12
Alina
By the time we’d made it back inside the house, I was ready to open up about my problems to the one person I should have let in a long time ago. And, of course, Lucky was just as incredible as I knew deep in my heart he would be, once he got over his hurt. Not once did he judge me, belittle me, call me a failure, or tell me how disappointed he was in me. Rather, he listened, even if he did swear a lot when I told him about my experience living under Aunt Liz’s strict regime and nasty comments. At the end of it all, we cleaned the kitchen together, even sharing a laugh or two.
Of course, that night didn’t miraculously cure me, but the next day I felt lighter than I had in a long time. And, well, that lasted until it didn’t, and the cycle eventually resumed. However, I started being a lot more cautious.
But in the weeks following that night, I started to notice a change in Lucky. He was drinking a lot more, even missing a few days of work due to being hungover. He also started calling and texting me nonstop when he was out or at work, until I couldn’t stand it anymore and we had a huge blowout.
I had walked into the living room one morning, and was hit by the smell of stale beer, the sight of a toppled-over tumbler, an empty bottle of Johnnie Walker’s, and a spot of what looked like puke on the floor. I was gutted. It was the third time that week Lucky had gone to bed and left the living room looking like that. My body reacted to the scene, Her voice starting to grumble then shout loud and clear that this was all my fault. My neediness, my stupidity—my very existence—was driving the best person I knew to do this.
I remember trembling at the thought, the need to eat suddenly consuming me, the desire to punish myself for being so selfish, such a fuck-up, and the worst sister, overwhelming me. I walked into the kitchen looking for something I could control. Sure, Lucky’s always been a drinker, but never like this. Not until I fucked up, showing myself as the burden I always knew I was.
“Things need to change. We both need help,” I mutter, reaching into the fridge and pulling out a full-sized container of vanilla yogurt, a pint of strawberries, and a container of leftover mac and cheese, placing them all on the table while the kettle boiled to make my quick oats. Shuffling around the kitchen, I ate while I worked to cook and prepare more food as quietly as I could, as Her voice “cheered” me on.
Attagirl, eating will make it all better…
Too bad Lucky woke up…or maybe it was a good thing?
“What the hell is this? Jesus, Ali. Again? It’s a fucking disaster in here.”
I jump at the sound of Lucky’s voice, turning my eyes and catching his shocked ones. Looking past my food mess in the kitchen to his booze mess in the living room, I almost want to laugh at his nerve. The kitchen and living room mirror one another. Instead, my blood starts to boil.
“Are you kidding me, Luck? Did you happen to bypass the living room? At least my secret’s out. What about you? Are you going to stand here and lie to me? Tell me again that you don’t have a problem with alcohol?” I place my hand on my hip, challenging him.
Running his hand over his dark hair, his blue eyes, so much like mine, are almost pleading.
“This isn’t about me,” he shouts. “I’ve got my shit handled. This is about you, again. About this,” he says, gesturing at the kitchen.
This time I do laugh. “Oh, yeah? You’ve got it under control about as much as I do,” I bitch. “You’re just as delusional as I am if you think you’ve got this under control, Luck. See how well the denial game works? See how great I’m doing?” I say, picking up the yogurt and leftover pasta as I start to move past him out of the kitchen. His words stop me.
“Who the fuck are you to judge me? What do you do, count my drinks? I don’t have to answer to you or anybody else. I’m a grown-assed man, I work full time, pay my bills on time, and help you anyway I can,” Lucky starts to shout, “What the hell are you doing with your life, anyway? Don’t you dare judge me, Alina. Don’t you dare.” He looks at me, almost seething, and for the first time in my life, I don’t recognize my brother. He’s like a gift someone cruel has locked up in a glass box right now—unreachable—and it seems, neither of us has the key.
“Yeah? Look in there and try to tell me that you don’t have a problem. I could just as easily look around this kitchen and say the same. We’re both really fucked up, Lucky. But I can at least admit it.”
I exit the kitchen, food in hand, and head to my bedroom to make myself feel better the only way I know how.
Things didn’t change right away for either of us. For Lucky, it took a brawl at the sports bar where the police got involved, thankfully giving him a warning this time, and a disciplinary meeting at work for his growing number of absences—on top of the ongoing arguments with me at home—to finally admit he needed help.
For me, it was a few weeks later. Lucky had left for work one morning, and after purging, I found myself lying on the bathroom floor, blood trickling down my cheek from a nasty gash on my forehead. I must have fainted, and bashed my face off the toilet on the way to the floor. It was enough to make me stop and take an inventory, and ask myself how much longer was I going to try fooling myself into believing I was still in control.
Sporting a swollen black eye to match the bruising on the right side of my face, I sat Lucky down a couple of nights later. I asked him if I could see the pamphlet he’d brought me before for Sheena’s Place one more time, and—at the same time—slipped him the one I’d got for him for Therapy Heals, an inpatient centre that specializes in addictions like alcoholism.
We sat side by side on the couch of our living room for a long while, reading through our respective pamphlets and looking up the programs on our laptops. Then, together, Lucky and I made a vow to get better. Not just for each other, but also for ourselves, both agreeing how long overdue it truly was.