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His chuckle was dry. “You know me well, Hallie.”
“I know I do. You can do this. I believe you can.”
“I've been sober for eight months now.”
I almost dropped the phone. “Wow,” I finally said. “I'm impressed. You should be proud of yourself.”
“I am. It's not easy, but I’m trying.”
“You take care, Brad.”
“You too, Hallie. If you ever need me, just call.”
“Thank you.” I managed to keep my voice level even though I knew I’d never call him.
When I hung up the phone, I started crying. It felt like a dam had suddenly broken open in my chest. I cried and cried in a way I hadn't cried since the first few months after the miscarriage, which had been years ago at this point. At first, I'd been numb, just trying to put one foot in front of the other and get through each day. I’d managed only the required tasks—breathing, brushing my teeth, taking showers, getting dressed, working, pasting on a polite smile at gallery showings and jobs for photo shoots. Those actions had been the scaffolding that had held me up when everything felt like it was falling apart inside. The simple act of living was a Hail Mary pass of hope when emotionally it hurt to be alive. Maybe after six months or so, the veil of numbness started to lift, and I’d cried a lot at night when I was alone.
I’d been angry, furious, and grieving. Right around then, they discovered my first ovarian cyst and then the next and the first surgery and so on and so forth. Brad calling tonight brought it all rushing back.
I cried to the point I was hiccupping. My phone rang again.
