I WAS SITTING IN the back corner of the restaurant, staring down at the papers in front of me, when the waitress dropped off my glass of water. The words blurred as my thoughts wandered for the third time. I wasn’t sure what to expect from this meeting, and it was causing me to lose focus. Those nerves were the only reason I didn’t order a cup of coffee like I normally would.
My eyes strayed to the window. The trademark Arizona sun was nowhere to be seen in the overcast January sky. Couples huddled closer as the wind picked up. Looking away from the intimate scenes, I glanced down at the top page for a fourth time.
“Officer Mable?”
I looked up and found an unfamiliar man standing next to the table. He was tall and fit, with sandy blond hair that probably touched his shoulders when it wasn’t in a bun like it was now. Both of his arms were covered in tattoos, one filled with color while the other only had pictures in black ink. His all-black attire and laced boots confirmed my suspicion. This was the bouncer my younger brother, Steve, wanted me to meet with. Damien.
If I was someone else I might be intimidated. But I wasn’t. It took a lot to unsettle me. I stood up and held out my hand. “Please, call me Grayson.”
He gave me a nod and placed his hand in mine. “Damien.”
“Good to meet you.”
“Same,” he said as we sat down. Damien grabbed a menu while I pulled out a pen and my pocket notebook, setting them both on the table. The notebook was crooked, so I slowly adjusted it until it was straight and in line with my pen.
“You’re not eating?” he asked.
Glancing up, I said, “I already ordered. Steve didn’t have any details and you were quite cryptic over the phone, so I need to ask. There’s nothing illegal going on here, correct?” My stare was hard on his.
“No, she’s sober.”
My eyebrows rose and Damien quickly forgot about his menu. “She?” I asked.
“My sister, Eleanor.” The torment swimming in his eyes was one I was familiar with. He looked helpless and unsure, something I’d bet he didn’t feel often. Something he probably hated.
I knew I hated it.
Refocusing, I nodded and flipped open my notebook. “How old is she?”
“Twenty.”
“And you said she’s sober?” He nodded and I followed up with, “For how long?”
Grabbing the back of his neck, he shifted in his seat. “I don’t know an exact date, but about two weeks.”
“I see.” I paused, my eyes shifting between my notes and him.
Steve had known next to nothing about the kind of trouble Damien was in. And since I’d become distant with my family, Steve was so excited to have me on the phone that he spent most of the time asking me about my life and what I was up to. I saw them several times a year, as much as it took to not completely cut myself off or have them be angry. But we weren’t as close as we’d once been.
Shaking my head, I looked back at Damien. Today wasn’t about my problems.
“What is it you think I can do for you? Or her? I’m just a street officer.”
“I know. But I also know you want to work in narcotics, and alcohol and drugs typically—”
“Go hand-in-hand,” I finished.
“Yeah. And I just think having you in my corner might help.” Damien stopped and covered his mouth. After a few seconds his hand fell away and he added, “She’s pregnant.”
“Is this the reason she wants to get sober?”
“Yes. I mean she’s always wanted it, she’s tried before. But this time she’s serious, she… she wants to be a good mother.” Damien’s voice cracked on the last word.
“It certainly is a good incentive, but her commitment to staying sober is probably higher right now because of the news. It’ll wear off. Addicts—”
“She’s my sister,” he snapped, cutting me off. “She’s not just an addict. You can’t lump her in with the people you’ve dealt with.”
I winced. It wasn’t fair of me. But Damien also needed to understand the severity of the situation. I rested my hands on top of my notebook and said, “I meant no offense. But you came to me for a reason. Because on some level, all alcoholics are struggling. I’m not saying this as an insult, just a fact. Addiction is difficult to deal with, and pretending that Eleanor is separate from other addicts will not help her. Yes, I know she’s probably not violent or engaging in illegal activities. But there are levels of addiction and we don’t know where she is at this point. So I need you to try and be as objective as possible. And I will try to be as subjective as possible. Deal?”
He hesitated, his fingers impatiently tapping on the table. After a few seconds he nodded.
“Good.” I picked up my pen and fixed my notebook. “Now, who’s her support system? The father? Her parents?”
Damien regretfully shook his head. “The father was just an indiscretion, and our parents aren’t in the picture either. It’s just me.”
I paused with my pen suspended above the paper. “Only you?”
“I’m trying to get her into a program as well.”
“Good. She’ll need other people. But I still don’t understand how you think I can help.”
He sighed and ran a hand over his head. “I don’t really know either. I just couldn’t sit around and continue to do nothing. Having your number seemed like a practical idea. Like I said, I feel like you’re someone I should have in my corner. Steve was always talking about how dedicated you are to your job and to helping people.”
I nodded, trying to keep my demons—all the people I didn’t help—at bay. I’d slowly learned that the best way to help people was to stay detached. The second feelings got involved, a person lost sight.
“I am,” I finally answered.
“Well, she needs help. More help than I can give,” he admitted, and I could tell it took a lot for him to say those words. “She needs all the help she can get.”
Without giving it any more thought, I nodded. What else could I do? Even though there wasn’t a plan or an immediate job for me, I’d be there for him—and Eleanor—if needed. I didn’t need more convincing. His desperation reminded me too much of my own. I hadn’t been enough, but maybe with my help, Damien could be.
As lunch continued, I gave him some numbers I had on hand and a few names of potential sponsors.
I wasn’t sure what would come of all this; I only knew I had to help.
It’d been almost two months since I’d met Damien. We’d had a few conversations between then and now, but nothing concrete seemed to come of them.
I felt like it was time I met Ellie. Maybe that would help me see what my role in her rehabilitation was going to be. Damien had never mentioned it and I wasn’t sure if that was deliberate, but I wanted to meet the woman I was giving him advice on. It was on my drive home from work that I made the decision to go to his apartment.
Glancing at the dashboard, I saw it was a little past eight o’clock. I already knew he was working for most of the day tomorrow, and thankfully I had the day off, so I planned to go to their apartment in the afternoon.
I pulled into my driveway and put the car in park. When I opened the door and saw I was a bit crooked, I softly shut it and shifted into reverse, straightening the car out. Once I was satisfied, I stepped out of my vehicle, my eyes tracking any movement on my street, looking for signs of trouble out of habit.
All other thoughts fled when my gaze landed on the lone box sitting on my welcome mat. I immediately stopped at the end of my walkway. I knew what it was; it was the same thing I found in front of my door every year on this day: March 6. For some reason it always surprised me.
Moving forward, I kept my eyes on it, as if I could make it disappear, as if I could will away the love behind it. It would never happen. My family—all eight of them—were hell-bent on staying in my life, even though I didn’t make it easy.
Bending down, I picked it up and fished my key out of my pocket. A few moments later I had the door shut and locked and my coat hanging in the front closet.
After I put my wallet and keys in their respective cubbies by the front door, I walked into the kitchen and set the box down in the middle of the clean counter, where a single placemat sat. I had four barstools and a kitchen table that sat six, yet I always ate in the same place. And I always ate alone.
It wasn’t for lack of effort by other people—the box waiting for me proved as much.
I surveyed the area, pleased with how immaculate everything appeared. No dishes were left in the sink, nor were any drying on the counter. The chairs were all neatly pushed in and the floor was so clean a person could eat off it.
When I walked down the hall and into my bedroom, it looked the same way. Nothing was out of place. My dirty clothes were all in the hamper, my dresser was clear of junk, and the bed was neatly made. I quickly shuffled out of my uniform and put everything in its rightful place before changing into a soft T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. Then I walked into the bathroom—also decluttered and clean—and took out my contacts before slipping on my black-framed glasses.
My bare feet padded through my bedroom, down the hall, and back into the kitchen. I removed a small white plate from the cabinet above the stove and brought it to the counter. My fingers made quick work of removing the blue wrapping paper and neatly folding it. Opening the trash can with my foot, I dropped the paper inside. The nondescript white box had a post-it note attached to it. There was only a single word on it.
Still.
Emotion rose within me like it always did, but I forced it back down. I had to. After placing the note in a drawer next to the refrigerator, I came back and opened the box. Inside sat a single cupcake. Red velvet with cream cheese frosting. My favorite. I carefully lifted it out and put it on the plate. Then I untaped the lonely candle affixed in the corner of the box.
I wasn’t sure why she always included one. Maybe she thought I had thrown the others out. I hadn’t. This candle would join the others once I was done. It took me a few minutes of debating before I finally stuck it through the frosting, making sure it was dead center.
My feet carried me across the kitchen, where I dimmed the lights and retrieved a pack of matches. With one quick and decisive flick of my wrist, a bright flame danced in front of me. I stared for a few seconds, watching it slowly eat the wood. Before it could reach my fingers, I held it over the candle and watched the fire catch. Then I turned away to blow out the match.
I quickly cleaned everything up and sat in my usual spot, bringing the plated cupcake with me. Placing it in the center of the mat, I closed my eyes for a brief second—out of habit, not because I’d made a wish—and then blew out the candle, saying goodbye to twenty-four and welcoming twenty-five.
As I watched the plume of smoke drift into the air, I whispered to the empty room, “Happy birthday.”
Change.
“The secret of change is to focus all of your energy, not on fighting the old, but on building the new.”
—Socrates
My eyes were glued to the words. I’d stared at them for so long I knew every curve of every letter. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a bright blue butterfly. The image was vivid and large. That was the reason I was drawn to this poster more than any of the others. It sucked you in with its beauty, and then, once you’d read the words, settled you with its truth.
There were plenty more. Teamwork. Excellence. Attitude. Focus. Possibilities. I could go on for days. Joy loved her motivational posters. But, like a magnet, the blue butterfly kept pulling my gaze back.
It was the first time I’d seen it.
“Is this new?” I asked. I was still staring at it. The only indicator Joy had reentered the room was the jangling of her bracelets that covered half her forearm. I’d yet to see her without them.
It was fitting how her jewelry acted as a signal of her arrival; she was the type of beautiful you’d expect to be announced. She constantly looked like a bronzed goddess, courtesy of her love of the outdoors, and her long black hair fell in messy waves down her back. Joy was the girl to literally have flowers in her hair.
Her no makeup and flowy skirt style was similar to my own. My preferred clothing of choice was always thigh-high socks and an oversized T-shirt, but I couldn’t exactly go out of the apartment that way, so when I did I made myself comfortable by wearing long, loose-fitting skirts and tank tops.
Joy’s carefree nature was part of what drew me to her when I was looking for a sponsor. She was twenty-seven and had been sober for over seven years. She was also one of the most laid-back people I’d ever met. It was hard to believe she’d ever struggled with addiction.
I admired Joy because I saw myself in her. I saw parts of who I was and parts of who I wanted to be, and if she could make the change, why couldn’t I?
“It is.” I could hear the smile in her voice as she confirmed it was a new addition. “I saw it at the market the other day and I knew I had to have it.” She stepped up beside me and wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “It’s awesome, right?”
Nodding, I rested my hands on my slightly distended belly and took a deep breath through the pain. I was only four months along and my lower back was already aching.
My eyes filled with tears as I imagined holding him for the first time. This baby may not have been created out of love—rather an alcohol-induced one-night stand with a guy I couldn’t even remember—but he would be loved. I already loved him more than I could describe.
I turned my head toward Joy, cringing at the sight of her worried expression. It wasn’t unfounded, though—everyone had a right to be concerned. After struggling with an alcohol addiction for nearly six years, finding out I was pregnant was a shock to everyone.
I could still remember standing in the bathroom, one hand covering my mouth while the other ghosted over my flat stomach looking for any signs of a change. I’d stumbled back into the wall. The gravity of the situation overwhelmed me.
Damien had gently tried to bring up adoption, but I wouldn’t consider it. There was nothing wrong with adoption. I knew there were plenty of couples in this world who weren’t able to have a child. I also knew sometimes the greater sacrifice was to let your baby go. The only brave thing you could do as a parent was what was best for your child, even if it wasn’t what was best for you, even if it broke your heart in two.
But despite all the negatives, I truly believed my baby would be better off with me. I didn’t believe I’d never make a mistake, and I couldn’t guarantee I’d always be able to buy him anything and everything he ever wanted. Regardless of all that, I could absolutely promise to love him with all my heart, and more than anyone else ever would.
I told Damien all this and being the awesome brother he was, he agreed to help me in any way he could.
He must have seen how determined I was to change. To forget the people from my past who made me feel worthless and focus on the current people in my life who made me feel irreplaceable.
It wouldn’t happen overnight, but little signs, like this motivational poster, made me feel like I could do it.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Joy asked, pushing one of my long blonde strands of hair behind my ear.
She gave me all her attention when we were together. Joy had been my sponsor for less than two months and she already felt invaluable. I’d tried to get sober before, ever since I started drinking at the tender age of fourteen. None of my attempts ever stuck. It was probably because I’d always gone at it alone; I never attended AA or sought out someone like Joy.
Once I got pregnant I knew that had to change. I grabbed at any resource available, no matter how anxious it made me. This wasn’t just about me anymore. Heck, it wasn’t even mostly about me. It was about my child.
Turning toward Joy, I finally answered her, “Yeah. I’m just thinking.”
She eyed the poster thoughtfully. Then she walked over to her dark purple couch and took a seat. “You know, any woman would be scared at this time in her life. Having a baby is a huge deal.”
Nodding, I joined her. “I know. I just feel extra nervous…”
“Why?” she asked as she handed me a cup of tea.
“I feel unsettled. Like there’s something more I should be doing.” I looked from my cup to her. “Does that make any sense?”
“Yes.” Joy’s hand covered mine and she squeezed. “You’re ready to change. To move forward, but you’re still in this in-between place while you wait for the baby to be born. All you can do is take it one day at a time.”
My eyes moved back to the quote.
Don’t fight the old, build the new.
I wanted to fight. God, did I want to. But what if fighting was out of your control? What if the old kept grasping for you, clawing at you, desperate to get you back in its clutches?
That was what being a recovering alcoholic felt like.
Every day was a victory, but it was also another struggle. And yet…
“I’m trying, little guy.” I looked down at my stomach. “I’m trying.”
I spent the morning after I hung out with Joy watching TV, feeling completely useless. I hated the fact that Damien worked two jobs while I held none. Even before I was pregnant I never had one.
He said he didn’t mind, and I didn’t think he was lying. He didn’t necessarily love being a bouncer, but I knew he liked his coworkers a lot so that made up for it in his mind. Besides, he only worked there three nights a week. His main job was as a tattoo artist at Inked 101, a popular tattoo shop right on the edge of Carillo University’s campus, where he worked six days a week. Even though he’d had both jobs for almost a year, ever since the club opened, he had never worked this much. Only when he found out I was pregnant did he request more hours. His plan was to work a bunch now and save up, and then cut back once the baby arrived.
Sometimes I wondered how I got so lucky with him. He’d had every reason to walk away from me. I was the reason we’d both left the house and were cut off from our parents. Damien always had a decent relationship with them, but when I was fifteen and he was seventeen, he took me away from what he thought was a toxic environment for me. They’d just discovered my drinking problem. I’d spent my entire life wishing they’d pay attention, hoping they’d come to love and care about me. Once they finally noticed, I almost wished they hadn’t.
Since Damien was on the verge of failing out of high school and I was already such a wreck, he saw no reason for us to stay. Now, faced with raising a baby, I was nervous about how I was going to provide for my child as a high school dropout and recovering alcoholic.
I walked down the hall toward the bedrooms—the apartment only had two, one for each of us—and I stood in the doorway of my room. My hands were resting on my stomach as I looked around. There was a full bed on one side and an empty corner across from it where I was planning on putting the crib. The few baby things we’d gotten were in a chest next to the vacant space. It wasn’t perfect, but I was grateful all the same.
Damien was going to have to pay for most of it. I wasn’t too proud to accept help, especially for my child, but after years of making Damien’s life difficult I wanted to be able to give him something.
He didn’t want me worrying about that right now, though. My focus needed to be on the baby and staying healthy. But no matter what, I’d vowed to explore my options after the birth.
Feeling a little bit better, I moved into the kitchen to grab a popsicle—a craving that had nothing to do with my pregnancy. My eyes moved to the clock above the stove. It was almost one o’clock. Damien wouldn’t be back from the tattoo parlor for another few hours.
I’d just stuck the frozen treat in my mouth when two firm knocks echoed throughout the apartment. I moved toward the door with a frown. The only possibility I could think of was his new girlfriend, Naomi. They’d met a couple months ago and she’d quickly wormed her way into my brother’s heart.
My feet slowed and I yelled through the door, “Who is it?”
“Officer Mable.”
I froze, my back straightening and my palms sweating. What the hell would the police be doing here? Shaking off my nerves, I slowly opened the door.
“Hello?”
My heart was in my throat, running over dozens of scenarios of things I could have done wrong. The friends I’d had while drinking weren’t exactly valedictorians and honor students. Most of them were high school dropouts aiming to make a living through illegal activities. And since I’d started drinking so young, I had committed a crime every time I took a sip of alcohol. But those days were in my past. That wasn’t my life anymore.
A thought suddenly struck me.
“Oh God. Is it my brother? Did something happen to Damien? Is he—?”
“No, no. Nothing’s happened. Damien is fine. I’m actually a friend of his. Clearly he’s not home, but do you know when he’ll be back?”
Officer Mable peered around me into the living room, where a bag of Cheetos was abandoned on the coffee table from when I was watching TV this morning.
My eyes ran over him. Nothing about him was out-of-this-world; individually everything was average. He had brunette hair, the sides cut close to his head while the top was full and thick, the kind that was perfect for burying your fingers in. There was also a slight amount of stubble on his cheeks, little enough that he still looked presentable. And his dark brown eyes were framed by thin black lashes—the only reason I’d noticed was because Naomi had recently railed against how unfair it was that some men had better eyelashes than her.
Despite his “average” characteristics, the combination of them made me squirm. Not to mention, there was nothing average about his build. I suppose, as a police officer, he needed to be fit, and a quick glance proved that to be sure.
I was awkward on my best day, but around an attractive guy like this, I’d be lucky if I made it through the conversation without embarrassing myself.
Multiple thoughts hit me at once.
When did Damien become friends with this guy?
Who was this guy?
Why—?
“Do you know when your brother will be back?” he asked again. I looked back up at him, unable to decipher the expression on his face. It was somewhere between curious and distrustful. I wondered if Damien had told him about my past… no, he wouldn’t betray my confidence that way. He knew how embarrassed I was by it; he wouldn’t tell some stranger whom I’d never even heard of before.
That relaxed me.
“Uh, no. I don’t. Not an exact time.” I shifted on my feet and felt something cold hit my hand. Glancing down, I realized my orange popsicle was melting. Without thinking, I ran my tongue over the spot on my finger and then licked the popsicle. Only when my eyes met Officer Mable did I realize what I’d done.
My face flamed as I quickly took the popsicle out of my mouth. “Sorry,” I whispered.
“It’s okay.” He cleared his throat, looking as unsure as I felt. “I apologize for stopping by. I should have called before coming over.”
“That’s okay,” I rushed out. “Do you, uh, do you wanna come in?”
His eyes raked over me and I wondered what he saw.
Too thin.
Stupid.
Useless.
Careless.
Lazy.
I squeezed my eyes shut as my mother’s voice floated unbidden through my mind.
“Actually, I have to get going.”
“Oh, okay,” I said. He moved to turn around without another word when I stopped him. “Hey.”
“Yes?”
“What’s your name?”
The officer hesitated for only a moment. “Grayson.”
I was holding the popsicle with my dominant hand, so I simply lifted my left hand and gave him a small wave. “I’m Ellie.” I tried to hold back a cringe. I probably looked like a child to him.
My worries disappeared because Grayson didn’t seem to care one way or another—after a quick nod, he pivoted away from me and practically ran down the stairs.
My frown deepened as I shut the door.
Maybe he was being kind by not reacting to my weirdness, but honestly I would have preferred some kind of acknowledgement.
But no. Just like with everyone else, I was a mere passing thought to him. He wouldn’t remember me. No one ever did.