Page 114 of Close Match

“That’s not a surprise.” I blink at him. “You had what’s called an en bloc episode, Monty.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“It’s a fragmented alcohol-induced memory loss. Some episodes of significant drinking come back to you, that’s called alcohol-induced amnesia. But with the amount you admitted to me you likely consumed, I’m not surprised you don’t remember. Frankly, I’m surprised you managed to remain standing. I suspect your rage had something to do with that, and once it was expended, you went into a catatonic state.”

“I hurt her.” A lone tear trickles down my face and into the scruff of my beard. I reach up to scratch it away.

He nods. “There’s no denying that. But I suspect, the physical pain from the accident was much less painful than your words.”

“I want…” I take a deep breath. It’s not about what I want. Not anymore. “How can I help?”

“For loved ones of alcoholics, if they’ve sustained physical injuries, those will heal well before any mental anguish.” He hesitates before adding, “Our job is to get you to understand you need to walk that same path. For you, Monty. Otherwise, this will fail.”

Thoughts of making love with Linnie the night before Dad’s transplant in the oversized tub float in my mind. Then my mind flashes to being trapped in the rain on the GW Parkway after our visit to the NCIS building as she quietly told me taking on the pain about Tim McMann’s death wasn’t my fault. How her cheeks looked so rosy under the canopy of the oak tree the first time I kissed her. The way she talked about her mother being an alcoholic. She trusted me with her love, and all I did was add weight to her heart.

“What do you want to know?” I say determinedly.

“Let’s start with this. Do you remember the first time you picked up a drink not because it was a social setting?”

And slowly, we begin talking.

It’s a beginning. A different one than the way our other sessions have gone, but one I have to take if I want to get where I want to be.

Back to me. For me.

So maybe I can find my way back to her. If that’s what she sees in the stars for us.

Seventy-One

Evangeline

One of the benefits of being in the cast ofQueen of the Starsshould be the schedule. I demanded—and received—a full three days off each week to relax. Since I just finished two shows to wind up my week, I’m anticipating the downtime. The cup of coffee I lift to my lips offers me much-needed caffeine since I haven’t slept well recently, not since the night I finished reading that journal of Mom’s a few weeks ago.

I’m afraid to start the next one.

Even the distraction of acting hasn’t helped. The punishing dance classes I’ve returned to at the Broadway Dance Center have only brought me back to a perfect physical shape, not mental. My runs leave me with too much time to think. I’ve taken for granted my peace of mind. Funny, it wasn’t Monty who broke it, but my mother.

And I’m afraid I’ll never get it back.

My cell pings with a text. Reaching for it, I see it’s Simon.Coming up. You dressed?

Assuming he’s going to try to convince me to go to the park with Alex and him while Bristol is working, I type back,In loungewear. Need me to get ready?

There’s no reply which tells me he’s already in the elevator. Shrugging, I tell myself Simon can wait the mere minutes it will take me to put on something other than the yoga pants and droopy top I have on. Topping off my mug, I automatically reach for another one, calling out, “If you want me to go out, you’re going to have to wait for me to change.”

I hear a beloved voice behind me say, “Actually, we thought we could hang out here all day. Ev’s been wearing that stupid mask for too long. He’s trying to scrub the impressions of it off his face before you turn around.”

My body starts to tremble. Placing the cup I’d just retrieved down on the counter before I drop it, I whirl around to find Char standing there. Her eyes—so like Monty’s—are filled with tears. “I hope this is a happy surprise, sweetheart.”

I run into her arms. Her eyes look tired but peaceful, something that was missing when I left eight weeks ago. “What are you doing here?” I bury my head into her shoulder.

“Stop hogging my girl, Char.” His voice is rough behind us. We pull apart, and suddenly I’m swept into his arms.

“Dad. How? Why? Should you be here?”

“I should be anywhere my daughter is hurting.” Pulling back slightly, I see the truth in his eyes, but I won’t risk his health, not even for my happiness.

“But did the doctor’s say it’s okay? I mean…”