Spring 1972 to Winter 1999, Massachusetts and Missouri

By Karen Heywood

Winter 1999

I’m so cold this Saturday morning in February, and the heat in my car does not warm me. I remember my best friend from high school telling me that having the chills the morning after drinking is a sign of alcoholism. She knew because her dad was an alcoholic and attended AA meetings.

I think of her words every time I get the chills, even though it’s been more than 20 years since she shared her secret. I usually drink between 8 to 10 beers every night, but only get these chills when I drink hard liquor. Last night, I drank vodka and orange juice.

I pull my car into the parking lot and keep the engine running while I study my face in the rearview mirror. Bloodshot blue eyes stare at the dark circles underneath them, so dark that no amount of make-up seems to cover them. At least I don’t have to worry about my hair this morning. Except for the few years during the ’80s when big hair was in, I’ve worn my hair short since high school. Short hair only requires a brush, although now I’ve begun to color it in order to keep the gray from overpowering the natural brown. My critical study in the mirror tells me the gray is winning this month’s wrestling match. I stare long enough to convince myself it doesn’t look that bad, pinch at my pale cheeks, and turn off the car.

I’m already late for the 9 a.m. training session I’m supposed to attend, and my mouth waters – a sure sign I’m going to be sick. I swallow until the nausea subsides, then swing open the door. Maybe the cold air will help, I think, walking through the parking lot. I can’t afford to miss this training session; I need the hours required by the state to keep my full-time job. I make it into the building, find the right room, and slide into a seat next to Barbara, one of my co-workers.

“You made it,” she whispers.

“Yeah, but I’m not feeling too good. Don’t know if I’ll stay.”

Ten minutes later, I’m out in the parking lot on my hands and knees, next to my car, puking. I look around to see if anyone is watching, then puke some more. What am I doing, a 42-year-old woman, down on her hands and knees, retching in a parking lot? How the hell did I get here?

Spring 1972

“What time is the dance over?” mom asks. She is standing in the bathroom doorway.

“I don’t know, 10 I think.” I finish applying black eyeliner and lean closer to the bathroom mirror. No matter how carefully I do my eye make-up, it does not conceal my inherited, and hated, droopy left eyelid. I pull at the long bangs of my shag haircut to cover my left eyelid and the zits on my forehead, then dab a little tinted Clearasil™ on the sides of my nose.

“Who’s driving?”

“Joyce’s dad is dropping us off and picking us up. Is it OK if she spends the night?”

“Yes, just don’t be late.”

“We won’t, we’ll probably be home around 10:30.

Joyce’s father drops us off in front of the high school. I spot Paul and Jimmie waiting by the doors and we watch Joyce’s father drive off before the four of us walk around to the back of the building, past the tennis courts and across a field to where the school property ends and a wooded area begins. We follow a short path to a clearing where students congregate before school to smoke cigarettes, pot, or hash. “The Path” is a well known hangout – a secluded place to party. Tonight, we join about 30 other kids already there.

Jimmie pulls a bottle of Tango out of his old khaki Army jacket, takes a swig, and passes it to Joyce. She takes a couple sips and passes it to me. This isn’t the first time I’ve tasted alcohol, but I still shudder as the bitter citrus-flavored vodka burns my throat. By the third sip, the bitterness is gone, and I pass the bottle to Paul.

Other friends show up, joints, pipes, and bottles pass around, and I am surrounded by laughter and loud voices. I hear someone say the dance sucks anyway, and I remember that’s why we’re here. I look around for Joyce, but she and Jimmie have disappeared, and I figure they must be out in the woods messing around. I ask Paul to come with me to find them, but before we make it to the edge of the clearing, Jimmie finds us first.

“Joyce needs you,” he says. “She’s sick”

I follow him a short ways into the woods to where Joyce is down on her knees, puking.

“Look,” she says. “I had corn for supper.”

I pull her long blond hair back and hold it away from her face while she continues retching. From the crowd someone yells, “Cops!” and Paul grabs my arm.

“C’mon,” he says.

“Get up, Joyce, the cops are here!” I try to pull her to her feet, but she’s still puking. People are running past us through the woods.

“C’mon,” Paul says again, pulling on my arm.

“I can’t just leave her here,” I say. “Go on.” I know Paul and Jimmie have pot on them. They take off running just as beams of flashlight touch my face. Two cops approach, flashlights fluttering the scene.

“What’s going on here?” one asks.

“Look,” Joyce says. “I had corn for supper.”

At 15, I’m about to take my first ride in the back seat of a cop car.

Spring 1985

The police car pulls up in front of the two-story Cape Cod-style house, the first home Paul and I have owned in our 10 years of marriage. I wait for one of the officers to open the back door.

“Thank you so much,” I say to the officer.

“No problem, Mrs. Heywood,” he says. “You be careful. And get that head checked.”

“I will,” I say, already walking away.

Paul stands at the front door watching. It’s 7 p.m. on a warm June evening, and I left to run up to the liquor store almost an hour ago – an errand that usually takes 010 minutes tops. He silently opens the door, and I immediately start bawling.

“I … was turning …”

“Where’s the car?” he asks.

“… left and … this car …”

“Did you get a ticket?”

My hand shakes as I hold out the towing receipt and my ticket for failure to yield.

“They didn’t give you a breathalyzer?” he asks.

“No. I only had –”

“You’re lucky,” he says, walking away.

“Where’s the kids?” I ask.

“Outside.”

I follow him to the kitchen and peer out the window at the kids playing in the backyard. As usual, several neighborhood kids have joined ours inside the fence. I spot the blonde head of my 7-year-old son and the light brown ponytail of my 4-year-old daughter, then turn to the sink full of supper dishes. My empty wine glass sits on the counter.

It seems like ages ago I filled that glass while cooking supper. I made sure there was enough wine to have with dinner, knowing I could run up to the liquor store for more while Paul watched the kids. What I didn’t know was my life was about to spin out of control, just like my brand new Honda Civic Wagon had done an hour ago when I started to turn left at an intersection and was hit practically head-on.

I didn’t see the oncoming car that shot through the yellow light and hit me. I don’t remember pulling my car over to the side of the road, or the face of the young man who opened my door and asked me if I was all right. I don’t remember hitting my head on the rearview mirror so hard the mirror broke off and landed in my lap.

I do remember picking up the mirror and looking at the blood trickling down my face from a cut on my forehead. I remember finding a tissue in my purse and licking it to clean the blood, then dabbing at the cut on the ever-swelling goose egg. And, I do remember the song I had cranked up on the radio, John Sebastian’s “Sunshine (Go Away Today)” – a song that would prove prophetic. Well, for the next 15 years, anyway.

Winter 1999

I somehow make it back home just in time to run to the bathroom and dry heave. Paul comes in and hands me a wet washcloth.

“Couldn’t make it, huh?” he says, more of a statement than question.

The plush blue-green carpet of the bathroom floor absorbs my groans.

“OK,” he says. “Don’t forget we’re watching the baby tonight.”

He walks out and I lay there, thinking about my first grandchild. She’s only two months old, and I don’t ever want her to see me like this. This thought forces me to get up and brush my teeth for the second time this morning. In the bathroom mirror, I see my father’s melancholy blue eyes staring back at me. He died in 1983 at the age of 47, only five years older than I am now. He missed watching his own grandkids grow. He, too, was an alcoholic.

I crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head.

Later that evening I’m rocking my granddaughter, trying to calm her cries. Perhaps she feels my jitters, I think.

“Do you want me to try?” Paul asks.

“Sure,” I say, handing him the baby.

He walks the floor singing the same Janis Joplin tune he used to sing to our kids when they were little. I want so badly to go back to those years when my kids were babies and I didn’t drink. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to enjoy life….

Another year will pass before I remember what it feels like to enjoy life. The feeling won’t come as a sudden epiphany, but a gradual realization as I begin the new millennium doing things I’ve always wanted to do. Along the way, I will meet so many people that will change my life forever, beginning with the doctor who diagnosed my severe depression.

In the fall of 2000, I will enroll in a creative writing and a psychology class at the local community college. At the age of 48, I will don a cap and gown for the first time in my life, graduate with honors, and receive academic scholarships to continue my education.

As I write this, I am one semester away from graduating with my Bachelor of Fine Arts degree from a private women’s college. Now, when I look in the mirror, I do not focus on gray hairs, blemishes, or a droopy eyelid. I see a whole person. And, I like her.

Karen Heywood is a freelance writer, poet, essayist, playwright, mother of six and Nana of six. She holds a BFA in Creative Writing from Stephens College in Columbia, Missouri, and her goal is to bring hope to others through her writing. This is the first time she has publicly shared this story.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Thursday, May 10th, 2007 | Email This Post

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