The downpour started as Jarrod pulled into the driveway. It had been threatening rain all day, and Mother Nature finally made good in a big way. He sat in the car for a minute, listening to drops the size of quarters slam against the garage doors.
He hadn’t wanted to leave Faith alone tonight, but there was no getting out of the Governor’s fundraiser – he’d tried. When he’d gotten the tickets last month, she’d agreed to go with him. Even after they found out her arraignment was going to be this morning, she said she still wanted to go – she had bought a new dress and everything. Then Poole had been arrested today and the media had taken off with the story and Faith had retreated to the bedroom.
He was worried about what he might find when he walked inside. Even though he had not seen her drink since the DUI, he knew she probably did. She’d said she’d think about going to AA, but without any real enthusiasm, or even trepidation, so he knew she had no intention. In their nine years together, she’d had a few instances where her alcohol consumption had escalated, in his opinion, from social to problematic and she had managed it on her own somehow, and the conversation just died out because she was OK. There had even been a lengthy period where she stopped drinking altogether. Looking back, there was always a stress factor, though, behind any escalation: She’d lost her job; she couldn’t find a job. They moved. She opened the bakery. Maggie had gotten sick. He’d had an affair. There were too many stress factors happening in her life all at once now, though, for him to believe she could handle them by herself. Outside the death of her father, they were bigger than anything she’d ever had to face. She was one of the strongest people he knew, but right now, also the most vulnerable.
He headed inside. It was after midnight and the house was quiet. All the lights were out downstairs. He checked the garbage – no bottles. That was good. He exhaled. Of course, if she were trying to prove to him that she could control her drinking on her own, she wouldn’t drop a bottle in the garbage or recycle bin. She’d hide it, and it was a big house.
He crept upstairs to check on Maggie first. He hadn’t wanted to leave her home with Faith after the arraignment and Poole’s arrest, but Faith would never agree to a babysitter while she was home. It would be like he’d hired a babysitter for her. Or that he didn’t trust her with their daughter. It was such a thorny issue, and he was walking a delicate tightrope as it was, trying to balance his shaky marriage, his daughter’s welfare, and his wife’s mental state all on the same stick.
Leaning over her Disney princess bed, he went to give her a kiss, and his heart seized. She wasn’t there. He ran down the hall to the master bedroom.
The lights were off, but the TV was on, although there was no sound. He saw a figure lying on the bed. As he drew closer, he saw it was both of them. They faced each other, but Maggie was curled up in a fetal position, up against Faith’s body. Maggie’s face was buried in Faith’s chest, and Faith’s arms were wrapped protectively around her.
He leaned against the wall and breathed a sigh of relief. Maggie never slept with them. She hated to cuddle unless she was scared, and as soon as the afflicting fright was gone, so was she. They looked so peaceful together, so beautiful, that Jarrod suddenly had a horrible, terrible thought. He slowly walked over to Faith’s side of the bed. He leaned his head over and tentatively kissed Maggie’s cheek – it was warm, thank God. Her arm moved as she stirred. Then he kissed Faith on the cheek, and gently brushed her hair off her face. Her cheek, too, was warm. He smiled. Thank God, again. She took a breath and then exhaled it. That’s when he smelled it. Subtly, hidden under mouthwash or toothpaste or behind a soda. He felt his hope and his insides collapse.
He stood up and searched her nightstand. There was nothing. Then his. Nothing. The bathroom cabinets, under the bed, the curio, the dresser drawers. Nothing. He went into the closet and found the boot box that held old pictures and letters and stuff that had belonged to her dad, and there it was: a half-empty, 1.75 liter bottle of Absolut Raspberry. He went back into the bedroom and sat down on a chair in the corner watching the two of them sleep, swinging the crook of the bottle back and forth in his hand, listening to the liquor swish against the glass.
Faith was right: He was responsible for this. He had set off the first domino, been the first stress factor on the plate. She might have the genetic propensity to have a drinking problem, but he had done this, this time. Before Sandra, everything was good. It really was. Maggie was difficult, but he and Faith had a solid marriage. And he still couldn’t explain why he had ruined everything. Sandra had stayed late one night to help him with a brief, and then she was just there, her ass on the edge of the desk, her face in his face. She had kissed him and he hadn’t pulled away. And when her hands went to her blouse and undid the buttons he hadn’t told her to stop. He hadn’t moved. Instead of walking out of the room, he’d watched her unhook her bra and slip off her skirt and slide down her panties. Then she had done things to herself and he hadn’t moved. And when those same hands reached for the zipper on his pants, his fingers had helped hers pull it down. He had not initiated, but he hadn’t resisted. They’d had sex that first time, right there in his office, up against the wall, her hands splayed across the painting of San Francisco that Faith had bought him as he took her from behind. The horrible guilt had set in while he was getting dressed and he had vowed it would never, ever happen again. But it did. Many times. He was the one who locked the door after that. He was the one who unbuttoned her blouse and slid off her panties. He didn’t know why it had started, but he knew why it had continued. And even though he still felt guilty for continuing to fuck her, he was secretly looking forward to the next time he had to work late.
It took the implosion of his marriage and Sandra leaving the firm and going back to law school for him to see the damage that he’d done. It was like flying in a helicopter over a large area hit by a devastating storm: He finally saw the full extent of destruction that he had caused.
There was no going back, as he had said to Faith when he had again apologized. There was only moving forward. He had to try to fix the damage, and he had to try and repair the fallout. He owed her that. He had to make her see that she needed help so they could do this together and they could be as good as they once were.
He poured the vodka down the bathroom sink. Then he got undressed and put on his pajama pants and climbed into the bed himself, wrapping his arms around his family and holding on tight.