Medicine
"Liquor was medicine for the anger that made them hurt, for the pain of the loss, medicine for tight bellies and choked-up throats."
- Ceremony, Leslie Marmon Silko
It hurts.
God, it hurts.
He knocks back the tumbler of whiskey, feeling it burn a fire down his throat. His hands shake as he tries to put the short glass back on the coffee table. It falls, rolling under the sofa, as he falls against the cushions.
The alcohol, dissipating through his veins, numbs out the pain with the blaze. One ache taking over another.
His hand dives into the pocket of his jeans, finding the slim band, and pulling it out. The little blue stone flashes in the light from the side table lamp. "I'm so sorry, Jo." The silver is cold against his fingertips as he runs a thumb over the gem.
In the center of the fire, he can almost hear her soft voice. Trickling water against the rage of the flames. Whispered words of apologies and the quiet urge to stop. Stop drowning himself in the loss and get up and be there for Katie.
But he can't. Because without the fire, the pain is too much to bear.
So he reaches for the bottle of autumn liquid and takes another sip. The room spins; he knows that he's not moving but he still reaches out for the arm of the couch as if to steady himself. The other hand clutches the whiskey bottle to his chest, protective of the one thing that works against the cruel reality he's stuck living right now.
He can barely hear the scratch of the key in the lock on the front door and by the time she rounds the corner into the living room, it's too late.
"Jo? What're… What're you doin' here?" he rasps.
The young woman's eyes widen, her body deflates. "Dad…"
That's right. His Jo is gone. "Katie. Work?"
She sets her shoulders and takes a deep breath, kneeling next to the couch. Her fingers are strong, too strong, as she pulls the nearly-empty bottle from his hands. "Took off early. Wanted to have dinner with you."
He reaches down, feathering trembling fingers over her hair. "It hurts."
"I know, Dad." She's catching his hand against her cheek, holding him still. "I know. But this isn't the way to do this. You said you'd try."
"Talking about her hurts," he groans. "Makes it real."
The longer he can hide in the haze of alcohol, the longer he can believe that his wife is working late in the office. And if he stops, the pain and the truth leaks into reality and he cannot deal with that. Not right now.
"You up for dinner?" his daughter asks softly, rubbing her thumb over the back of his hand.
"Here." He holds out the silver band, dropping it into her palm. "She'd want you to have this. I don't want dinner."
Or the reminder that her favorite ring will never be on Jo's finger ever again.
"Okay." Kate gets up, using the couch cushions as an aid. The ring goes into the pocket of her jeans as she heads for the door, bottle of whiskey still in her hand. "Love you, Dad."
The apartment is silent after she closes the door.
He fishes behind the bookshelf, takes out the bourbon bottle that he hid there last week, and finds the missing tumbler. Collapsing back onto the couch, he pours out another glass and tips it back into his mouth.
The water that Katie had brought to extinguish the flames disappears.
And it hurts all over again.