaceutical treatment is often necessary, in conjunction with therapy."

"More drugs." My jaw clenched tightly. "Will she ever be totally drug-free?"

“That’s truly up to her. Her journey to a sober life will not be quick or easy. It’ll be a lifelong struggle for Sheri. A lifelong commitment to working hard and staying clean."

“Can I see her?” I asked.

“I’m sorry, no.” He folded his hands together on his lap, his movements fluid and smooth. “I’m not sure any contact between you and Sheri would be beneficial to her throughout her rehabilitation.”

What. The. Fuck? “Why?” I asked between gritted teeth.

“Being a wife and mother is something that gives her great anxiety right now, Mr. Sanborn. We wouldn’t want her to fail before she begins, do we?” He stood up to make his final point. “The person you married, the one you loved? She isn’t here anymore, Mr. Sanborn. And rehab is the only way to save her.” He slid a dozen or so brochures across the top of the desk at me. “Here’s some pamphlets to help you out. You have a great night now, okay?”

I drove home in a fog. Music blasted through the speakers. Horns honked as I careened my car in and out of lanes with my foot slammed flat against the gas pedal. I was numb to it all.

I pulled up to the curb in front of my house but didn’t get out. I sat with the car idling, staring at the house across the street, wishing I could ring Callie’s bell and just talk with her. But I couldn’t. I made sure Callie had no reason to tempt me with thoughts about some alternate family where everything was perfect, complete with a wife that would look at me instead of through me. I completely dismissed her from our lives. And now I was parked in the street between our homes, watching the dim lights in her bedroom flicker and seeing a strange car parked in her driveway.

A sharp, burning sensation tore through my chest, and I bit down hard, grinding my teeth together.

Who was she with?

I knew I had no right to be pissed. So why was I?

She was a single, gorgeous woman who was single and allowed to entertain anyone she wanted in her house, in her bedroom, because she was single.

I, on the other hand, was not single, and I loved my wife. I loved my wife.

I kept repeating it.

I loved my wife. Loved her.

What did I love about her? I squinted at Callie’s house and climbed out of my car. I loved so many things about my wife. “So many things!” I gritted out, slamming the door closed.

The dog next door barked at me.

I loved how she used to show up at my office in the city and drag me to a little dive bar downtown until we were both so drunk, we couldn’t see. We’d fuck back in my office, over my desk, in front of the windows, on the table in the conference room—we didn’t care.

The job I loved, in the office I loved. The job I went to college for—worked my fucking ass off for. The same job I lost when Sheri went with me to a holiday party and where she stole jewelry from my boss’ wife. The same job I had to take off a total of fifteen days in three months and cost us one of our most prestigious clients when Sheri ripped up the blueprints I spent weeks making in a fit of drunken rage.

I stomped up my front steps and flung open the front door.

I did love my wife. She always--

She would--

I stood in the middle of my dark living room, alone.

Stop lying to yourself. So many things about Sheri disturbed me. If I stayed still for just a minute and thought about it, looked back on our relationship in the solitude I found myself in, it would be clearer. The truth was, I preferred the Sheri I got when we were alone to the wild, uncontrollable party girl one who emerged in front of other people. She tried desperately to impress everyone and anyone who would listen. She’d bounce around a room, spinning tales of fictional hardships and dramatic fabrications of some heroic deed or suffrage she fell victim to. She was like a category five hurricane, sweeping your feet right out from under you.

Sheri was impulsive and violently possessive, erratic and overwhelmingly emotional. Small incidents would set her off into full-blown adult tantrums. She would fly off the handle if the local supermarket didn’t have gummy bears, or some days my just asking what she wanted me to pick up for dinner set her off spiraling into a crazy explosion of screaming and sobbing fits.

And I was always there to rescue her, to save her from herself. At least that’s what she pretended was happening.

I held on to the belief that I just needed to love her a little harder, needed to save her from herself, then she could be happy. We had a family. I just needed to take care of everyone more, love everyone more—enough for the both of us, but the only thing I ended up doing was having to keep reminding her she was a wife and mother, beautiful and smart, worth something.

All along, I thought if I loved her enough, I could fix her.

I slowly spun around, rubbing my hand across my chest. There was an ache there that wouldn’t to go away. I turned and turned, looking at how empty my house was, how quiet and sad.

The only time Sheri was ever happy anywhere with me was when she was high. I used to smoke the occasional joint with her, but I never cared for being out of control like she did. We had four months together before she got pregnant. I didn’t really know her at all. Her pregnancy was so hard, all I did was cater to her and my unborn child. And after, I was too busy taking care of kids and working to see how unhappy and sick she was. She hid it from me completely.

Shame on me for not seeing, not stopping and asking why all this shit kept on happening.

I sat on the couch and stared at the walls. I didn’t know what to do.

I flipped through my phone, wondering if maybe I should just throw a little text Callie’s way. Callie went through this. She always said the right things to me. She would understand when even I didn’t.

Hey, I texted.

I stared down at the phone, willing the three little bouncy dots to appear, letting me know she was replying.

There weren’t any, of course.

I blinked up. There was a big crack in the paint on my wall.

Anything. I needed to think about anything other than Callie with another man in her bed and how I shouldn’t care because I was fucking married.

My head was ripping in two, my heart shredding right down the middle. Why couldn’t I get it all under control?

I pulled the contact up for Sergeant Max Kannon and hit the call button. He answered on the first ring; he was somewhere noisy.

"Kannon here,” he grunted.

“Sergeant Kannon? This is Dylan. Dylan Sanborn. Remember, my—”

“Hey, son,” he said warmly. “You good?”

“I’m not so sure tonight.”

“Well, I’m off duty. Having a drink at The Fountain. If you want to stop in, a beer might help,” he offered.

“Yeah,” I said automatically. “That sounds like an awesome idea. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

I said a quick goodbye and checked myself out in the bathroom mirror. Shit. I had streaks of grease and oil across my forehead. No one told me? I scrubbed my face clean and changed my shirt. I didn’t bother shaving; a little scruff never scared anyone.

I locked up and stood on the front lawn, watching Callie's window. Her bedroom lights were a dull glow, and that goddamn car was still parked there. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked for messages. Nothing.

I didn’t have the right to be mad.

I stormed past my car and down the street, positive I could walk off whatever this was easily on the few blocks to the bar.

I met up with Sergeant Kannon a few minutes later. He sat at the back of the bar alone, facing a small crowd of people. On the table in front of him was a tall, frothy glass of beer. One of those huge ones that probably held two cans.

“What’s your poison?” he asked, motioning for a waitress to come over to the table. I didn’t have a poison really. There wasn’t much time in my life for social gatherings and indulgences. “Holy shit,” I said, barking out a bitter laugh. “I haven’t been to a bar for a drink since before Addison was born.”

“Well, sit down and catch up,” he said, bringing his beer to his lips and taking an enormous sip from it.

“I would love a Jack and Coke,” I said to the waitress. “Just hold the Coke.”

“Thatta boy!” Sergeant Kannon yelled.

“Sergeant Ka—” I began.

“Call me Max, please.”

“Max, thank you. For inviting me.”

Another realization dawned on me. I had no one. I had not one friend left to call for a night out. I had no family. I had nothing but two little kids and one hell of a sweet neighbor.

Whoops, almost forgot the junkie for a wife part.

He smiled and placed his beer quietly down onto the tabletop. “So start talking, Dylan. What’s on your mind?”