The crisp air bites at my skin and leaves goose bumps in its wake. I wrapped myself in my favorite flannel, one of Charlie s old shirts I was too hesitant to throw away. If I try really hard I swear I can almost still smell him, cheap tobacco and old spice attacks my senses. Shuddering, realizing that I am now hallucinating, of course I can t smell him, Charlie has been dead a year this month. It was the cheap tobacco that killed him. Still I sit here on the front porch of the home I grew up in, drinking three dollar wine and smelling my dead father on a threadbare flannel. I cherish moments like this, when Mikey is in bed dreaming of whatever five year olds dream about. These moments are my saving grace. My feet swollen from an eight hours shift on my feet, my heart breaking from the perpetual loneliness that haunts a single mother in Forks WA. All is quiet. This is my time. A time where I am nobody s mother, nobody s waitress and most certainly nobody s second best.
These are the moments I make analyze hypothetical ideas on a dead end existence. I love my son, and I wouldn t trade him for the world, not one minute of his short life, but I am a twenty-six year old woman who has never lived. My love for my baby is everlasting, as is my list of what-ifs. The trees creak and groan as the wind picks up and the night envelopes. Washington, cold and dark and damp; it is impossible to be an optimist in Washington. Charlie told Mikey once that when it rains it s because God is sad. After Charlie died it rained for eleven days straight. My son told me that God was sad that Charlie left just like I was, fucking religious propaganda infiltrating my son s mind. God must be really sad for the Olympic Peninsula, or maybe just really sad for Isabella Marie Black. Jacob and I were raised together. Our fathers were best friends, and our father s fathers were best friends. Charlie used to say that it was in the stars that we would be married someday. Jacob proposed to me for the first time during story time at the library. We were seven. The second time Jacob proposed to me was ten years later. He was my first everything.
We lived the typical small town American life. Drunken bonfires drag races and baseball. We didn t dream of college educations or frivolous existences, not then anyways. Forks didn t exactly produce America s finest. Where we came from, the lucky ones graduated high school and found a trade. The unlucky ones found welfare checks and jail sentences. Jake was a mechanic by trade or by birth if you asked him. I was going to community college in Port Angeles for nursing and working evenings at the local video store. Both of us stock piling every cent that didn t go to gas or beer for a down payment on a house. We were invincible. On May 28th of 2004 we were married in a small ceremony at La Push Congregational; two bright eyed bushy tailed nineteen year olds. Not even legal to drink on our wedding day. That didn t stop us though, we joked years later that Vitamin R should ve paid for our ceremony with all of the promoting we did that day. I used to think that Jacob could move heaven and earth; sometimes I still think he could ve. A few months after we were married, Jacob and I purchased a house, a small two bedroom bungalow in the depths of the Quilette reservation. This place was an absolute shithole. We started plans for fixing it up, the location was prime because all of our friends lived within walking distance. Perfect for drunken walks back from poker nights and keg parties. There was already an abundance of DUI s on the res so as long as we had our licenses; we were an asset to the community. Replacement car parts for our 86 VW rabbit were bartered for rides to the grocery store and the occasional taxiing to the tavern. Life was good, or so I thought. Two years into our marriage I found out I was pregnant. We were ecstatic. Mikey was on his way and I was just barely twenty-one. That was what you do in small towns; put a ring on her finger and a bun in her oven. I was only a few months shy of finishing my CNA certification when I dropped out of school. I had the next nine months to sit by and watch my husband drink with a sober mind. Drinking was never an issue with us until Mikey started incubating. I never thought we drank too much, we had fun, sometimes too much and after a particularly bad drunken night we d know when we d misbehaved. We were not out of control, hell we were the only two out of all of our friends with valid Washington licenses for chrissake. Boy was I wrong. While carrying a life inside of you, your perspective shifts. You grow up. From point of conception on, you are responsible for making decisions for another human being. The Father isn t always as receptive to this concept as the mother is. Jacob was psyched when I got pregnant because now I was a guaranteed designated driver for nine months worth of debauchery. I watched him drink every night for nine months. Drink until he puked, drink until he fought, and drink until he screamed at me. I had a front row seat to a marriage with an alcoholic. I was babysitting a grown man and growing a baby at the same time. But this was life on the res. This was life in small town America, this had been my life. I wanted out. Mikey was born 6lbs 10 oz of beautiful baby boy. Ten fingers and ten toes and only 3 hours of labor pains, he was easy to love at the first sign of Braxton-hicks. After two hours of coddling him, Jacob left me at the hospital to celebrate the birth of his son. I cried all night, worrying about my young husband and dealing with a breastfeeding newborn that wouldn t latch on. When he came to pick his family up from the hospital he was still drunk.
Now don t get me wrong, Jacob loved his son more than he loved breathing. Unfortunately alcoholism is a disease and not a choice. The next six months were choppy at best. I was battling with a severe case of post-partum depression and we fought incessantly. When it was good it was great, but when it was bad, it was unbearable. I started taking Xanax for my panic attacks, and drinking wine when the Xanax failed. I just couldn t come to terms with the fact that another human life was totally dependant on me. Mikey was six months old to the day when Jake and I had the fight to end all fights. Every time the going got tough, the Jacob went drinking. Jake never came home that night. I assumed that he slept on Sam s couch, or maybe crashed in the backseat of the VW. Not the case. I got a knock on my door at 7 am for Charlie Swan, my father, my only blood relative, the chief of police. Jacob s body had washed up on the shore of La Push beach. The very same spot where we d had our first kiss.
Jacob had never been one to walk away from a dare. Apparently after several hours of drinking he was challenged to go cliff diving with some of the local tavern assholes. A testosterone fueled pissing contest deprived my son of ever knowing his father. I had failed at protecting my son; I broke his heart before he even knew he had one.