Page 75 of Pages of My Heart
He’d been passing the general store on his way to his mother’s house and had stopped to make way for a lady as she exited. But then she had halted abruptly, ran her hand up her left arm until it came to rest on her chest, gasped, and crumpled to the pavement like a rag doll. Fainted maybe. He isn’t sure what became of her after she hit the pavement. There was a sickening crack, and one of her legs lay twisted at an unnatural angle. People came running out of the store as he backed away, but he wasn’t fast enough. The image of the thick crimson seeping out around her perfectly coiffed blonde hair already permanently etched in his mind.
He had staggered away, escaping around the corner as his vision blurred and the air was sucked from his lungs. It made little sense. He’d seen so much worse. Or perhaps it made perfect sense . . . His knees gave way then, and he slid down the brick wall, landing harshly on the ground, his heart racing so fast he had to assume death was imminent. More than that, hewantedto die, as image after image of that day, that moment in time, that mistake that can never be undone, ran through his mind on an endless loop, tormenting him.
When he made it home, he reached for the only liquor they had in the house—an old bottle of brandy—and drank until he passed out. When he came to, Thomas was crouched over him, fussing, worried, that look of pity back in his eyes. Always so much pity. Thomas makes him feel like a child with his constant hovering and fussing and questions and demands.
Now it’s Thursday and the images keep coming. Sometimes it’s the lady in the street. Other times, it’s the source of his pain. Either way, his heart races, his body shakes, and it feels as if he will surely die—but then he doesn’t. So, he drinks again.
The whisky hits the spot, his body softening as the tension in his muscles melts like snow under the rays of a winter sun. His body warms and his mind drifts, hazy, until there are no thoughts at all. Numb. Numb is good. He moves through the house until he ends up on the bed, bottle close by on the nightstand. Turning onto his side, he catches Thomas’s scent. He missed that while he was gone. Pressing his face into the pillow, he inhales deeply, then lies on his back and undoes his trousers. He’s getting better at undressing, if nothing else. Sliding his hand into his briefs, he caresses his dick and balls. It’s nice. Comforting. He closes his eyes. He’s so tired.
It feels late when he wakes. Checking the clock, he realizes Thomas will be home within the hour. He urgently needs to piss, so he hauls his body up, taking a final swig from the bottle before hiding it away in the drawer of his nightstand. His head pounds all the way to the bathroom. Over the last week he’s learned how to get his dick out of his pants with one hand and then back in using just the zipper. But right now, his trousers are already undone, and he can’t manage the button or the belt with one hand, so he’ll have to wait until Thomas returns to help.
He watches himself in the mirror—washing one hand with his pants hanging open—and he begins to laugh. Because it’s funny, ain’t it? Funny how he could rebuild car engines, and lead a platoon into battle, and knock someone out with a left hook, and now he can’t even dress himself.
“Look at you,” he says to his reflection. “Good for nothing son of a bitch.” The punch takes him by surprise. He hears the mirror shatter well before he registers the pain.
And that’s how Thomas finds him forty minutes later, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, fragments of mirror scattered everywhere, and blood from the cuts on his knuckles still drippingonto the white tiled floor. He cannot find the strength to calm Thomas, who sees the blood and the large shards of glass and thinks the very worst. And of course he would. Charlie manages to say, “I’m okay,” but Thomas doesn’t seem to hear it over his own screams.
Day 19: Charlie
“How’s your hand?” Evie lifts Jonathan out of the baby carriage and takes a seat in the sitting room.
Charlie sits in the other chair, watching as Jonathan squirms on Evie’s lap. “Better. Tommy’s concerned the doc didn’t get all the shards out, but it’s fine.”
Jonathan recently had his first birthday, and he’s begun taking his first steps. Evie puts the baby down on the floor and he giggles with delight. “Why don’t you hold him for a bit?”
“You know why, Evie. I might drop him.”
“Well, let me put him on your lap.”
“He looks like he wants to walk. Just leave him—”
But Evie ignores him, scooping Jonathan up and placing him on Charlie’s lap. The little boy smiles, hand reaching out to touch Charlie’s face. He is suddenly aware of the alcohol on his breath, shame making his skin flush hot. “Hi there, Johnny boy,” he says, gently patting the boy’s back. Jonathan’s attempts at words soften his hardened heart, and he instinctively pulls his nephew closer to his chest.
“Jonathan, that’s your Uncle Charlie. Can you say Uncle Charlie?”
Jonathan’s head turns toward his mother. “Mama, Mama.”
“Say Un-cle Char-lee.”
“Un un un,” Jonathan chants, clearly pleased with himself.
Evie beams with pride. “That’s it. Uncle Charlie.”
Jonathan stands in Charlie’s lap and pulls on his hair. “Ow!” he says, screwing up his face in the most comical fashion he can manage. The sound of Jonathan’s laughter fills the room.
And then he falls.
Charlie grabs hold of Jonathan’s arm, but it only manages to partially break the impact. Evie springs out of her chair, gathering Jonathan into her arms.
“I told you, Evie!” he spits out harshly. “You and Tommy are as bad as each other!”
Jonathan’s delayed cries are loud, and Charlie isn’t certain if they’re from the fall or from his loud outburst.
“Hush, baby,” Evie coos, bouncing Jonathan on her hip. “It’s all right. Uncle Charlie is just a little grumpy today.”
Unable to face the judgement in Evie’s eyes, he retreats into the kitchen, retrieving the bottle of gin he’s hidden at the back of a cabinet. Once he’s wrangled off the cap, he gulps some down, the burn in his throat comforting, before he returns it to its place. Back in the sitting room, Jonathan plays with the blocks Evie has laid out on the floor. His face is still a bit red, but his crying has ceased, and he otherwise looks none the worse for wear. Charlie sits, trying to avoid his sister’s accusing glare.
“Have you already started drinking today?”