Fall into the Break

Chapter Three

When Chase pulled into the driveway, his headlights lit up a familiar car. Bumper stickers from several foreign countries, as well as a sticker displaying a proud “26.2” reflected in the light.

Chase parked and waited a few beats. He wasn’t drunk. He could think clearly and move freely. He wasn’t even close to being drunk, he told himself. Still, he felt guilty and couldn’t understand why. He fished his flask out of the glove box and took one last drag.

He grimaced after the fiery liquid settled in his stomach. He looked at the house. The living room curtains were pulled back and he saw his grandmother asleep, sitting in her favorite chair. She was illuminated by the blue television light. His sister sat on the couch next to her, wrapped in a red and yellow patchwork quilt. His grandma had been talented with the sewing machine back in her day. Quilts lay strewn around or hung on walls all over her home. Chase opened his door and walked up the porch steps.

His sister looked up from her book when Chase walked in. The house was warm and smelled like his childhood.

Chase sniffed the air in an exaggerated fashion. “You made spaghettiOs?” he asked with a smile as he pulled off his sweatshirt. “Celeste Gibson, Chef Extraordinaire.”

“There’s some in the fridge if you want.” Celeste set her book down on the couch next to her.

Chase walked through the dining room. He wasn’t hungry, but he still wanted to eat -- still wanted to see if the comfort food of his youth could untie the growing knot in his belly.

He opened the fridge and took out the saran wrapped bowl of leftovers. He heard Celeste get up off the couch and patter into the kitchen after him. Her footfalls were muffled by her favorite pair of their grandma’s house slippers.

He set the bowl inside the microwave and pressed his thumb onto the ‘start’ button. He watched as the bowl of SpaghettiOs slowly rotated to the familiar mechanical humming of the old kitchen appliance. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Celeste lean against the kitchen’s entryway. Her eyes were heavy.

“She had another rough night.”

Chase cleared his throat. “How bad was it?” His question was flat, deflated. His stomach knot tightened.

Celeste crossed her arms. “Well, she thought I was her mother until she fell asleep.”

Chase stared at the bowl as it made another rotation. Celeste moved closer to him.

“Chase, things are getting worse. She didn’t eat today until I made that slop.” She gestured with her eyes toward his food.

Chase felt personally attacked by her careless description of one of his favorite meals, but he kept quiet. His sister looked at the microwave again, and reached for it suddenly. She pulled open its door with one second to spare, grabbed the bowl and plopped it down on the counter. A splash of red tomato sauce escaped and splattered on the dated Formica countertop. Steam rose and disappeared into the air as it cooled, and Chase found himself wishing he could do the same.

Celeste looked up at him, begging him with her eyes to engage in their conversation. She waited. The bowl of food sat untouched. They both stood frozen, listening to an old cuckoo clock tick the seconds away.

Chase sighed. “What do you want me to say, Cel?”

Celeste started to respond but then stopped. Her eyes narrowed, and she brought her face close to his. “Have you been drinking?”

Chase fell silent again and reached past her. He grabbed his bowl and a spoon, and walked to the dining room, where he sat heavily. The room turned.

Celeste moved to the other side of the table, put both hands on it and stared at him. It was the same position his grandfather would take whenever he or his sister got in serious trouble as kids. Celeste was his living ghost. Her eyes were daggers. Chase prepared himself.

“As of now, you are this woman’s primary caregiver.” Celeste’s voice was clipped. “Do you know what that means?” She waited a moment. “This is the third night this week I’ve had to come out and take over.”

Chase shot her a look. Celeste remained stone-faced and continued. “And when did the drinking start up again? For heaven’s sake, Chase, what is going on?”

Chase mindlessly stirred the soupy mixture. Tiny noodle circles bumped against each other as they swirled around the bowl, and just like that he was a child again. Bitter memories surfaced. Celeste snapped her fingers in his face. “Chase. Hello?”

Their grandmother stirred. They both turned to look at her. She re-positioned herself and softly began snoring again. Celeste whipped her head back to Chase and shut her eyes.

Her straight blonde hair stuck out from her ponytail in unruly whisps. In the light of the dining room Chase could see just how dark the circles under her eyes were. She was three years younger than he was, but she looked much older. Her hands were thin, and each joint made tiny mountains out of her skin – small fissures delicately cracked the surface. She said his name again. He looked up.

“How much?” she asked. Her voice was softer than it had been before.

“How much what?”

“How much have you had to drink tonight? You drove home?”

“I’m not drunk, Celeste,” Chase said. They stared each other down. Celeste’s nostrils flared. She opened her mouth to say something but thought better of it. She sighed and sat in one of the chairs.

“I’m going to call a few nursing homes tomorrow. Get some prices.” Celeste’s voice was now perfectly calm and intentional. Chase’s stomach dropped.

When they were children, he had the ability to change her perception of the world with just a few words. He would turn her pain into a game and fight her nightmares with the made-up lands they would explore. The little girl she once was used to nestle herself deeply within the safety he created for her. She believed every story and kept every secret.

“She’s happy here.” Chase coughed. “I try.” His voice faded quickly.

Celeste made a sad noise. “I know. But you need help.”

Chase knew there was no going back. There would be no talking her out of this one. There were no make-believe lands to distract her this time. She was probably right, anyway. She usually was.

Celeste stood. “Get some sleep.” She looked down at him. “I told Andrew I’d be here until morning. Didn’t know when you’d show up.”

Chase nodded slowly. “I’ll help you get her in bed,” he said, hopeful.

“I can handle it,” Celeste replied as she walked into the living room.

Chase looked down at his forgotten second dinner. It mirrored the way he felt inside: cold and useless. He got up, walked it into the kitchen and scraped it into the garbage.

Once inside his bedroom he locked the door and opened the bottom drawer of his dresser. He removed a bottle of whiskey, shut off the light and crawled into bed. 

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