Eighteen

'Drink this.' Someone—Angela—forces a bottle against my lips, tilts it to pour the thick, syrupy liquid into my mouth.

Retching, I push her hand away. 'Jesus, what the hell is that? It's disgusting.'

She scowls, pushes the brown glass bottle back into my shaking hands.

'Ipecac.' Angela says, with a heavy sigh. 'And it's supposed to be awful. That's the whole point. Should make you sick enough that you'll throw up whatever shit you've taken. It's this or the hospital, Tim. And you think those doctors won't call a social worker when they see the state of you? Not when they find out you're supposed to be responsible for two kids? So damn well drink it, Tim. All of it. Unless you actually want them sent to some foster home?'

Her words hit me like a slap in the face. I can't lose them too. I take a deep breath, down the oily concoction in one, scrambling across the bathroom to hunch over the toilet bowl as wave after wave of nausea rolls through my body.

Sunlight burns my eyes. Last thing I remember was being slumped on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. But now, somehow, I'm in my childhood bedroom, the one I used to share with my brother, in the narrow bed I used to sleep in. My shoes have been tossed in the corner, but other than that I'm still dressed. My t-shirt reeks of stale sweat mixed with the acidic stench of vomit. I shift a little, pain tearing through my aching stomach muscles as I drag the stinking shirt over my head. Dropping it to the floor, I slump back against the lumpy pillow, exhausted by this tiny amount of exertion, pulling the covers up around me. The blanket is scratchy and rough against my clammy skin, but I tug it up over my head, shivering uncontrollably despite how much I'm sweating.

Next time I open my eyes, the bright light of the afternoon is gone, replaced by the dusky haze of evening.

Groaning, I struggle to sit up, suddenly aware that I'm not alone.

'How long you been sitting there?'

'Long enough.' Angela peels herself out of the chair pushed into the shadows. Crossing the room, she perches on the edge of the bed and presses the back of her hand to my forehead.

I cringe, the embarrassment at having my little sister babysit me—again—crushing down on me. It should be the other way around. I'm supposed to be the strong one, the one who takes care of them. But I'm pathetic, a mess, can't take care of myself, much less my family— I push her hand away, gasping for breath as I attempt to keep a lid on the rising panic bubbling through me, the sheets tangling around me as I try to get up, a dim memory of last nights conversation, the idea that someone might take them too, seeping into my brain like poison. 'Where're my kids?'

'They're fine. I swear.' She rests a hand on my shoulder. 'Drink this.' She lifts something from the nightstand, offers me a glass.

I take it, but hesitate to taste it after last night's offering.

Angela laughs, a hard, bitter sound, devoid of any humour. 'Relax, it's nothing bad, only water. So drink it, then get some more sleep. Then we can start making everything better.'

'Right.' Trying to ignore the tremor in my hand, I take the smallest imaginable sip, barely even wetting my lips, not keen to risk throwing up again.

I don't know how many hours I've been asleep for, but somehow it's daylight again.

My sister's gone, her spot now taken by a stack of clean clothes—mine by the looks of things, collected from home by her or Curly—neatly folded on top of a fresh towel. Though despite her absence, Angela isn't far away, her voice muffled by the paper thin walls, so that I can't make out her words, just her tone.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and slowly get to my feet, standing unmoving for a second or two as I wait to see whether the room'll start spinning. I go to take a step forwards, but I'm unsteady, my legs weak, like I haven't used them in days. Hell, maybe I haven't, because right now I have no clue how long it is since Curly hauled me back here from the cemetery. I scratch at the back of my head, fingers snagging in matted hair. Maybe a shower would be good.

Angela's waiting for me when I eventually emerge from the bathroom. Arms folded, she fixes me with an icy stare. 'Right, now you're up it's time for us to talk,' she snaps. Not giving me any opportunity to object, she grabs my arm, ushers me down the hall and into the lounge.

'Tim! Good to see you, man.' Curly's face cracks into a grin as he bounces up from the couch, about to pull me into a bear hug—until Angela steps between us, blocking his path.

'Curly, sit down. Remember what we talked about, what we agreed?'

His face falls, but he nods, slinks back to the couch. Angela points to the armchair, tells me to sit too, as she settles herself down next to our brother. Two against one.

I want to argue, tell her no, that I don't need a fucking lecture 'cause I'm already well aware I'm a screw up. Except I don't have the energy to fight her right now, so I follow Curly's example and meekly do as she says. Quicker she says her piece, the sooner this'll be over. Least that's what I tell myself.

'So how you feeling?' Curly asks, his knee bouncing with nervous energy.

I shrug, not sure how to answer that and the three of us fall back into uneasy silence. Curly fidgets, unable to sit still, like he's the one about to get grilled, not me, while Angela never takes her eyes off of me, a hawk watching it's prey as it waits for the moment to attack—and when she does finally speak, she doesn't go easy on me.

'Did you mean to do it? Were you actually trying to kill yourself?'

'Angela!' Curly hisses, his mouth a wide 'O'—as shocked by her direct question as I am.

'What?' She glares at Curly. 'We talked about this. We need to know the truth, because how can we help him otherwise?'

'But you didn't have to ask like that!' Curly picks at a loose thread on the arm of the couch. 'How is that helping?'

'Jesus, Curly, you promised you'd do this my way. The time for pussyfooting around is over, don't you think? We tried that these past few months and look where that got us. Right here, dealing with this mess.' Angela jabs her hand in my general direction.

I shuffle forwards in my chair as they continue bickering, eventually resorting to a loud cough to get their attention. 'I'm sat right here, y'know, so how about the pair of you quit talking about me like I ain't in the room? Where're Tony and Grace?' I demand, suddenly uneasy. The house is too quiet for them to be here. What if someone did find out what I did, what if they've taken them away from me after all? What if they never let me see them—I'm breathing too fast, and my voice is getting louder, but I don't care, I have to know. 'Where the hell are my children?'

'At Sylvia's.'

'Right.' I take a deep breath, as my panic ebbs away. 'You tell her what I...' I falter, unable to say the words, my cheeks burning. 'Where you found me?'

'Course not!' Curly exclaims,like he's disappointed I've even had to ask. 'Said you were sick, knocked off your feet with that flu that's been going around. That me and Ange were struggling to get enough time outta work to babysit. She offered for them to stay a couple days, her idea, she said it'd be easier than them dragging backwards and forwards all the time.'

'I'll go fetch them.' I glance around as I get to my feet, suddenly aware that I have no clue where my keys are—or my car for that matter. That I should probably go find my shoes. 'Can I borrow your car?'

Curly nods, drags his keys out of his jeans pocket, and holds them out to me.

But before I can take them, Angela snatches them away, slips them into her own pocket, out of sight. 'No, Tim. They'll be in bed now so you're not going to go dragging them out of there, half asleep. Sylvia'll drop them back in the morning. Tonight you talk to us. So quit stalling and answer my goddamn question. Did you mean to do it?'

'The hell am I supposed to say to that?' I turn towards the window, as my skin prickles with shame, and a hard lump forms in my throat threatening to choke me. My voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper when I do eventually get the words out. 'I've fucked everything up. Couldn't take care of Leigh, or hold down a decent job. Probably lose the house pretty soon 'cause I won't be able to make rent. Can't get through a single day without pills or booze, 'cause without it, everything hurts too goddamned much.' I rub at my forehead, pinch the bridge of my nose. Turning to face them, I catch my sister's eye and shrug. 'But even if I could hold it all together, it won't make a difference. Because whatever I do, it'll never be enough, not when all Tony and Grace really need is the one thing I can't possibly give them: their mom. So yeah, the other night, ending it seemed like my only option.'

Curly's face is ashen, as he sits, unmoving.

'I didn't believe it at first, figured Curly must've got it all wrong. But he didn't, did he? You really did want to die.' Angela launches herself across the room at me, her steely composure crumbling as she flares with anger, pounds her fists against my chest. 'How could you, Tim? How could you think that? Why would you do something so stupid? So selfish?'

I do nothing, just let her carry on berating me, because what can I say? She's right. I am an idiot. A self-centred jerk consumed by my grief, overwhelmed by guilt.

'Ange, stop.' Curly rests a hand on her shoulder, gently pulls her away. 'Giving Tim a hard time, blaming him and making him feel even worse, ain't gonna help, is it?'

'Fine.' Ange sniffs, looks up at me with glassy eyes. 'But you got to get help. Properly. Go talk to someone, see a doctor.'

'Oh, sure,' I sneer. 'I can't pay my bills, so how the hell can I afford to pay some therapist?'

'Well if you won't do that, then talk to us, or go to AA, NA, whatever it takes to get you better.' She reaches out, a hand on each arm as she challenges me. 'Say it, say you'll do it. That you'll quit drinking and taking the pills. That you won't end up like Ma, just a shell of yourself. Because we all know that was worse than her not being here at all. Promise me, Tim.'

I glance at my watch, drum my fingers against the tabletop. 'Where the hell are they?'

Curly peers up at the clock, grins at me. 'Quit worrying. They'll be here soon, ain't even nine yet.' He yawns as he pours himself a coffee, laying slice after slice of bread on the grill pan while he hums along to the radio.

'So what'll you do? About the house?' Curly asks, still focused on his breakfast preparations.

'Dunno.' I turn my cup between my hands, looking up from the newspaper clipping Angela's left out for me. A list of AA groups, the ones she thinks I could get to circled in red ink, the next one tomorrow. 'Find somewhere smaller, cheaper, I guess. Not sure anyone'll rent to me though, when I don't have any money coming in. So maybe I should be concentrating on fixing that first.'

'So you aren't upset? That you might have to move out of there?'

My mind drifts, filled with memories of the happy times I spent there...the day we moved in, me scooping Leigh into my arms, the pair of us laughing as I'd carried her over the threshold, like something out of an old movie...Leigh sitting on the bed, wide eyed and uncertain as she tells me that I'm gonna be a father for the first time...bringing Tony home from the hospital, so tiny, so perfect...then blessed again with Grace...how much she loved them both...

'Course I am.' I force myself to smile at him, hope he won't notice—or, if he does, that he won't comment on—the fake bravado that doesn't quite disguise the hitch in my voice or the tears pricking at my eyes. 'But staying there won't bring Leigh back, will it?'

Curly nods, stands silent for a minute or two, as he drags a knife backwards and forwards spreading butter.

'You know you could always come back and live here.' Curly slides a plate, laden with buttered toast, across the table towards me, gestures for me to take some. 'I mean, it wouldn't have to be for ever. But there's plenty room for you and the kids. And we could cover the bills between us. Mean you could get by on a part time job, still be around for the kids.'

''Won't Claire have something to say about that?' I lift a half-slice, try not to gobble it down in one mouthful, despite the growling of my stomach, suddenly ravenous as it hits me it must be days since I last ate a proper meal.

'We broke up.' My brother frowns into his coffee cup.

'What?' I rack my brains, unable to remember when she was last around. 'When did that happen?'

'A couple weeks back. She moved back to her mom's place. Wasn't happy about the amount of time I was spending...how busy I was' he stops abruptly, pushes his hair out of his eyes.

'Shit, Curly, why didn't you tell me?' Christ, another thing I've fucked up, because we both know the only thing that's been keeping Curly from spending time with his girl is all the time he's had to put into caring for my kids, bailing me out. 'You should've told me.'

'You were kinda preoccupied.'

'Doesn't matter. You still should've said something. I thought you were real serious about her?'

'Yeah, well, don't need to be with some chick who don't get the importance of family, do I?' He downs the last of his coffee, smiles as the front door clicks open, and the voices of my children flood the house. 'Come on, they're here.'

He's on his feet, heading to greet them. I hang back, because I still can't shut out that nagging voice that whispers that they're better off without me, and Christ, if I had pills now, I'd pop them, down a shot of something in an instant—anything to take the edge off and stop me feeling like this.

'Hey, buddy!' Curly's ruffling Tony's hair, but for once my boy doesn't linger with him.

Instead, he's pushing past, thrusting a slightly crumpled sheet of paper at me, daubed with the bright colours of wax crayons. 'Daddy, look! Me and Grace, we made this, for you.'

I crouch down beside Tony, my hand trembling. As I take the picture from him, the corners of his mouth lift into a smile, momentarily knocking the air from my lungs at how much he resembles Leigh.

'So do you like it?' Tony asks, dark eyes fixed on me as he gnaws at his bottom lip, points towards the stick figures. 'It's me and Gracie. See. Then there's you and over there, that's Mommy. Auntie Sylvie says Mommy's still loves us, from up in heaven.'

Grace toddles over, chubby fingers grabbing at my knee to steady herself as she chatters away to me while I study this picture Tony's so proud of. My pulse is racing, my chest is tight. I can't do this.

'Tim?' My brother reaches down, pats my shoulder. 'It's good, isn't it?'

'Yeah, it's great, buddy, well done.' And as I watch my boy's face lights up when he hears me, I know I've made the right choice. No matter how hard this is gonna be, this is where I belong.

A/N: Thanks for reading