"Please, don't walk away. I'm not explaining this right. I never pitied you, I swear to God. I love you. I've loved you from the first moment I saw you. I don't want to lose you like this."
He's pressed up against my back and his lips are at my ear as he pleads with me. It's so hard to stay strong and not give in when he's standing this close to me. His hand still rests against the closed door and his arm cages me in. I don't know what to do, and I don't know what to believe. I want to turn around and face him so he can wrap his arms around me and take away all of the hurt. But he's the one who caused the hurt this time, and forgetting that fact won't make the pain disappear. I can't keep sweeping my problems under a rug and forgetting about them. Right now, Zander's lies are a huge problem, and I refuse to ignore them.
"You should have been honest with me. I've spent the last year and a half having my father look me in the eye and lie right to my face, over and over. I thought you were different. I thought I could trust you," I tell him as I turn the knob on the door again and open it wide.
His hand falls from around me, and he doesn't try to stop me this time.
"You can trust me, Addison. Please, just tell me what to do and I'll do it. I'll do anything to make this better."
I pause in the doorway and ignore every instinct telling me to turn around and give him another chance. I ignore my heart as it beats furiously in my chest at the thought of walking away and never seeing him again. I've trusted my heart for far too long, and it's done nothing but bring me pain. I need to stop thinking with my heart and use my head instead. If I would have gone into this thinking clearly, maybe I would have seen the signs of his betrayal. I'm done with people taking advantage of me and walking all over my blind trust in them.
"Just stay away from me."
With one last slice to my heart, I walk out of Zander's house and out of his life without saying another word.
"Life is hard, Addison. Everyone gets knocked down once in a while. The important thing is that you pick yourself back up again. You pick up, you move on, and you do your best. That's all I want is to just see you do your best," Dr. Thompson tells me. "It breaks my heart to see you like this when I know you have so much more life in you and so much more to give people."
I briefly wonder if Dr. Thompson cares about all of her patients as much as she seems to with me. I also wonder if she even has any other patients. I know from the shows I've seen on television that people enter and exit through different doors so they never run into each other. Dr. Thompson only has one door so that's not the case in this instance. And obviously life isn't one big happy television show where problems are solved in thirty minutes or less, so she probably just schedules everyone far enough apart so they won't meet awkwardly in the stairwell.
"You just need to learn how to get back up when you fall. Sometimes it's not easy, and most times you just want to stay down so you don't have as far to go the next time it happens, but you can't do that. I won't let you do that. Every time you think of giving up, I want you to think of your mother. I know it hurts, and I know you've tried to stop yourself from remembering her, but I need you to do it. Think about how she would feel if she saw you falling apart. Think about what it would do to her if she knew just how much her death had broken you and changed you."
I nod at Dr. Thompson in agreement, but I don't tell her just how often I do exactly that. I don't confide in her that sometimes, I just want to continue falling apart, keep on hurting myself even more because then maybe she'll come back. I know it's impossible, but it doesn't stop me from hoping that if I disappoint her enough, maybe she'll find a way to speak to me. Maybe I'll get one more chance to hear her voice, even if it is just to tell me to suck it up and stop feeling so sorry for myself.
After the fifth unanswered call in a row from my father as I drive aimlessly through town, I decide to finally go talk to him. It's not like this day can get any worse. Maybe hearing what he has to say will bring me out of the fog I'm in. Nothing makes sense right now, and I feel betrayed by everyone and everything.
"Oh, Addison, thank God. Honey, I'm so sorry. About everything. I don't want to fight with you," my dad exclaims as I walk through the front door of my parents' home, and he pulls me into his arms.
As angry as I am about my father for all of the things he's done, it all melts away when he hugs me. It's so easy to forget all of the bad things when something feels so right. Being wrapped in his arms makes me feel like a little girl again, back when everything was easy and the only tears I shed were over a scraped knee. I want him to be that person again. I want so badly for him to be the man I always looked up to. I want him to take care of me again for once, and I want him to be my strength and my rock. I'm lost and I'm floundering around, and I need an anchor to keep me in place. As I burrow into his chest and breathe in the scent of his cologne, there's another cloying smell that I would recognize anywhere, and the blood in my veins freezes when it hits my nose. I squeeze my eyes closed and enjoy the last few seconds of warmth before I push out of his arms and back away. I try to keep the feelings of being safe and protected with me, knowing I need them now more than ever, as I take a few steps away from him.
"You've been drinking," I say with a straight face, not allowing my emotions to show, not letting him see how much it hurts to say those words out loud again.
He waves his hand at me and brushes off my statement, moving on quickly to another subject, and I know I already have my answer.
"I've been trying to call you since yesterday. I know you really like that Zander guy, and I'm sorry for being on your case about him, but I finally remembered where I knew him from. I knew he looked familiar and it finally came to me this morning when—"
"Stop. Just stop," I interrupt him with a tired sigh. "I don't want to talk about Zander. I don't want to talk about anything right now but the fact that I can smell it on you."
He runs his hand through his hair nervously, and I know that he's trying to come up with an excuse or some kind of valid explanation for why he "slipped" again. You don't just slip when you're an alcoholic and decide to drink again after being sober. The bottle doesn't just fall into your hand and you accidentally take a drink. You make a conscious decision to unscrew the lid, tip the bottle back, and take that first sip. You know exactly what you're doing when you swallow the liquid down and continue to pour yourself another glass. It may pool in your belly like sour milk, and you may regret each and every drink you take because you know it's a bad decision, but you still continue to do it.
"What, no excuses? No half-assed explanations as to why you broke your promise again?" I ask him angrily.
"Addison, honey, you have to understand, it's hard. It's not something I can control. It's a disease," he explains.
"No, it's not. MY MOTHER had a disease," I shout at him, unable to keep my temper in check. "She had an infection attacking the blood that ran through her body. She spent years in the hospital and let them pump poisons into her veins week after week. She lost her hair, she threw up, she was always tired, but she kept on fighting until her body finally gave up. SHE had a disease. The only sickness you have is selfishness."
I can't even stand to look at my father right now. Everything about him disgusts me. I don't understand how he turned into such a weak person, but then again it must run in the family since I feel so pathetic right now I could collapse to the floor and never care about getting back up again.
"I know you're angry with me. I'm angry with myself. It's just been so hard, Addison. I keep trying and nothing seems to work. And then this morning I remembered that I had seen Zander at the hospital when your mom was in there, and I just couldn't take the pain of remembering anymore. I'm sorry. I know I've let you down. It won't happen again, I promise."
I watch my father rub the back of his neck nervously, and I want to feel sorry for him, but I can't. I know he's sad and I know he's hurting. I know he misses her and doesn't know what else to do to ease the pain, just like I didn't know what else to do a year
ago at the cemetery. I know all of this and yet I know there's nothing I can do for him anymore. I've tried to support him, I've tried to give him tough love, I've kept him close, and I've pushed him away. I've done everything I can to make him want to be healthy, and none of it has worked. I've spent all this time worrying about him that I've lost sight of worrying about myself. I've forgotten how to keep myself healthy and maybe that's why I went into my first real relationship with my eyes closed. I refused to see what was right in front of my face, and now my heart is broken.
"It's not like you've been perfect either. For Christ's sake you tried to kill yourself, Addison. You tried to kill yourself, and I didn't even know about it. I'm your father and you didn't even tell me," my dad says angrily, once again turning everything around on me and trying to make me feel guilty. I've been down this path with him so many times that I could probably have spoken these words out loud in unison with him.
"And what would you have done if you had known? Left rehab early again? Drank yourself to death this time?" I fire back at him.
"Don't take that tone with me, young lady. I am still your father, and I deserve respect."
I don't laugh in his face, even though I want to. What exactly does he think he deserves respect for? Leaving me when I needed him the most? Doing so much damage to his liver and pancreas that I'm surprised he can even still function and live a normal life?
"I come back here and I want to spend time with you and make all of this up to you, but you won't let me. You don't need me. You're little Miss Independent now and you don't need anyone," he tells me angrily.
"Do you think I want to be like this? Do you think I want to take care of everything on my own? I'm so independent because I had to be. I don't need you most of the time because I've had to learn how to do this by myself. You weren't there. You were never there," I argue.
"This has been hard on both of us, and I'm doing the best I can. You just have to be patient and give me a chance to get through this. I'm going to do better, I promise," he tells me, his voice turning softer and his mood doing a complete one-eighty just like it always does when he's been drinking.
"I'm done, Dad," I finally tell him solemnly as I turn and walk towards the door, knowing that it will probably be the last time I ever set foot in this house again.
"It will be okay, Addison, don't worry. I promise this was the last time," he says to my back as I open the front door and stare out into the front yard where I used to play freeze tag and climb trees with my friends.
"You're right. It was the last time. I'm done. I don't need someone in my life that can't be there for me when I need them. We both made a lot of mistakes when she died. We both made choices that weren't healthy for us, but the difference is I was the child and you were the adult. Now the roles are reversed, and I just don't want to do it anymore."
I walk out the door and let it close quietly behind me.
I run up the couple of flights of stairs to Dr. Thompson's office and go right to her door and knock. In my year of coming here, I've never checked in at the front office. At my very first appointment she met me in the hall and told me I could just come right in each week instead of wasting time in the waiting room.
When my knock goes unanswered, I pound on the door again and call her name. I don't have an appointment, but I still had hope that she would be here for an impromptu visit since she always told me I could stop in whenever I needed to. Right now, I need to talk to someone and she is the first person I thought of.
I press my ear to the door to see if I can hear voices on the other side and when I'm met with nothing but silence, I decide to try the handle. As I slowly open the door, the view on the other side forces my heart to beat out of my chest, and my hands start to shake. I creep into the empty room and stand in the middle, turning around slowly in circles and wondering if this is it, if I've finally and completely lost my mind. I need her advice now more than ever. I need her no-nonsense, no bullshit, "this is how it is" words of wisdom. I need to talk to someone who really understands me and can tell me what the hell I should do.
I don't understand what is going on or why she would leave me like this. It doesn't make any sense that some of what I'm feeling right now reminds me so much of how I felt when I lost my mother. She wasn't my mother, but I still feel the pain of that loss all over again as I stand in the room I spent so many hours in, week after week, and see everything gone. No white leather couch, no light blue recliner, no desk, no blinds over the windows that need to be closed to block out the sun, no Thomas Kincaid painting on the wall, no coffee mugs—nothing but an empty room and empty walls. No sign of anyone ever being here.
I can't do this on my own. I'm not strong enough to do this without her. I can't lose another person in my life without any warning. As I struggle to breathe in the middle of the vacant room, a napkin taped to the wall by the door catches my eye, and I drag my feet over to it and rip it down, tears blurring my vision as I read the words she left behind for me.
"Do you remember the day I was released from the hospital and we looked over that list of therapist names?" I ask Meg on my cell phone as I sit in my car staring out the front windshield at the array of headstones and fake flower arrangements.
I didn't even bother trying to make sense of things when I left Dr. Thompson's office the other night. I was exhausted and emotionally drained, and I just wanted to sleep. Unfortunately, sleep wouldn't come. I've tossed and turned the last few nights thinking about my faith in God, my faith in people, and how something so completely impossible might actually be happening to me. I thought about Zander and everything he told me, and against my better judgment, I missed him. It took everything in me not to pick up my cell phone and call him just to hear his voice. He would know what to do, and he would know what to say to make all of this okay, but I couldn't call him. I had no idea how to forgive him for something like this.
Turning my engine off, I pocket my keys and unbuckle my seatbelt, but I don't move to open the door. I haven't been back to this place in a year. A year ago today. It's probably not healthy for me to be here right now, today of all days, but I don't know where else to go.
"Yeah, I think so," Meg replies through the line as I watch a man pull weeds around a headstone a hundred yards away from where I'm parked. "I remember telling you to stay far away from Chronic Halitosis Man. You didn't go to him did you? I warned you about him."
The napkin note I found taped to the wall of the office last night sits in my center console right next to the gearshift. I don't need to read the words again. I already have them memorized, and they repeat on a loop, over and over in my head.
"No, I didn't go to him. I went to that woman you suggested. The one you said you really liked," I tell her, hoping she'll confirm that I'm not crazy.
"Oh awesome! I just spoke to her last night. I have an appointment with her tomorrow as soon as I get released."
I let out the breath I was holding, feeling a little bit less crazy than I did the other night. Maybe she just moved offices or something. That would make much more sense than the ideas I actually have floating around in my brain about spirits and people talking from beyond the grave.
"So did she move? Get a new office or something?" I ask, glancing down at the napkin again.
"No, I don't think so. My appointment is at the same address where I met with her a few years ago," Meg replies.
"On East Avenue, right? On the second floor?"
I hear Meg talking to a nurse in her room, and I wait impatiently for her to finish, tapping my fingers against the steering wheel.
"Sorry, they had to take my blood pressure," Meg tells me, coming back on the line. "Did you say East Avenue? Dr. Thomas isn't on East Avenue. She's on Clifton at the corner of Butternut, and she's on the first floor."
My blood runs cold as I pick up the note and stare at the handwriting.
"You mean Dr. Thompson?" I ask, stressing the difference in the name.
"No, Dr. Thomas," Me
g replies. "No P. Who the hell have you been talking to for the last year?"
I don't have an answer for her because I'd like to know the exact same thing. I quickly end the conversation with her, telling her I'll call her later and shove my phone into my pocket. My whole body is filled with dread as I open my car door and slowly climb out. It takes everything in me to force my feet to move off of the blacktop and onto the grass, making my way to her grave. Memories of my last time here flutter in and out of my head, and I try to block them out as I walk up the small incline and pass other headstones of people I don't know. My eyes stay focused on the one I'm heading toward, and it's not long before the sights and sounds around me disappear. I see nothing but the flat cement marker with her smiling face on it, nothing but her name, date of birth, and date of death, nothing but the ground below it that is no longer covered with disturbed earth but freshly mowed grass after a year of upkeep from the groundskeepers.
I don't hear the birds chirping or the tree branches swaying in the breeze. I don't hear the sounds of traffic on the outskirts of the cemetery as people race to get to work or school or wherever else they need to be. I hear nothing but the words I spoke as I sat in the very spot I now stand with nothing but death and ending the pain on my mind.
"I don't know how to live."
"I don't know how to be here without you."
All of the feelings of emptiness and desolation come rushing back. Everything I've tried to keep locked away so I can breathe and function without her surround me, and I clutch my arms around my waist to try and keep it all in. I don't want to let it out. I don't want to feel like I did a year ago. I was in a black hole of depression and nothing could force me out. I close my eyes to ward off the memories, but it doesn't work. I remember birthdays, holidays, vacations, and every conversation we ever had, good or bad. It all comes at me like fireworks bursting right before my eyes. I remember it all, but I don't remember her. In my memories her face is fuzzy, and I can't hear her voice. I'm forgetting what she looks like, and I'm forgetting what she sounds like, all because I chose to push it all away and keep it buried where it can't hurt me. I hear her voice in my head telling me to watch my language when I would get fired up about something or complaining to me about how my dad just wanted to watch television instead of going out to dinner. I hear it, but it's not her. It's not her voice echoing in my head; it's Dr. Thompson's. I just want to hear her voice again. I want to hear it so badly that I wonder if any of the past year has been real. Dr. Thompson or Thomas or whoever the hell she was reminded me of her. She had the same color hair, the same mannerisms, and the same addiction to hazelnut coffee, but it wasn't her. It couldn't have been her. It's not possible and it doesn't make sense.