The Client

II - Stranger Things

That night, I almost asked my wife to have a beer with me.

I'd just opened my fourth—a tasty craft beer called Altered State brewed by a local brewery—when Rachel emerged from our bedroom in the back of the house and headed toward the kitchen. The bedroom was where she'd spent most of her time over the last several years, mostly reading she said, but sometimes knitting brightly colored scarves or sweaters meant to fit an eleven-year-old girl. She was wearing loose pajamas, as usual, and her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. She always moved with the air of someone on a mission, even if it was only a trip to the kitchen to make soup. When she passed by the living room, she didn't even glance in my direction.

The words died on my tongue. Like old times. Asking her would be giving Lester exactly what he wanted: someone to play his sick game. Or, I thought, maybe it wasn't his game. Maybe I'd pissed off a former client. I'd pissed off my fair share—especially during the last couple years—and they hadn't been afraid to tell me so. But why would someone go to the trouble of telling a client of mine about how shitty my life had gotten? That type of insult was best delivered in person. And how would they even know I was representing Lester? No, that just didn't make any sense.

The other reason I didn't ask her—okay, the real reason—was because I knew she'd laugh in my face. Lester was right: Rachel didn't like my drinking. I hadn't always been a heavy drinker; I went to college in northern Mississippi and partied like the rest of my friends, but I never let the drinking affect my grades. I didn't drink a single drop in law school and continued the tradition once Sarah was born.

When Sarah disappeared, things changed, and I fell back into old habits. It started with a beer or two at night, just to take the edge off. Then it was six beers. Rachel didn't mind so much at first – she knew I was hurting. Hell, she was hurting too, but she knew how to handle it better. Six beers at dinner soon became another two to three beers at lunch, which became another beer or two with my eggs in the morning. I started drinking Wild Turkey, my favorite bourbon from college, when the beers weren't enough anymore. "Haven't you had enough today, Jack?" Rachel would ask, her worry painfully apparent as she threw my empty cans in the trash hoping I'd just stop without her having to ask me. But I hadn't had enough.

At some point she started getting angry. She had a right to. I didn't blame her – I was a mess and I knew it, but that didn't stop me. Maybe I felt like I didn't deserve to be happy anymore and screw anyone for trying to make me. How could I be happy when a massive part of me was gone—dead for all I knew? So, I started pushing her away.

If my pain was a suit of armor, the alcohol was my sword. I guess I thought I needed it to fight off... what? Introspection? Self-pity? Healing, perhaps. Except that's not how it works. All alcohol can do is numb you—make you care a little bit less. My self-doubt still remained, as constant as ever, along with the pain and heartache and frustration and worry. I just couldn't hear them yelling as loudly as I once did.

Rachel tried her best to convince me I had a problem, but I didn't listen of course. We began to drift apart—not all at once, because I don't think it ever happens like that—more like two boats, unanchored, out on a calm sea. One day you find yourself yelling across a vast expanse, saying "We can do this!", but the divide is just too great, and you can't hear anything over the roaring wind, because now the storm has hit, and you can't ever get your footing on account of the waves that crash into your boat. There's no mercy in that type of slow death. We did still love each other; I knew that much for sure. But Rachel didn't know how to coexist with the person I'd become.

So, I didn't ask. Instead, I drank alone. Hello, darkness, my old friend. First the beers, like always, then the Wild Turkey. No mixer, just ice. Maybe some water, but only a splash—you don't want to ruin the flavor. I wondered if Lester knew that sitting there alone in his cell, like he knew about the bourbon I drank. Could he see me? Hear me? I knew it was ridiculous, but the booze-soaked thoughts refused to stop, at least for a while. And then sleep. Glorious sleep.