Page 82 of Caught in Us
“I’m glad you’re here.” The meeting leader nods. “Do you mind sharing what it is that triggered you or made you want to relapse?”
“My father, he died today.”
Murmurs of condolences fill the room.
I reach for her hand and squeeze.
She tugs it back into her lap. “But instead of being sad or upset, or thinking of how to console my mother, the only thought I had was how quickly I could sneak away and drink.” The pitch in her voice grows with the speed of her words. “I thought after four years I was past this. That maybe I made it to the next level. One where I still struggle, but not all I can think about or focus on is my next drink. I thought I was above my addiction.”
“But you came here.”
Her gaze drops to her lap. “I almost didn’t.”
“We all live on that line. We’re addicts.” The group leader makes eye contact with each person in our circle. “The disease is part of who we are. We can’t separate from it. You make a decision every day. Every hour. Sometimes every minute, to be sober. To choose freedom over shackles. It’s exhausting, but we keep fighting because we know our brain is lying when it promises relief if we take thatonedrink, thatonehit.” He waits for Alicia to lift her gaze to his. “Keep fighting.”
His words hit straight to the core. By the nods of agreement in the room, I’m not the only one who agrees. I hope it’s what Alicia needed to hear. I couldn’t have said it any better myself. I pray she keeps fighting—for us, for her sobriety, for a life full of joy.
* * *
It's notuntil we are in the truck and driving back from the meeting that we finally get a chance to talk in private. There’s so much I want to say. I really hope she’ll hear me. “Hey, I’m really proud of you.” I reach for her hand, and take it as a good sign that she doesn’t pull away. “You never told me your mom’s an alcoholic.”
“Yeah, well,” She glances out the window. “It’s not something I share.”
I think back to our summer in Kitty Hawk and all the conversations we shared. I wonder why she never brought it up then. Was I the one constantly unloading my burdens on her? That wasn’t fair. I was so early in my recovery, and maybe I leaned on Alicia too much. Maybe that pushed her away?
I’ve spent all this time thinking it was all my fault she left, that she wouldn’t give me another chance. But now I see there was more to it all. Her mom was a toxic presence in Alicia’s recovery. Alicia lived her entire life with an addict. No wonder she was hesitant to pursue anything more with me. I can only imagine the kind of fears her childhood fostered. I should’ve fought harder. Proved myself first.
Or maybe we both needed time to heal. Maybe we’re exactly where we are meant to be. I pull to the side of the road and put my truck in park before turning in my seat to face her. “You aren’t your mother. You know that?”
“Chase.” She sighs. “It’s late.”
“Alicia,” I say, this time more sternly.
“What?”
“You aren’t your mother.”
She shakes her head as if she can’t or won’t hear it.
I squeeze her hand. “You. Are. Not. Your. Mother.”
“But what if I am?” Her face crumples with distress. “What if I got the worst parts of both my parents? I don’t know what happened today, but Chase, it’s like I became someone I didn’t recognize. Someone I was scared of. Have I been fooling myself this entire time? I thought I was getting better. But it’s like that sick part of me was lying dormant, festering and waiting for one tiny slip up.”
“It’s okay.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “What if instead of asking you to take me to a meeting, I asked for a drink? What if I dragged you down with me?”
“But you didn’t.”
“I could never forgive myself.”
I hate that she feels shame. That the weight of my sobriety rests on her shoulders with her own.
Her gaze drops to where my hand still holds hers. “We should probably get home.”
She’s probably right. I don’t know how long Matthew naps, but she must be dying to get back to him. Reluctantly, I pull the truck back on the road. Alicia sends a few texts and I focus on getting us home safely. A few minutes later, we pull into the drive.
Her shoulders stiffen as she jumps down from the truck and faces the house. Her feet drag up the front steps, almost as if she doesn’t want to go inside. I walk behind, resting my hand at the small of her back, hoping my touch offers strength.
