Chapter Nineteen: Window

Olivia

I can still hear the door slamming behind you. I can't believe the things I've said to you, and for once I wish I could just be the kind of blackout drunk that my mother was. Unfortunately alcohol never interferes with my memory, just my good sense.

I don't have to wonder why my window is broken, I don't have to wonder where the bottle of my favorite Merlot is. As I sink into the sofa cushions I can remember every word that we said to each other last night, and this morning. I stare out the broken window, willing it back together, willing you back in my apartment, willing away the effects of last night, of yesterday. I close my eyes, turning my head back to the floor in front of my door, praying that when I open them I won't see your key laying on the wood where you dropped it before you left.

"After you left, I just sort of sat there. I couldn't believe the things we said to each other, and I couldn't stand to get up and take care of the window, or pick up your key. I kept thinking about the last time we fought, about how you left. The last time you had taken your key with you. I think that's what did it more than anything. Cause when I opened my eyes your key was still lying on the floor. I knew that if I could just make that key disappear, it would mean everything was going to be ok.

"I didn't care about the window. I didn't even care that much about the wine, or the bottle opener." I see the flash of disbelief cross your eyes, and I correct myself,

"No, I know. That's not entirely true. I did care about the wine. And I was pissed about the bottle opener." It's not easy to admit these things… or this, "My first instinct was to get up and pop open a beer. I was already wishing I'd bought twist offs instead of poppers. I was thinking about wedging the bottle top against the counter to open it. And then the sun caught your key."

I'm crying again. I lose my words, I can't find a way to explain the way it felt, thinking I wasn't allowed to be with you anymore-- thinking that I wouldn't be able to see you after work anymore-- that I wouldn't come home to find you here anymore.

"You scared me Lexi, I scared myself… part of me wanted to fly out that window after my bottle opener. And part of me just wanted to crawl over to your loft, to swear I'd be different." I've finally found the strength to meet your eyes again, my admissions giving me courage. You're crying again and I start to choke up too. All the times I was causing you pain, I didn't watch you while I did it. The times when I hurt you most you left before I really saw what it did to you. I know the force of it isn't as strong now as it was when I said those horrible things in the first place, but the memory of your pain flashes across your eyes and I squeeze your hand.

"I sat in that apartment for hours. I missed my shift at work, called Elliot and said I was sick, asked him to cover for me with Don. When I hung up the phone I moved into the kitchen and starting cleaning up. I opened the fridge and took out the six-packs. I grabbed the whiskey out of the cabinet, and I even snagged the cooking sherry. I cleaned off the wine shelf, already off balance from the missing Merlot. I found a corkscrew and opened every bottle of wine, tipping them into the sink and watching golds and reds and purples swirling down the drain. I don't remember how I opened the beer. But I remember holding each bottle to my lips, wanting so badly to pour them down my throat, and choosing instead to dump them down, after the wine. I cleared out all three of the six packs, without taking a single sip. By the time I finished clearing the whiskey I was exhausted, and I went to get a box from the closet to put all the empties in."

Alex

I was so angry that day. For once I didn't think about how you felt. I didn't care. I dropped your key on the floor and felt satisfied by the sound of its clunk against the wood. I think it felt even better than the sound of the slamming of your door. I care now though. I care about how you reacted to that, to my leaving. After that day I did notice there was a difference, and when I did come back to you I noticed the empty wine shelf. I just assumed you hadn't stopped completely, which is my fault I suppose-- maybe not. It wasn't as if I had any past experience to call on when it came to trying to believe the things you told me. I'm relieved to hear now that you really had stopped when I thought you had. I'm glad to know that the fights we had later on weren't tinged with your alcoholism, with remnants of your disease. It doesn't make them easier, but for some reason it makes them less troublesome. Because now I know that from that point on we were only fighting about whatever we were actually fighting about, and not about that and the alcohol.

"I couldn't throw out that box once I'd filled it. I put it on the floor by the window, which I didn't patch. I left your key by the door and crawled into bed with a bottle of water. When I woke up it was dark outside and I could smell the scent of stale alcohol seeping from my pores. I stumbled into the bathroom and looked in the mirror, expecting… I don't know…"

"Expecting to see your mom?"

You pause before answering. "Yeah. Expecting to see my mom. When I saw my own face in that mirror…" You shudder, squeezing my hand again, needing help before you can continue. I decide you've done enough for now.

"It's ok Olivia. Stop. I-- I get it. I'm sorry you had to go through that. Sorry that you had to do it on your own."

"No. Don't apologize Lexi. You were right. You were always right. Not just about the drinking. And if you hadn't left that morning the way you did I would never have figured it out. You know I only fixed that window about a week before you called? I mean, I taped over it, covered the hole with some plastic. But I didn't get the glass replaced, even in the winter, when I had to redo the plastic every single day. I left it and the box of empties right where they were.

"After awhile the empty bottles started attracting flies and I finally found the courage to throw them away, but I needed to see that window every day to remind me what I was doing."

"I knew. Well, I didn't know you waited until last week, but I did wonder if you'd ever gotten it taken care of. Did you think I hadn't noticed?"

"I always kept the shade down when you were there. Remember when you redid the living room? I made fun of your carpentry skills and took over the hanging of the curtains..."

"…And you painted around the baseboards and the window frames when I wasn't there." I remember now, being surprised at your willingness to help with something you'd resisted so fiercely. I thought it was a sign that you liked the changes. "Why didn't you just tell me? Why didn't you just say that you wanted to leave the window as a reminder to stay sober?"

"Because I don't talk-- remember?" You stop, then correct yourself, "Because I didn't talk. I thought you'd think it was stupid. We never talked about the drinking again after that night and I didn't know how to explain why I couldn't even fix a silly window."

You don't have to explain now, because I understand. And even though I'm ready to start on the next question, you have something else you need to tell me.