Watch over Me
Page 3
I didn't even hesitate before offering her a job at the bakery. Meg makes me smile and she doesn't try to pry into my life. Aside from the day she told me she lost her job, neither one of us has shared anything more personal with each other. Out of necessity, I had to tell her my father was "occupied elsewhere" since technically he still owns the business. She doesn't know that this is his fifth time in rehab or the cause for his spiral out of control. She doesn't know that I planned on graduating from high school, fully intent on going to college to become a writer, and I hate my father a little more each day for forcing me to take on the responsibilities that should have been his instead of doing something about my own dreams and aspirations. Meg knows enough to not ask questions. It's the reason why we get along so well.
Weekdays after school lets out are always busy days at Snow's. The best part about the shop is that it's enjoyed by young and old alike. A group of high school students can be seen sharing a table with a married couple from the retirement home around the corner. A mother and her newborn baby often chat and receive advice from a couple whose son just went off to college. Today is a teacher in-service day at the high school and it seems like the entire four grade levels of students and teachers have been shuffling in and out of the shop since we opened at seven o'clock this morning.
Since I was a freshman in high school when my mother opened the store, I had made the place a teenage hangout from day one. My friends thought it was the best thing in the world that my mom would give us free snacks after school every day and let us pretend we were cool by allowing us a cup of coffee to sip on in the mornings. My mom was always known as the "cool" parent with all my friends, even before she owned the bakery and the lure of chocolate and cake seduced every teenager within a mile radius. My mom was the type of parent who would let me have parties every weekend after the Friday night football games and allowed my friends to drink a few beers as long as they gave her their car keys and spent the night on the living room floor. My mom was the one who never gave me a curfew and, instead, trusted me to make the right decisions and call her if I was ever in trouble. My friends all envied me, but I never fully appreciated how awesome she was until I got older.
"Hey, who's the hottie that keeps checking you out?" Meg asks as she comes back out of the kitchen with a tray of cupcakes.
I hand a customer her change and nonchalantly glance over to the corner of the shop where Meg is looking. My eyes connect with the most piercing blue eyes I've ever seen, and a tingle runs down my spine. His eyes never leave mine—not to check out the rest of me like most guys do, nor to look anywhere else around the room even though chaos surrounds him. I watch his eyes soften and the corner of his mouth start to turn up into a smile. I feel butterflies in my stomach that I haven't felt in forever and quickly break the eye contact when I see that he has no intention of doing so. His blatant staring makes me uncomfortable, like he's trying to see inside me and find out what makes me tick. I don't need anyone knowing that much about me, especially a stranger.
"I have no idea. Never seen him before," I tell her, the lie slipping easily off my tongue. He's a stranger, that much is true, but I've seen him before. I've seen him sit at the same table in the corner of the room once a week for the past few months. I've heard the deep melodic notes of his voice when he orders a chocolate scone and black coffee— two sugars—each and every time he's here. I don't know how I remember what his order is. We have hundreds of customers and it's not like I remember all of their orders. The first day he came into the shop, I felt a jolt of recognition when he came up to the counter, a sense of déjà vu, like I had seen this guy before in another time. I waited for him to say something about knowing me from somewhere as I rang up his order, but he never did. He thanked me with a nod of his head and a smile, never saying more to me than what his order was each week.
"Well, whoever he is, he's yummy. And I've caught him checking you out the entire hour he's been here nursing that coffee," Meg says as she pushes the tray of cupcakes into the display case under the front counter.
"He can look all he wants as long as he keeps his distance."
Meg turns to face me and places her hands on either side of my face. "How do you expect to get laid if you make everyone keep their distance?" she asks with mock seriousness.
"Um, maybe by not expecting to get laid. I barely have time to shave my legs or take a shower anymore. I'm not in the market for a guy."
The store phone rings, saving me from having yet another discussion with Meg on why I don't have a boyfriend.
Even if I did want someone in my life just to scratch an itch, they would always want more. More information, more history, more answers to questions I wouldn't give— more of me that I stopped giving away a year and a half ago.
Meg answers the phone and immediately hands the receiver out to me. "It's your dad."
The tone in her voice is sympathetic. My dad always seems to call when she's around, and she's gotten her fill of the one-sided conversations, enough to know that my father and I aren't on the best terms.
"Hey, hon," my dad greets happily when I take the phone. "How are things?"
"Busy," I state curtly.
"Any big party orders coming up this week?" he asks, attempting to make conversation.
"Nope."
I can tell my one-word answers frustrate him by the huge sigh he lets out on his end of the line. He spends day in and day out learning how to communicate with his loved ones and how to live a healthy life. He expects me to jump right on board with him and pour out my heart, but I've done that before and got nothing in return. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice…
"Yeah, I'm busy here too. Just got out of group session. I've got some homework to do tonight. Need to make a list of all the people I've wronged while I was using. I think I'll probably need more than one night," he says with a laugh.
I don't return his amusement.
I'm not a cruel person. I was one-hundred-percent supportive of my father the first time he went into rehab. He would call several times a day, whenever he had a free minute, and I encouraged him and asked questions and supported his sobriety every way I could. I was proud of him for making the decision that he needed help and for being the one to make that difficult phone call asking for it. I believed every single word that came out of his mouth during those thirty days. I believed he was sorry, that he loved me, that he knew he screwed up, and that he would do everything in his power to remain sober and be a solid support system for me. I visited him every single Saturday during Family Day, the one day a week when they were allowed visitors, and I participated in every "Smack Down Sunday" where loved ones got to tell their addict just how hurt they were by their actions. After his third, failed stint in rehab, my support went out the window with his sobriety.
I learned a very valuable lesson at that point in time and it is this: how can you tell if an addict is lying? He opens his mouth.
"So, I was wondering if you were planning on coming up to Family Day this weekend. I need to let my counselor know so she can get you a visitor's pass."
I walk away as far as the cord will allow so Meg and the customers can't hear me.
"I wasn't planning on it. I've got a lot going on here right now," I tell him, turning my back to the customers and resting my forehead against the wall.
"Well, I really want to see you," he replies earnestly.
"Yeah, I get that. But I just don't have the time. I'm sorry."
He sighs into the phone again, and I know I've made him angry.
"Seriously, Addison. You haven't been to one single Family Day since I've been here. I'm the only one in my group who never gets any visitors," he complains.
I feel the anger bubbling up inside me, and it takes everything in me not to scream into the phone.
"Dad, it's an hour and a half drive one way. Weekends are the busiest times at the shop. I can't be away that long. You know that."
"You know what? Forget it. Forget I even asked. I'll talk to you later."
The dial tone sounds in my ear before I can even reply. I roll my eyes and walk back to hang up the phone.
My dad is like Jekyll and Hyde. For the most part, when he's clean and sober he reminds me of the man he used to be when my mother was alive—easy going, funny, always helping people out, and hard working. When he's drinking, he turns into a cruel person who lashes out with hateful words and spiteful accusations. Even with all of the therapy he's received, it still hasn't sunk in that all of those words have left their mark on me. Each one sliced into me and took a chunk out of my heart. It's easy to forgive someone for the hurt they've caused you. Forgetting is impossible.
"What the hell do you want from me?" my dad yelled.
The smell of whiskey leaking from his pores nauseated me. It was the Fourth of July and I made an appearance at a family cookout even though my heart wasn't in it. He'd been out of rehab for two weeks. Fourteen days was as long as he lasted this time. It was a new record. Last time it was nine.
As far as I knew, he wasn't coming today. One of the biggest drinking and partying days of the year, next to New Year's Eve, probably wasn't the best idea for a recovering alcoholic, but he showed up anyway. He pulled into the driveway, and as soon as he got out of the car I knew. I could tell by the way he walked, the way he held himself, and the way he spoke loudly to everyone around him. I tried to avoid him. I knew if I got within two feet of him, we'd exchange words and they wouldn't be pleasant ones. When he was drunk, I didn't have any patience for him and he hated everything about me.
Even though I knew I would regret it, he asked to speak with me privately. I relented, walking over to the side of the house where he waited for me. It only took five minutes of him pleading with me about what he could do to make things better between us before the talk turned ugly.
"How about staying sober for once. That would be a good start. I'm sick and tired of taking care of everything."
He scoffed and rolled his eyes at me. "Oh poor you. For once in your pampered life you actually have to lift a finger and get off of your lazy ass."
His words cut into me like a knife and choked the breath from my lungs. I should be used to the sting of them by now, but I wasn't. I should have learned that there was no use in arguing with a drunk, but I hadn't. I turned and walked away from him, knowing that separating myself from him was the only option at this point. Nothing I said to him would break through the haze of alcohol that had taken hold of his brain and his ability to think clearly.
"Oh that's right. Walk away. It's what you do best. You are such a bitch!"
Meg bumps her shoulder into mine and pulls my thoughts away from the past.
"Hey, that guy that was checking you out left you a note," Meg tells me with a huge smile on her face as I turn around and shut off my switch. She hands me a folded up napkin as I glance to the back corner table that is now empty. I open it and in neat, block letters are the words:
I laugh uncomfortably and push the note back at her. "I doubt that's for me. I'm sure he meant you."
Meg glances at the words and then rolls her eyes. She thrusts the note back at me. "Oh please! He didn't even give me a second glance. He only had eyes for you. That guy is the sweetest ever. And you really are beautiful when you smile."
She bats her eyelashes at me, and I lightly smack her in the arm before she makes a big deal about something that clearly isn't. Meg walks away laughing, and I shake my head at her back. I crumple up the napkin, shove it into my pocket, and get back to work, trying to forget about the cute guy in the corner and why in the world he would ever leave me a note.
I finally get home from work at ten o'clock that evening, take a quick shower to wash the cake batter off of my skin, and sit down at the desk in my room. I power up my computer and open Facebook, automatically going to her page. I start a new private message to her, just like I do every single night before I go to bed. I know I should have deleted her profile ages ago, but I could never bring myself to do it. Obviously nothing about what I do is healthy, but I don't care. Every time I would hover my mouse over the settings of her page to delete it, my chest would tighten and I would struggle to breathe. Deleting it seems wrong. It would be like deleting her from my life. As much as I hate to think about her, I'm not ready to do that yet. Taking a deep breath and pushing past the pain, I type my post.
Dear Mom,
I miss you. I wish you were here.
I miss you more today than yesterday,
but not half as much as tomorrow.
Love,
Addison
Chapter Three
"Why do you hate going to the meetings so much, Addison?" Dr. Thompson asks as I settle in on the couch and notice a cup of coffee from Panera sitting on her side table. I close my eyes for a moment and pretend like I'm speaking to my mother while she sips her favorite coffee.
"I just think they're pointless. It's not like I'm getting anything out of them."
She cocks her head and smiles at me.
"And yet you keep going back. You keep going back to the same place, week after week, with the same people. I know it's hard for you to go back to that hospital, the place you spent so much time while your mother was sick, but you still do it. Why do you think that is?"
She sits there patiently, waiting for me to answer her, but I don't have an answer. I honestly don't know why I continue to go back.
"Even though you won't admit it, I think going to these meetings gives you comfort. It makes you feel a little more normal because you know you aren't the only one struggling with someone who has an addiction. You aren't as alone as you think you are, Addison. Around every corner is a possibility: a possibility of hope, of friendship, of support. This week, try and put yourself out there. Tell them your name, open up to them, give them something. Show them who you are and don't be afraid. No one can help you, no one WILL help you, if you won't let them. For God's sakes, let them help you so I can stop giving you these boring lectures."
Weekdays after school lets out are always busy days at Snow's. The best part about the shop is that it's enjoyed by young and old alike. A group of high school students can be seen sharing a table with a married couple from the retirement home around the corner. A mother and her newborn baby often chat and receive advice from a couple whose son just went off to college. Today is a teacher in-service day at the high school and it seems like the entire four grade levels of students and teachers have been shuffling in and out of the shop since we opened at seven o'clock this morning.
Since I was a freshman in high school when my mother opened the store, I had made the place a teenage hangout from day one. My friends thought it was the best thing in the world that my mom would give us free snacks after school every day and let us pretend we were cool by allowing us a cup of coffee to sip on in the mornings. My mom was always known as the "cool" parent with all my friends, even before she owned the bakery and the lure of chocolate and cake seduced every teenager within a mile radius. My mom was the type of parent who would let me have parties every weekend after the Friday night football games and allowed my friends to drink a few beers as long as they gave her their car keys and spent the night on the living room floor. My mom was the one who never gave me a curfew and, instead, trusted me to make the right decisions and call her if I was ever in trouble. My friends all envied me, but I never fully appreciated how awesome she was until I got older.
"Hey, who's the hottie that keeps checking you out?" Meg asks as she comes back out of the kitchen with a tray of cupcakes.
I hand a customer her change and nonchalantly glance over to the corner of the shop where Meg is looking. My eyes connect with the most piercing blue eyes I've ever seen, and a tingle runs down my spine. His eyes never leave mine—not to check out the rest of me like most guys do, nor to look anywhere else around the room even though chaos surrounds him. I watch his eyes soften and the corner of his mouth start to turn up into a smile. I feel butterflies in my stomach that I haven't felt in forever and quickly break the eye contact when I see that he has no intention of doing so. His blatant staring makes me uncomfortable, like he's trying to see inside me and find out what makes me tick. I don't need anyone knowing that much about me, especially a stranger.
"I have no idea. Never seen him before," I tell her, the lie slipping easily off my tongue. He's a stranger, that much is true, but I've seen him before. I've seen him sit at the same table in the corner of the room once a week for the past few months. I've heard the deep melodic notes of his voice when he orders a chocolate scone and black coffee— two sugars—each and every time he's here. I don't know how I remember what his order is. We have hundreds of customers and it's not like I remember all of their orders. The first day he came into the shop, I felt a jolt of recognition when he came up to the counter, a sense of déjà vu, like I had seen this guy before in another time. I waited for him to say something about knowing me from somewhere as I rang up his order, but he never did. He thanked me with a nod of his head and a smile, never saying more to me than what his order was each week.
"Well, whoever he is, he's yummy. And I've caught him checking you out the entire hour he's been here nursing that coffee," Meg says as she pushes the tray of cupcakes into the display case under the front counter.
"He can look all he wants as long as he keeps his distance."
Meg turns to face me and places her hands on either side of my face. "How do you expect to get laid if you make everyone keep their distance?" she asks with mock seriousness.
"Um, maybe by not expecting to get laid. I barely have time to shave my legs or take a shower anymore. I'm not in the market for a guy."
The store phone rings, saving me from having yet another discussion with Meg on why I don't have a boyfriend.
Even if I did want someone in my life just to scratch an itch, they would always want more. More information, more history, more answers to questions I wouldn't give— more of me that I stopped giving away a year and a half ago.
Meg answers the phone and immediately hands the receiver out to me. "It's your dad."
The tone in her voice is sympathetic. My dad always seems to call when she's around, and she's gotten her fill of the one-sided conversations, enough to know that my father and I aren't on the best terms.
"Hey, hon," my dad greets happily when I take the phone. "How are things?"
"Busy," I state curtly.
"Any big party orders coming up this week?" he asks, attempting to make conversation.
"Nope."
I can tell my one-word answers frustrate him by the huge sigh he lets out on his end of the line. He spends day in and day out learning how to communicate with his loved ones and how to live a healthy life. He expects me to jump right on board with him and pour out my heart, but I've done that before and got nothing in return. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice…
"Yeah, I'm busy here too. Just got out of group session. I've got some homework to do tonight. Need to make a list of all the people I've wronged while I was using. I think I'll probably need more than one night," he says with a laugh.
I don't return his amusement.
I'm not a cruel person. I was one-hundred-percent supportive of my father the first time he went into rehab. He would call several times a day, whenever he had a free minute, and I encouraged him and asked questions and supported his sobriety every way I could. I was proud of him for making the decision that he needed help and for being the one to make that difficult phone call asking for it. I believed every single word that came out of his mouth during those thirty days. I believed he was sorry, that he loved me, that he knew he screwed up, and that he would do everything in his power to remain sober and be a solid support system for me. I visited him every single Saturday during Family Day, the one day a week when they were allowed visitors, and I participated in every "Smack Down Sunday" where loved ones got to tell their addict just how hurt they were by their actions. After his third, failed stint in rehab, my support went out the window with his sobriety.
I learned a very valuable lesson at that point in time and it is this: how can you tell if an addict is lying? He opens his mouth.
"So, I was wondering if you were planning on coming up to Family Day this weekend. I need to let my counselor know so she can get you a visitor's pass."
I walk away as far as the cord will allow so Meg and the customers can't hear me.
"I wasn't planning on it. I've got a lot going on here right now," I tell him, turning my back to the customers and resting my forehead against the wall.
"Well, I really want to see you," he replies earnestly.
"Yeah, I get that. But I just don't have the time. I'm sorry."
He sighs into the phone again, and I know I've made him angry.
"Seriously, Addison. You haven't been to one single Family Day since I've been here. I'm the only one in my group who never gets any visitors," he complains.
I feel the anger bubbling up inside me, and it takes everything in me not to scream into the phone.
"Dad, it's an hour and a half drive one way. Weekends are the busiest times at the shop. I can't be away that long. You know that."
"You know what? Forget it. Forget I even asked. I'll talk to you later."
The dial tone sounds in my ear before I can even reply. I roll my eyes and walk back to hang up the phone.
My dad is like Jekyll and Hyde. For the most part, when he's clean and sober he reminds me of the man he used to be when my mother was alive—easy going, funny, always helping people out, and hard working. When he's drinking, he turns into a cruel person who lashes out with hateful words and spiteful accusations. Even with all of the therapy he's received, it still hasn't sunk in that all of those words have left their mark on me. Each one sliced into me and took a chunk out of my heart. It's easy to forgive someone for the hurt they've caused you. Forgetting is impossible.
"What the hell do you want from me?" my dad yelled.
The smell of whiskey leaking from his pores nauseated me. It was the Fourth of July and I made an appearance at a family cookout even though my heart wasn't in it. He'd been out of rehab for two weeks. Fourteen days was as long as he lasted this time. It was a new record. Last time it was nine.
As far as I knew, he wasn't coming today. One of the biggest drinking and partying days of the year, next to New Year's Eve, probably wasn't the best idea for a recovering alcoholic, but he showed up anyway. He pulled into the driveway, and as soon as he got out of the car I knew. I could tell by the way he walked, the way he held himself, and the way he spoke loudly to everyone around him. I tried to avoid him. I knew if I got within two feet of him, we'd exchange words and they wouldn't be pleasant ones. When he was drunk, I didn't have any patience for him and he hated everything about me.
Even though I knew I would regret it, he asked to speak with me privately. I relented, walking over to the side of the house where he waited for me. It only took five minutes of him pleading with me about what he could do to make things better between us before the talk turned ugly.
"How about staying sober for once. That would be a good start. I'm sick and tired of taking care of everything."
He scoffed and rolled his eyes at me. "Oh poor you. For once in your pampered life you actually have to lift a finger and get off of your lazy ass."
His words cut into me like a knife and choked the breath from my lungs. I should be used to the sting of them by now, but I wasn't. I should have learned that there was no use in arguing with a drunk, but I hadn't. I turned and walked away from him, knowing that separating myself from him was the only option at this point. Nothing I said to him would break through the haze of alcohol that had taken hold of his brain and his ability to think clearly.
"Oh that's right. Walk away. It's what you do best. You are such a bitch!"
Meg bumps her shoulder into mine and pulls my thoughts away from the past.
"Hey, that guy that was checking you out left you a note," Meg tells me with a huge smile on her face as I turn around and shut off my switch. She hands me a folded up napkin as I glance to the back corner table that is now empty. I open it and in neat, block letters are the words:
I laugh uncomfortably and push the note back at her. "I doubt that's for me. I'm sure he meant you."
Meg glances at the words and then rolls her eyes. She thrusts the note back at me. "Oh please! He didn't even give me a second glance. He only had eyes for you. That guy is the sweetest ever. And you really are beautiful when you smile."
She bats her eyelashes at me, and I lightly smack her in the arm before she makes a big deal about something that clearly isn't. Meg walks away laughing, and I shake my head at her back. I crumple up the napkin, shove it into my pocket, and get back to work, trying to forget about the cute guy in the corner and why in the world he would ever leave me a note.
I finally get home from work at ten o'clock that evening, take a quick shower to wash the cake batter off of my skin, and sit down at the desk in my room. I power up my computer and open Facebook, automatically going to her page. I start a new private message to her, just like I do every single night before I go to bed. I know I should have deleted her profile ages ago, but I could never bring myself to do it. Obviously nothing about what I do is healthy, but I don't care. Every time I would hover my mouse over the settings of her page to delete it, my chest would tighten and I would struggle to breathe. Deleting it seems wrong. It would be like deleting her from my life. As much as I hate to think about her, I'm not ready to do that yet. Taking a deep breath and pushing past the pain, I type my post.
Dear Mom,
I miss you. I wish you were here.
I miss you more today than yesterday,
but not half as much as tomorrow.
Love,
Addison
Chapter Three
"Why do you hate going to the meetings so much, Addison?" Dr. Thompson asks as I settle in on the couch and notice a cup of coffee from Panera sitting on her side table. I close my eyes for a moment and pretend like I'm speaking to my mother while she sips her favorite coffee.
"I just think they're pointless. It's not like I'm getting anything out of them."
She cocks her head and smiles at me.
"And yet you keep going back. You keep going back to the same place, week after week, with the same people. I know it's hard for you to go back to that hospital, the place you spent so much time while your mother was sick, but you still do it. Why do you think that is?"
She sits there patiently, waiting for me to answer her, but I don't have an answer. I honestly don't know why I continue to go back.
"Even though you won't admit it, I think going to these meetings gives you comfort. It makes you feel a little more normal because you know you aren't the only one struggling with someone who has an addiction. You aren't as alone as you think you are, Addison. Around every corner is a possibility: a possibility of hope, of friendship, of support. This week, try and put yourself out there. Tell them your name, open up to them, give them something. Show them who you are and don't be afraid. No one can help you, no one WILL help you, if you won't let them. For God's sakes, let them help you so I can stop giving you these boring lectures."
