Fly Away (Firefly Lane 2)

The answer to that is so pathetic, I remain quiet. I sit on my sofa, kind of collapse. The full impact of this night is hitting me now; I am not strong enough to stand. The Xanax isn’t working. I feel panic coming on. “Desmond Grant,” I say. Anything to break the silence. “I slept with a guy named Grant for a few years. ”

“Wow. ” He comes over to me, sits down. He is so close I can smell the faintly metallic scent of melting snow on wool, and the aroma of coffee on his breath.

“Wow, what?” I say, unnerved by the way he is studying me.

“Most people would phrase it differently, use words like love or dating or boyfriend or relationship to describe someone you slept with for years. ”

“I’m a journalist. I pick words carefully. I slept with him. I neither dated him nor loved him. ”

“You said you’d been in love once. Maybe. ”

I do not like the turn this conversation has taken. Don’t I already look pathetic enough with the DUI? I shrug. “I was nineteen. A kid. ”

“What happened?”

“I didn’t realize I loved him until I was almost forty. ” I try to smile. “Story of my life. He married a woman named DeeAnna about six years ago. ”

“That must have been hard. So what was the other Grant like?”

“Flashy, I guess. I got a lot of flowers and jewelry, but not…”

“Not what?”

“Not the kind of present you give a woman you want to grow old with. ”

“What would that be?”

I shrug. How would I know? “Slippers, maybe, or a flannel nightgown. ” I sigh. “Look, Desmond, I’m really tired. ” It’s been a terrible day. “Thanks for coming, though. ”

I see him set his cup down on the coffee table and turn slowly toward me. He takes me by the hand and pulls me to my feet. The way he looks at me makes it hard to breathe. He sees me somehow, impossibly, sees my vulnerability and my fear. “You’re like the Lady of Shalott, Tully, watching the world from the safety of your high-rise tower. You’ve done it all, succeeded beyond most people’s wildest dreams. So why don’t you have anyone to call on Christmas Eve or anywhere to be?”

“Leave,” I say tiredly. I hate him for his question, for exposing my loneliness and my fear, and for acting like I could do something differently. “Please. ” My voice breaks a little, cracks. All I want to do is crawl into bed and sleep.

Tomorrow will be a better day.

Eighteen

By June of 2010, I know I am in trouble, but I don’t know how to care. Depression has descended like a bell jar around me. I feel detached from everything and everyone. Even my weekly Wednesday night phone calls from Margie fail to lift my spirits.

I climb wearily out of bed and find that I’m lethargic as I walk to my bathroom. How many sleeping pills did I take last night? It scares me that I can’t remember.

I take a Xanax to calm my nerves and get in the shower. Honestly, the Xanax isn’t working so well anymore; I need to take more and more to get the same calming effect. I know this should bother me, and it does, in a distant, intellectual way.

Afterward, I pull my wet hair into a ponytail and dress in a pair of sweats. My head is throbbing now.

I try to eat something—it will be good for me—but my stomach is in such a knot I’m afraid I’ll throw it back up.

The morning crawls by slowly. I try reading a book and watching TV and even vacuuming. Nothing diverts my attention from how bad I feel.

Maybe a glass of wine will help. Just one. And it is past noon.

It does help, a little. So does the second.

I am deciding—again—to quit drinking when my cell phone rings. I see the caller ID and dive for the phone as if it is Jesus Christ calling.

“Margie!”

“Hello, Tully. ”