Perfect Strangers

“About us.”

Now not only are my eyes wide open, so is my mouth. Is it my imagination , or is his tone longing? “There is no us, Chris. There hasn’t been in a long time. Even before…” I swallow, then go on. “I don’t know what’s going on with you that’s motivating this phone call, but—”

“What’s going on with me,” he cuts in loudly, “is that I need to know you’re safe. That was all I ever wanted: to keep you safe.”

We breathe at each other for a while, until I say, “And how did that work out for you?”

He snaps, “Don’t be a bitch.”

Anger finally rears its ugly head, scorching through me like a hot and bitter wind. I push myself up, stand, and resist the urge to punch a hole in the wall.

Chris must sense my fury, because he turns contrite. “I’m sorry. Please don’t hang up. I’m sorry I said that, Livvie, it’s just…you can’t understand what it’s been like for me…”

He exhales a ragged breath. Then his voice comes in a miserable whisper. “You’re not the only one who lost her.”

My face crumples.

I can feel it, scrunching up like it does before I’m about to ugly cry and it gets all red and squishy. It’s not only the mention of our daughter, but the entire bizarre and unexpected conversation itself, including the way he said his old nickname for me. The soft and pleading way he said it, like he’s drowning and he needs me to throw him a life preserver.

How conveniently he forgot that I was once drowning, too, and the only thing he did was turn his back and walk away as I went under.

“Whatever this is, Chris, it’s coming too late. Don’t bother with apologies now. I’m sorry to hear that you’re having a rough time, because I wish you well, honestly I do, but the only thing this phone call is doing is ripping the scabs off old wounds that I’m still trying to heal.”

After a moment, he says haltingly, “I…if I could only tell you…I know I made a lot of mistakes—”

“Stop.”

My tone must be convincingly severe, because he falls silent.

“Please don’t call me again unless you have news from the police. You’ve got my email. Use that.”

“You hate me, don’t you?”

I draw a hitching breath and answer in a high, tight voice. “You gave me the greatest gift I’ve ever been given. And even though Emmie’s no longer here, I’m grateful for every second we had her. I’m grateful for every memory, good and bad. So no, I don’t hate you. I could never hate you, Chris. I’m just not strong enough yet to deal with whatever this is.”

I hang up the phone and promptly burst into tears.

Then I decide the only appropriate way for a woman to handle discovering that her new lover has a terminal illness on the same day she gets a phone call from her estranged ex telling her that they’re still married and he’s filled with regrets is to get stark raving drunk.

And so, without further ado, I set out to make that happen.

* * *

The first ruleof deliberately inducing intoxication is that it should always take place at home.

Many people make the mistake of going out to a bar or restaurant to get bombed, but not only is that a bad idea for obvious safety reasons, it’s expensive, too.

My father was so frugal he’d use the same laundry dryer sheet for a dozen loads. He grew up desperately poor and was always convinced every penny he made would be his last. I’m proud to say that I inherited several of his tightwad tendencies, though it was often a source of friction in my marriage because Chris was born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth.

His parents bought him a Porsche for his sixteenth birthday. When he promptly wrecked it, they blamed the car and bought him an Aston Martin instead.

Imagine how nuts it drove him when I rinsed out Ziploc plastic baggies so they could be used again.

The second rule of deliberate intoxication is hydration. One must drink at least eight ounces of water for every alcoholic drink consumed. One of the worst parts of a hangover is the dehydration, so it’s important to suck back the agua while you’re busy getting snockered. Your head will thank you in the morning.

And the final rule—the one that can never be broken—is that you can’t deliberately get drunk alone.

You can accidentally get drunk alone, but if you’re doing it on purpose, you really need to have another person around. Otherwise, it’s just you and your chronic alcohol problem, and that’s no fun at all.

As my acquaintances in Paris are limited to Gigi, Gaspard, Edmond, and James—one half of the reason for my deliberate intoxication project and therefore disqualified— it takes me all of five seconds to decide who I’d like most to get shitfaced with and pick up the phone to call.