Whiskey Lullaby
Whiskey Lullaby was written by Bill Anderson and Jon Randall, and is sung by Brad Paisley and Alison Krauss.
The clock chimes rang out clearly through the open window, prompting Chandler to lift his head as he silently counted the hours to himself. The chimes stopped at twelve, though Chandler half-expected to hear the hammer hit the bells one final time and even strained his ears in anticipation. Everything else in his life had turned upside down; every law of the universe he thought he believed in had been proven wrong. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing to stop the old grandfather clock from marking thirteen hours.
Exactly two years ago, down to the very minute, they had danced to silent music between two sleeping newborns, celebrating three years of marriage and a love that seemed infinite.
A year later, he had celebrated four years by opening the first bottle of whiskey and proceeding to drink himself into oblivion. Alone.
The chiming of the midnight hour marked another year: his fifth wedding anniversary. Only he was no longer married.
The papers said differently, since she had never filed for divorce and he never would. But he had quickly learned that it didn't matter. His life was everything he had always been afraid it would become; everything she had promised him she would protect him from. A piece of paper, even one as sacred as a marriage license, couldn't change reality. He'd ended up a lonely, bitter cynic after all. All he needed was a snake to fulfill his self-prophesy.
He lit the last cigarette in the pack and inhaled deeply, blowing the smoke up into the clear night sky. It gave him a rather perverse pleasure to stand on Monica's beloved back deck while indulging in the vice she loathed. Even more rewarding was the cruel satisfaction he felt when he surveyed the hundreds of tiny scars left on the stained wooden railing, each marking the place where he had callously stubbed out the butt of a cigarette. It was the only retribution he had for his broken heart, and still it saddened him to know that she would never see the scars on the railings. She would never see the scars she had left on his soul.
Shaking his head, he took another puff on his cigarette, then reached for his preferred pain reliever – the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels at his elbow. There was more bitter irony, even in the name on his liquor bottle. It had not gone unrecognized by Chandler. In his philosophical moments, he found it oddly appropriate in some Freudian sort of way. He blamed his masochist subconscious for choosing a brand that would constantly remind him of the memories, even while he was trying to wash them away.
Another drink burned his throat, but he knew that he wouldn't feel the sensation for much longer. He put the bottle down again and lifted his cigarette, entranced by the glowing ember at one end. The alcohol coursing through his veins had finally dulled the ache in his heart, and his mind began wandering. I wonder what it's like inside a burning ember, he wondered, and the thought was familiar. He had heard it before, somewhere, but he couldn't make his brain function well enough to try to remember where. Instead, he concentrated on the comforting image of being surrounded by nothing but red heat, of slowly drifting away into the core of it.
The stirring of a breeze startled him out of his reverie. He tipped the bottle up again, draining it, then let it fall from his hand and crash into pieces on the ground. There was more waiting for him inside, but first he would finish his cigarette. He never smoked in the house. That was going too far. It was a paradox, he knew, but he couldn't bring himself to mar the sanctity of the house she had adored.
As her memory once again threatened to stifle him, his need for the oblivion alcohol provided outweighed the pull of nicotine. He stared for another long minute at the thin white stick in his hand and took one last drag before lowering his hand to forcefully extinguish the tiny spark of life still fighting for life among the ashes.
Just like Monica had done to him.
Someone had placed the living room on a lazy susan shortly after Monica left him, and more often than not Chandler felt like he was standing on the edge of a carousel, watching the world spin past him. He had learned to defy the dizzying illusions by fixing his eyes on one point and forcing himself to move toward it as steadily as his obstinate legs would allow.
Most nights, that single object in his line of vision was the cabinet where he kept the whiskey bottles.
He lifted the metal latch, opened the door that hid his stash from the infrequent visitors that dropped by to "check on him", and surveyed the contents reverently. Three bottles remained. He carefully made his selection, and had the cap unscrewed before he shut the cabinet door. The couch caught him as his legs disappeared beneath them, and he allowed his body to relax into the familiar cushions where he had spent so many hours with his family.
"Honey, do you need help?" Monica offered as she watched him tinker with the camera, trying to get the timer set. "Here, take Jack and – "
"Got it," Chandler interrupted with a grin, running over to the couch and sitting down beside her, situating Jack on his lap before wrapping his arm around Monic and Erica and donning a cheesy smile just as the camera flashed.
"Our first family portrait," Monica announced as she turned to look at him, her eyes glowing with happiness.
"The first of many…"
Chandler squeezed his eyes shut and took a drink, hoping that the ghosts would be gone when he opened his eyes.
"Okay buddy, now watch closely. Those guys in red and white are Ohio State. They're the ones we yell for, okay?" He paused to glance down at his son, who seemed entirely unimpressed. "Well, it's just Opening Day. We've got the whole season for you to learn to love it."
Chandler spent most of the first quarter stealing quick glances at the game over Jack's head as he fed him a bottle, which he found profoundly amusing.
"Bet no one ever thought I'd end up like this," he murmured to his son as he lifted him to burp. "Hey, even I never dreamed I'd think football with a four-month-old and a bottle was the best way in the world to spend a Saturday afternoon."
Chandler turned his attention back to the tv just in time to see an Ohio State wide receiver get crushed between two defenders in the endzone. "That had to hurt," he commented to Jack, wincing again at the angle of the athlete's body as the hit was shown in slow motion. The cameras switched back to the field where the player was still lying on the grass, his body twisted unnaturally.
Jack began to whimper and Chandler flipped off the tv, bouncing his son gently as he began to pace the room. Later, Chandler would swear that Jack refused to be comforted and erupted into full-blown wails because somehow he sensed that everything had just changed.
Another drink, longer this time.
"Go to sleep, baby girl," Chandler urged as he rocked, gazing down into the eyes Erica was gallantly refusing to close. "C'mon, sweetie. Daddy's too tired to sing tonight."
Erica continued to stare up at him and Chandler shook his head, knowing that he was wrapped all around her tiny fingers and would be for the rest of her life. "Fine. So what'll it be tonight? How 'bout Sinatra?" He grinned when Erica squirmed in his arms, seeming to give her consent.
"Okay sweetheart, this one's for you. Someday, when I'm awfully low, when the world is cold, I will feel a glow just thinking of you…and the way you look tonight. Yes you're lovely, with your smile so warm and your cheeks so soft. There is nothing for me but to love you, and the way you look tonight…"
He had spent so many hours in that rocking chair with his babies, wondering as they drifted off to dreamland what they would be like, who they would become. He would never have the answers to those questions, never know if Erica liked to dance or if Jack liked soccer or baseball. He didn't know if his twins, now two years old, preferred pizza or hamburgers. He wasn't sure if their fluffy strands of baby hair had stayed darkish or turned to blonde curls like their birth mother.
He didn't even know what their names were now. The only thing he knew was that their last name wasn't Bing.
The bottle was empty, but the ghosts still surrounded him. He turned his eyes toward the corner, and once again the cabinet became the only thing he could see.
"Who could that be?" Monica asked when the doorbell rang, glancing at Chandler for an answer.
"I don't know," Chandler answered with a shrug, fastening Erica's diaper and depositing her in her bed. "Stay here, I'll get it."
He jogged down the stairs, silently praying that Monica's parents weren't stopping by for one of their unannounced visits. He crossed his fingers as he opened the door, then froze when the face on the other side registered.
"Erica," he croaked in surprise, something tightening possessively deep in his chest. "What are you doing here?"
He fumbled with the top of the fresh bottle, desperate to open it but unable to make his fingers cooperate. The images were closing in on him, and he only knew one way to make them go away.
"My old boyfriend," Erica began, awkwardly making fists with her hands and then relaxing them, "I told you he played football. Well, he had an accident, and it turns out…well, he was hurt. He can't walk. The doctors don't know if he'll ever…"
"What does that have to do with us?" Monica asked sharply, her emotions on edge.
His mother went off the deep end or something and…I'm so sorry."
"Why are you sorry?" Chandler asked dully, sensing what was coming.
"Because…he, Jason and - and his mother…he can't have kids now and she thinks… Well, they're going to sue you for custody of the – the babies."
"WHAT?" Monica exploded, leaping to her feet. "They can't do that! They're ours!"
"I know. And I tried to tell them that you were the ones I chose and they can't take them away from you. But they're going to try."
His chest ached. He glanced toward the chair where Erica had been sitting when she changed their lives, and swore for a moment he could see them sitting there: Erica's sorrowful face, Monica's rage and despair, and his own shoulders already slumped in defeat.
He raised his bottle to them.
"I was watching the game," Chandler admitted to the silence in the nursery later that night as he and Monica kept vigile over their sleeping infants. "I saw the hit. When Erica said his name, I knew. Jason Chapman. The wide receiver at Ohio State, which just happens to be where Erica is from. It all adds up, doesn't it? I was sitting there with Jack. I watched it happen."
Monica swallowed and closed her eyes, unable to look at Chandler. "The adoption won't be final until November," she whispered as tears filled her eyes.
Chandler just nodded mournfully, admitting that he had thought of it, too. They had planned to treat the day it became absolutely official like another birthday. Their Adoption Day. He tried to push the doubts away, but the same haunting refrain kept pulsing through his brain.
The babies that had stolen both their hearts with their first indignant wails weren't really theirs. Not yet. He could lose them, and it would kill him.
It would kill Monica. Suddenly aware that his wife was sobbing hopelessly beside him, Chandler reached over to pull her into his arms.
"Hey," he whispered against her hair as she collapsed against him. "We'll figure this out. I promised, baby, remember? I won't let anyone take them away from us."
Monica stifled another sob and clutched Chandler tightly. She didn't speak, but he knew what she was thinking.
They might not have a choice.
The carpet grabbed his feet as he tried to escape the room, and he fell forward, his forehead just missing the doorjamb. Moaning in pain and frustration, he crawled through the door, wishing that just this once the demons would leave him alone.
Chandler sat alone in the courtroom, unable to believe that it was over. A few short hours, and his entire life was turned upside down.
The judge had told him that his children weren't his.
He had given them to their "real" father, as if Chandler had no right to them.
He had never felt so empty, so worthless, so defeated in his entire life. He had failed. Failed Monica, failed Jack and Erica, failed his family.
Now his family was gone.
He closed his eyes, remembering the hopelessness on Monica's face when she realized that they were going to lose. The fire in her eyes disappeared as he watched, and deep down he knew that she would never recover from this.
He had, of course, been right.
Chandler collapsed to his knees at the bottom of the stairs, gazing up at the obstacle that rose in front of him. He contemplated lying his head down on the step in front of him and simply closing his eyes, but his already aching body wouldn't allow him to consider it for long. So, gathering his strength and his whiskey bottle, he slowly began to crawl upwards.
"I'm so sorry, Chandler," Monica whispered as she reached a tentative hand up to brush his cheek.
"Please, Monica," Chandler begged, dropping to his knees and wrapping his arms around her waist. "We'll move away, I'll quit my job, whatever you want. Just please don't go without me."
"I have to, baby," Monica whispered, kneeling down in front of him and taking his face in her hands, tears streaming downher own cheeks. "I know you can't understand it, but it feels like someone is squeezing my heart, and if I don't go it'll burst."
"Of course I understand. I lost them, too, remember? I loved them just as much as you did. But that doesn't mean you have to run away. We can get through this together. I can't live without you, Mon."
Monica remained silent, burying her face against the top of his head. Just as the first wave of relief swept over him, she gently kissed his lips and pulled away, leaving Chandler grasping at air, his pleas unanswered.
"I love you," she whispered through her tears, and gave him one last lingering look as she turned away from him.
He was still on his knees, begging her to stay, when she closed the door behind her. He stayed there for hours, waiting on her to come back through the door. Waiting for her to realize that she couldn't live without him either.
She never did.
Chandler stopped at the top of the stairs to reward his efforts with a drink. Pulling himself unsteadily to his feet, he continued down the hallway to his bedroom, supporting himself with one hand on the wall.
If the quarterback hadn't tried for the endzone, if Jason Chapman hadn't been such a damn star that he had to make every play, if it had been raining instead of clear and sunny…
If he had been enough for her. He hated himself for not being enough to keep her here. And sometimes he hated her for not letting him be enough.
He reached the bed just as his knees gave way completely, and fell onto the mattress in relief. The bottle in his hand called again, and Chandler lifted his head just enough to try to coax the sloshing liquid into his mouth. Most of it spilled onto the pillow, and then the bottle fell to the floor beside him as he lost the last bit of control he still had over his motor functions. As the room around him blurred from the tears streaming down his cheeks, he heard a voice coming from ouside his door, a female voice singing a gentle lullaby. He lifted his head and struggled to sit up, hope suddenly obliterating the despair that had consumed him.
"M-Munnca?" he called out, alcohol slurring the familiar name on his lips. "Munnca, izzit yew?"
There was no answer. It was just his imagination, he realized; Monica was gone and this house been robbed of her lullaby. Crying earnestly now, he collapsed back onto his bed and buried his head in the pillow to block out the soothing song that continued to permeate his consciousness, even as everything slowly dissolved into a red haze, a burning ember, all around him.
"La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la…"
She put him out like the burnin' end of a midnight cigarette
She broke his heart; he spent his whole life tryin' to forget
We watched him drink his pain away a little at a time
But he never could get drunk enough to get her off his mind
Until the night…
He put that bottle to his head and pulled the trigger
And finally drank away her memory
Life is short but this time it was bigger
Than the strength he had to get up off his knees
We found him with his face down in the pillow
With a note that said "I'll love her till I die"
And when we buried him beneath the willow
The angels sang a whiskey lullaby
La la la la la la la
La la la la la la la
A few notes: I did a little research on adoptions in addition to the experience of my own family, and found material that supported a six-month "waiting period", for lack of a better term, after the child is placed before the adoption is finalized (except in international adoptions). That was the case for my adopted cousins. Their "adoption day" is roughly six months after their birthday. So, there is some legal premise to this.
I have been wanting to write this for months and months but didn't have the time or energy I felt it deserved. I'm still a bit insecure about how this first chapter turned out, and would really like feedback on this. I would actually love to just leave it here, because it seems to fit, but I don't think I can just stop in the middle of the song. ;) So "Monica's Verse" will be coming soon, if you guys want it…