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Chapter Seventeen
Vivian
It’s been just over two weeks since Walt came to town and I’m feeling the tininess of my apartment big time. I attended two AA meetings with him until he begged me to stop shadowing him. His exact words were, “V. I’ve got this.”
He does seem to have it under control. I used to worry about him incessantly. Since he’s lived in Atlanta, I’ve toned it down some, but now I’m regressing.
In other developments, he’s been job hunting but hasn’t had any luck. I asked Daniel if he could use anyone at the bureau. He wasn’t keen. Walt’s work record is sketchy and rehab doesn’t look good on a resumé.
“I was checking into this nonprofit yesterday,” I call to my brother who’s sacked out on the couch watching TV. I’m watching my toaster oven slowly brown three slices of bread. “They help recovering addicts find work. It might be worth looking into.”
When he doesn’t answer, I peek around the corner. He’s in shorts and a T-shirt, looking tired and worse, bored. Boredom isn’t good for an addict.
“Walt?”
“Yeah, sounds good.”
I sigh. I’ve been splitting my time between Nate’s house and here, but this weekend Nate is traveling to Miami with Archer to check out that potential job site. I know it’s juvenile to say I miss him, but…I miss him.
Sigh.
“Breakfast,” I call. “Do you want butter and jam or peanut butter?”
“Butter and jam.”
“Well come and get it.” I force a smile that isn’t completely genuine. I love him, but he’s wearing on me. I never wanted a grown man who behaves like a sulky teenager underfoot. He needs to remember he’s an adult. I’m not his mother—or his maid. The next step in his sobriety should be him taking care of himself.
He slouches into the kitchen and sullenly paints his bread. I slather mine with peanut butter.
“How are things?” I ask. “Are you feeling the temptation to fill your many hours with something other than television?”
He scrapes too much butter onto the second slice of toast. “Do you mean do I feel like using?”
“Of course that’s what I mean.” I slant him a tender glance. I want so badly for him to be okay. For good.
“I think of using sometimes, but then I remember Robbie and think better of it.” Before I can ask, he explains. “She was one of my roommates in Atlanta. She OD’d and Brewster found her the next morning. It was scary and sad. And gross.”
My stomach turns.
“I’m sorry. How are they, your roommates?” He lived with three other people in a cramped apartment. They were each in and out of rehab.
“Brewster texted me yesterday to check in, so he’s good. I haven’t heard from Dee in a while. I’ll call her later. It’s scary to call. You don’t know who’s going to pick up.”
“I know what you mean.” I’ve called Walt’s phone plenty of times wondering if the number had been changed or if a police officer or worse, a coroner, might answer. “I hope she’s okay.”
“Me too. She means a lot to me. She started drinking a few months ago and moved out. Then I came here. I don’t know. Sometimes I worry I left her to the wolves, but broken people can’t help other broken people.”
“You’re not broken.” I console him with a hand to his shoulder before screwing the lid onto the peanut butter jar and stashing it in the cabinet. “You should call her. She might surprise you. You surprised me.”
The more connections Walt has, the more meaning his life has, the less likely he is to harm himself. Being alone is hard when you’re not an addict.
Before I take my first bite, my cell phone rings. My brother and I exchange glances. The timing is a little creepy after our discussion. I peek at the screen, one eye closed.
“Nate,” I say.
Walt rolls his eyes. I stick out my tongue at him. Some things never change.
“Hey,” I answer, carrying my toast and cell phone to my bedroom for some privacy.
