25 November 2010 – A week after the book club dinner fiasco.
I can’t remember how this day started, but remember vividly how it ended.
I was driving Clare to her tennis lesson just before 4pm. On the way I saw Mort’s car pull out of a parking lot near a big open park/playing field driving in the opposite direction. My skin tingled. Hairs on end. Blood pumping fast.
I called him immediately questioning what he was doing pulling out from the car park. He knew the call was coming as he too saw me drive by. His response, and all too quick, was that he had pulled over to talk through some details of a job with his boss on his cell phone. Without time for me to even process he then haughtily said “what, you think I’m meeting a drug dealer or something”. Actually I hadn’t thought that far but it seemed like a really defensive comment and yet offensive attack on me and how dare I question.
It left a bad taste in my mouth and a sickly feeling in my stomach. I knew that I wasn’t just imaging ‘stuff’, I didn’t really know what the ‘stuff’ was but there was clearly something going on.
6.00 pm that night and the girls and I are hanging out in the kitchen getting dinner ready. I am calling Mort and he doesn’t appear. I go to the bedroom and he is sound asleep like the giant tick again. Yes, did you note the time 6pm.
I shut the door and continued the evenings activities with the girls and got them to bed with a smile on my face and fire in my veins. The moment that their eyes fluttered into blissful REM I went into sleuth mode, though it wasn’t a difficult hunting expedition. I opened his car door and the mini vodka bottles almost poured out of the car. The car was also strewn with empty sleeping pill packets.
My stomach churned and the world spun violently…..I marched into the bedroom to rip his head off. I can recall the feeling of my eyes pulsating in my sockets and I think I was whisper screaming (didn’t want to wake the girls) so much that I had spittle coming down my chin. He was dazed and confused.
I can’t remember if I pushed him out the door or actually physically lifted him up and plopped him into his car.
The pathetic look on his face, like he was so hard done by. “Where am I supposed to go”? I think ‘hell’ was what I quickly quipped followed by a sharp, “I really don’t give a fuck”.
He asked “what have I done that is so terrible”…he asked it over and over and over again….this is when I was first introduced to the mind-set of the alcoholic…..complete lack of accountability.
And the thread unravels ….