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I woke up again sometime later, clammy and wetter. The rain had stopped, and I squinted up into the limbs and branches of a tree. I could hear birds tweeting and the gentle patter of remaining raindrops on leaves.
I closed my eyes and listened. The air smelled earthy and natural. I was in a park. The ground felt hard underneath me. I rolled over on the wet grass.
I wiped my face and looked down at my shirt. It was wet and so were my pants. I had one sneaker on, and one foot was bare. Miller Lite beer cans lay scattered around me, next to a soggy twelve-pack box.
I sat up, resting one hand on the ground. I wiped the rain from my face and head, trying to get myself together. I dug in my pockets and found my wallet and phone, but not my car keys.
My phone flashlight was on, and I turned it off. My battery was low. It was 11:46a.m. I’d been here all night.
I stood up, looking around. There were rows of monuments and tombstones everywhere. I wasn’t in a park, I was in a cemetery.
I took a step, straightening up. My gaze fell on the engraved granite monument nearest me.
Jesse Fife
December 10, 1986–April 4, 2022
“No,” I said aloud. I stumbled over to the monument, reading it again. The etched name was black with rain.
“Jesse,” I said, stunned, confused, and horrified. I didn’t want to imagine Jesse so high and drunk that he fell down the steps, cut his head on the banister, and bled to death in his own living room.
My eyes glazed when I looked at the headstone. I knew I would be next if I kept drinking. I’d be dead in a grave, underground. I’d be a ghost in a bar, like Jesse. People would say they always knew this would happen. My mother would cry, and my father. Gabby, even John—they all would.We tried everything, they would say,but in the end, nothing worked. TJ finally drank himself to death.
I fell to my knees, and I began to cry.
•••
I stopped crying, then wiped my eyes and face. I was dry-mouthed, headachy, and raw. I came to my senses and remembered what had happened before the cemetery, before I’d come here. I’d drank as much as they’d let me at Ellen’s, then the bartender warned me not to drive. I’d gotten in the car, sat in the front seat, and mulled it over drunkenly. I knew that I’d just made the worst decision of my life and I shouldn’t compound it by driving.
Thank God.
So I’d started walking, knowing and not knowing where I washeading. I was so drunk I didn’t think about my brother, my father, Neil Lemaire, Fake Elliott Thompson, or whether I was being followed. I stumbled through the dark suburban streets, bought the twelve-pack on the way, then kept walking until I remembered that Jesse had been buried in the neighborhood cemetery, his grave just behind the new chapel under a tree. I found the cemetery and searched for the gravestone engraved with a Celtic cross, knowing it would be there because I’d helped pay for it.
I rose unsteadily, getting my act together. I wiped my hair back, smoothed down my wet jean jacket, and retrieved my sneaker. I picked up the beer cans and stuffed them in their soggy box. The rain had brought up the earthy smells of the ground, the flowers, the trees, and the bodies around me, among them Jesse’s.
Goodbye, pal.
I turned and walked away, surprised that leaving Jesse hurt as much as coming, which made no sense. I focused on the exit of the memorial park, at the end of the long paved road. There was a wrought-iron gate, and its doors were propped open among purple rhododendron.
I kept going, putting one foot in front of the other. I threw the box of cans away on my way out, and started to walk out of the memorial park and into civilization. I reached the gates, passed through, and stopped at the road. Cars whizzed back and forth, regular people hurriedly driving themselves to their important jobs and productive errands.
I wasn’t one of them anymore. I had zero days of sobriety. I was back to square one, but I couldn’t think about that now.
Then I remembered.
Mango needed her shot.
Chapter Forty-Four
I paced like a madman in front of the cemetery, waiting for my Uber. I didn’t want to be who I was anymore. I couldn’t bear to be in my own skin. I hated myself for relapsing and forgetting about a cat I loved.
Mango was all I had. I was all she had. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to her.
I searched my phone forhow long can a cat with diabetes go without insulinand clicked the link. A full list popped onto the screen with answers all over the lot. Some readcould cause increased drinking and urination, others saidcould result in a serious medical condition called diabetic ketoacidosis. If you miss an insulin shot, your petmay require emergency veterinary treatment.
I clicked and read thatmissing even one insulin shot could cause your pet to slip into a coma and die.
My mouth went dry. I didn’t have a vet. I didn’t know any vets near me. I scrolled to searchemergency vets near meand put in my home address. There was one fifteen minutes from the house. It struck me that I’d left my keys in the car, but I had a spare house key hidden out front.
