Page 105 of The Lies I Told
“Marisa, I sense you’d like to share,” Mark said.
I dug from my pocket the one-year chip that he’d placed in my hand last month. I cleared my throat. “I had a bad night. Drank three bottles of wine.”
I forced myself to look around the room and meet the gazes of everyone. Refusing to cower, I saw some disappointment, sadness, but mostly understanding.
“Was there a trigger?” Mark asked.
“Family stuff,” I said. “I should’ve seen it coming a mile away.”
“And the next time?”
I couldn’t promise there wasn’t going to be another Brit land mine. “I’ll call my sponsor.”
“I thought you didn’t have one,” Mark said.
He was right. I’d refused the help. “I’ll get one.”
Mark nodded. “Keep the chip. We’ll celebrate next year with it.”
“I’d rather you take it. I’m starting over, and next year I’ll want a new one. Eyes forward, right?” I intentionally used one of Brit’s bullshit sayings to remind myself that she could set all the traps she wanted, but I could maneuver around them.
I laid the chip in Mark’s palm. Releasing this stupid piece of plastic was sad, but with it went the guilt weighing me down since this morning.
“Keep up the good work,” he said.
“Good work?”
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
“Right. I’m here and still standing.”
When I stepped out of the meeting room, Mark followed. “I’m proud of you.”
“Mine is an old story.”
“But no less poignant.” He handed me a folded slip of paper with a phone number on it. “I know you don’t want a sponsor, but you should have backup. If you have a bad patch, call me, okay? Friend to friend.”
I creased the paper with my fingers and then hugged him. “Sure. Fair enough.”
Walking down the church’s concrete stairs, I looked up at the night sky. Clear, it was made bright by stars and a full moon. Tonight was no different from last night or the night before. I still remained a drink away from oblivion, which likely explained the uneasiness churning in my belly.
I searched the darkness, half expecting to see someone lurking, watching me. But the shadowed alleys were still and quiet. I shook off the feeling, chalking it up to withdrawal from the booze.
Twenty minutes later, I’d swung by three different drugstores until I found the right batteries. At home, I dropped my purse by the front door, clicked on the lights, and sat on the couch, more exhausted than most days.
As moonlight streamed through my window, I opened the camera’s battery compartment and dumped the old two out. The connection points were a little corroded, so I spent another few minutes cleaning them. New batteries loaded, I sealed the case. Crossing my fingers, I pressed the power button, praying it still worked. After a moment’s hesitation, the white power light turned on and the screen sparked to life.
Holding my breath, I looked at the last picture Clare had taken. It was of me, sitting on my bed in our room. My long red hair hung around my face, which was still youthful enough to hide the drinking. I’d never noticed her taking the picture. Five minutes later I left the house and never saw her again.
My throat tightened and tears welled in my eyes. I wondered if there was any wine left in the bottles stowed in my trash can. Shit. This was why I’d gone to the meeting.
The next two images took me back in time an hour to the version of Brit I remembered best. She was smiling, dressed in her blue silk robe, and her clean, softly rolled hair was piled on top of her head. She was wearing makeup. She looked as if she felt fine and was still in New Year’s party mode. Sometime between those moments and two hours later, she’d become too sick to leave the house.
The next few images were candids of the family. Dad off to the side. The Stockton girls sitting by the half-decorated Christmas tree. (It had been my job to finish it.) There was random garland and holly in the background, and the date stamps—December 26, 25, 24—slipped back in time with the images. There was a picture of Dad, his girlfriendSandra, and her daughter, Tamara. Tamara’s arm was still in a sling from a fall down the stairs, and she was frowning as she talked to Dad and Sandra. That kid was always either talking, complaining, or flirting with Kurt. But she’d done us all a favor when she’d broken that arm and delayed the wedding.
I kept pressing buttons until I hit the first of December and then worked my way back in time. There were a few of me, but I was always looking off to the side. Clare could be quick with the camera, and a distracted person could miss the softclick.
There were two images of Kurt. In one, he was wearing his football jacket. He’d been more muscular, leaner in those days. His hair was short, and his face bore the same grim expression his teammates shared. Reminded me of children mimicking adults who really understood the world. Next there was a shot of Jack and Brit, standing arm in arm, smiling.
