A scuff across the wooden floor, and my uncle enters the cabin. “Didn’t think I’d find you back out here.”
He walks to the small sofa where I’m sitting and leans over, retrieving the empty bottle at my feet and reading the label.
“I remember a time when I thought I could find the answers in a bottle.”
My mind is fuzzy and my insides are gaping wounds, but I manage a bitter laugh. “I’m not looking for answers.”
I’m trying to find an escape. I’m trying to find anything that will dull the burning rubble that’s left of me.
“Hmm,” my uncle grunts, dropping down beside me. “You’re looking for the same thing you thought those prescriptions would bring.”
I bristle at the insinuation. “I was trying to stay in the game. Killing the pain was the only thing keeping me going.”
That addiction was also killing me. I finally saw the light and left the desert. I came here to fight out the withdrawals, and here I found Mariska.
“What happened after we left yesterday?”
“She left.”
“Did you talk to her?” He leans forward to catch my eye, but I’m not in the mood.
“I tried. She didn’t want it.”
“That doesn’t match what I’ve seen of her.”
My head is hazy. I’m drunk, I’m hurting, and I’m angry. I don’t feel like hearing any more of his hippie shit. He wasn’t there to see how she looked at me, the emptiness in her eyes.
“I’ve decided to stay,” I say, changing the subject. “Give me work. I want to work. The harder the better.”
Pushing off the couch he nods. “Sleep it off and head back to the house tomorrow.” He’s at the door when he pauses and looks back. “Stuart?”
Looking up with bleary eyes, I wait.
“I’m not going to subsidize this. You have to get your shit together if you’re staying here.”
Nodding, I lean down to rub my face. “I’m done here.”
* * *
Mariska
I’m surprised to find everything is the same as I left it at my little apartment in Bayville. The front room is buried in a stack of books, and Ganesh, my favorite Indian elephant statue, holds a tray of even more books on his trunk. Silky pillows in jewel tones cover a gold velvet couch. A beaded lamp sits on an end table, and huge sitting pillows are arranged around the coffee table.
Returning to this life I left behind feels comforting, familiar, but the specifics of how it worked before are fuzzy. Picking up my phone, I call the one person I know can help me find my way back.
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“Mariska?” My best friend Kenny’s voice reaches through the line like a warm hug, and the old patterns begin to filter into my memory.
“Hey, I’m back at my place.” I try to sound upbeat, and I wonder if I succeed.
“What do you mean you’re back?”
“Um, Stuart and I are taking a break,” I lie. “I’ve moved back to my old apartment.”
“Taking a break?” Her voice goes loud, and I decide to come clean.
“More like we decided to end it.” I’m not sure if that’s true either. It implies a conversation occurred.